Murder on the Minnesota (3 page)

“Are you going to Japan or China?” wondered Etta Langmead.

“Both,” said Genevieve.

“Wonderful! So are we. Do you hear that, Horry?”

“Loud and clear,” he said.

“Have you been to the Orient before, Miss Masefield?”

“No,” said Genevieve, “this is my first time.”

“It’s the same for me,” admitted Etta with quiet excitement, “though my husband has been to Japan and China many times.”

“Strictly on business,” he added.

“What’s Japan like?” asked Genevieve.

“Much too good for the Japanese.”

Langmead gave a confiding laugh, then stepped back so that the women could go up the gangway first. When their tickets were examined, they were escorted to their cabins by stewards. The Langmeads had been given one of the eight luxury suites on the boat deck, but Genevieve was conducted to a cabin on the promenade deck. Like all the first-class accommodation, it was on the outside of the vessel, and she had a first view of the Pacific Ocean through one of the portholes. Large, comfortable, and well appointed, the cabin could be electrically heated in colder weather. Genevieve was very pleased with what would be her home for several weeks. She settled in at once by unpacking her trunk and hanging up her clothes in the fitted wardrobe. As the hour of departure neared, she went out onto the promenade deck to join the other passengers at the rail.

It was odd. Crowds of friends and well-wishers lined the quayside, but Genevieve felt no sense of occasion. She had been spoiled. Having sailed on the maiden voyages of both the
Lusitania
and the
Mauretania,
she knew what it was like to leave port in a blaze of glory. As she reflected on those early experiences, she could still hear the celebratory roar of the thousands who had gathered in Liverpool to send them off, and the symphony of sirens from the flotilla of vessels on the
River Mersey. Fireworks had lit the night sky. History was in the making. Nothing like that was happening now. Genevieve was not traveling on one of the acknowledged greyhounds of the seas. She was on a routine voyage of a ship whose average speed was a modest fourteen knots. Dillman had warned her that there might well be danger aboard. She gave an involuntary shiver. Something told her that the trip would not be as enjoyable as she had first imagined. Genevieve was on a vessel full of total strangers, making a journey into the unknown.

The sound of commotion brought her out of her reverie. She looked down to see a violent altercation taking place at the foot of the gangway. Two members of the crew and a porter seemed to be involved, but the central figure in the argument was a tall man in a black suit and hat. His voice rose effortlessly above the hubbub. Gesticulating angrily, he finally cowed the others into submission. It was only when the man removed his hat to look up at the ship that Genevieve caught sight of his telltale white collar. The truculent passenger with the booming voice was a clergyman.

Dillman wasted no time in unpacking his luggage. No sooner had he been shown to his cabin on the upper deck than he set off on a preliminary reconnaissance of the ship. The
Minnesota
had a luxury and elegance that were necessary to attract passengers on lengthy voyages to the Orient. Considerable money had evidently been spent on the fixtures and fittings. He was particularly impressed by the covered promenade on the upper deck, allowing him to circle the superstructure in its entirety. Windows existed on all three sides, an unusual feature in a liner of that type. A large saloon was decorated with style and furnished with care. Aft of the saloon was a grand staircase with paneled walls. Ascending the steps until he reached the promenade deck, Dillman came out into a corridor that led to the library. Chords on a piano reached his ears and, through an open door, he saw that someone was playing the instrument in what was called the Ladies’ Boudoir. He smiled when he
read the name. The place was out of bounds to him, but Genevieve Masefield could enter at will and might gather some useful gossip in the female sanctuary. He wondered if she could also play the piano.

After a brief visit to the boat deck and the bridge deck, he worked his way back down through the vessel until he reached the orlop deck. Given over to freight and food stores, it was inaccessible to unauthorized personnel. Dillman resolved to explore the area at the earliest opportunity. In order to do his job properly, he was determined to see every inch of the
Minnesota.
As he made his way back up the stairs, there was a long blast on the siren to signal departure. Lines were cast off, cheers went up from the onlookers, then tugs pulled her clear of land and out into Puget Sound. Dillman was too seasoned a sailor to feel the need to be on deck at the critical moment. He decided to return to his cabin to unpack. When he reached the upper deck, however, he was met by a strange sight. Two stewards were in animated discussion farther down the passageway. One of them, with a cabin trunk on a trolley, seemed to be reprimanding the other, keeping his voice low and relying on graphic gestures to reinforce his argument. The second steward, a Mexican, eventually conceded defeat and went into the cabin. Moments later, two passengers came out through the door. The first was an elderly man of middle height with gray hair slicked back neatly over his head. His companion was a tall, stringy clergyman in his forties with rimless eyeglasses balanced on a hooked nose. Their conversation was altogether more civilized. When the older man offered an apology, the clergyman waved it away and beamed tolerantly. The Mexican steward emerged from the cabin with various items of baggage. After shooting him a look of disgust, the other steward wheeled the trunk into the room, followed by the clergyman.

The elderly passenger strode toward Dillman with a quiet smile.

“Age before religion,” he said. “I guess I’m in luck.”

“What was the problem?” asked Dillman.

“Oh, some confusion over the cabins. I asked specifically for one with a private bath, but the steward put me in there by mistake.” He glanced over his shoulder. “His English is a little shaky. He didn’t understand when I complained.”

“His colleague was giving him quite a roasting.”

“It’s all sorted out now, thanks to Father Slattery.”

“I’m surprised to see a priest in first class,” observed Dillman. “The Church is always preaching poverty. How can our friend afford a cabin on this deck?”

“He can’t,” explained the other. “But he obviously had a loyal congregation. Father Slattery is a Catholic priest, off to do missionary work in China. Anticipating the hardship he might face when he gets there, his congregation decided that he would at least travel in comfort. They clubbed together and bought him a first-class ticket.”

“That was very kind of them.”

“Yes, they must be sorry to lose him.” He used a key to unlock a door, then stood back so that the Mexican steward could take his luggage in. “Unfortunately, my Spanish is no better than his English. Do you think I should give him a tip?”

“If it was an honest mistake.”

“It was,” said the other, taking a dollar from his pocket. “Actually, I think it was the chief steward’s fault for assigning me to the wrong cabin in the first place.” When the steward came out, he slipped the money into his palm and sent him off. He extended a friendly hand toward Dillman. “I’m Rutherford Blaine, by the way. It looks as if we’re going to be neighbors.”

“George Dillman,” said the other, noting the firmness of his handshake.

“How far are you going, Mr. Dillman?”

“All the way. It’s a round trip.”

“I wish I had your stamina.”

“What about you?”

“Tokyo,” said Blaine. “When I’m done there, I head straight back home on another vessel. Marie doesn’t like me to stay away for too long.”

“Marie?”

“My wife.”

“She’s not traveling with you?”

“Not on this trip.”

Dillman was about to ask his new neighbor if he had been to Japan before when the clergyman stepped out of his cabin. A disgruntled steward came after him and stalked off down the passageway. Blaine was amused.

“I think the congregation forgot to provide their priest with a tip.”

Slattery walked toward them. “I feel as if I’m on the brink of a great adventure,” he declared. “Don’t you, Mr. Blaine? It’s exhilarating.” He thrust a bony hand at Dillman. “Liam Slattery.”

“This is Mr. Dillman,” said Blaine.

“Welcome aboard, Father,” said Dillman as they shook hands. “I understand that you’re a missionary.”

“Wherever God calls me, I must go.”

“He obviously wants you to travel in style.”

“I always find luxury a little embarrassing.”

“It never embarrasses me,” said Blaine. “I revel in it.”

“You have a hedonistic streak, sir,” chided Slattery.

“No, Father. I have a touch of arthritis, that’s all. It appreciates a soft chair and a comfortable bed. Luxury somehow keeps the twinges under control.”

“Prayer might do the same for you, Mr. Blaine.”

“I’ve never found that.”

“Are you a practicing Christian?”

“Of course, Father.”

“Roman Catholic, I hope?”

“Baptist.”

Slattery was appalled. “What a pity!”

“Each man follows God in his own way,” said Blaine, pushing
open the door of his cabin. “Do excuse me, gentlemen. I have to unpack my cases.”

Father Slattery watched him go, then switched his attention to Dillman. Eyes glinting under bushy eyebrows, he appraised him shrewdly. There was a fearlessness in his gaze that the detective had to admire.

“You’re a brave man, Father Slattery,” he commented.

“Am I?”

“Catholic missionaries have suffered badly in China. I remember reading the reports of the Boxer Rebellion. Some terrible outrages were inflicted on your colleagues.”

“We’re used to persecution, Mr. Dillman.”

“Do you have no qualms?”

“None whatsoever,” said Slattery boldly. “The situation in China has improved markedly in the past couple of years. Even if it hadn’t, I’d still answer the call.”

“Have you been abroad before?”

“No, Mr. Dillman. My life so far has been spent in America. In San Francisco, for the most part. It’s a beautiful city with a rich Catholic heritage.”

“So I understand.”

“I leave with great regret, but my future is elsewhere.”

“Good luck with your missionary work,” said Dillman, putting his key into the lock of his cabin. “I wish you every success in China.”

“Oh, I’m not waiting until I get there, Mr. Dillman.”

“What do you mean?”

“My work starts right here.”

Dillman was surprised. “Onboard the
Minnesota?”

“Of course,” said Slattery with a broad grin. “There are over fifteen hundred passengers on this ship, including a large number of Chinese. Why wait for weeks until I reach China when I can begin the search for converts here?”

“No reason at all, I suppose.”

“My first move will be to take services aboard.”

“But the ship already has a chaplain.”

Slattery was disdainful. “An Anglican,” he said with unconcealed disapproval. “I see to the needs of those who follow the true religion. Tell me, Mr. Dillman,” he went on, moving in closer. “Are you, by any chance, a Catholic?”

“No, Father.”

“May I ask why not?”

“I don’t have time to explain at the moment.”

“Later, then,” said Slattery firmly. “We’ll discuss the matter at length.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh, yes there is. Your spiritual salvation.”

“That’s been taken care of, Father Slattery.”

“I doubt that, my friend. We need a proper debate.”

“But it’s quite unnecessary.”

“I insist, Mr. Dillman,” said the priest, squeezing his arm. “I insist.”

Turning on his heel, Slattery went back to his cabin and disappeared inside. Dillman was slightly dazed, wondering why an invitation to a theological debate sounded so much like a threat.

THREE

I
t’s great to see you again, George,” he said, pumping Dillman’s arm. “I wasn’t sure that you could make it in time. It’s a heck of a train ride from New York.”

“I survived, Mike.”

“What about your partner?”

“Genevieve is as tough as they come,” said Dillman with an affectionate smile. “Don’t worry about her. She took the journey in her stride without complaint.”

“I look forward to meeting the lady.”

Mike Roebuck was the purser on the
Minnesota.
Still in his thirties, he was a cheerful man of medium build with rugged features and a roguish grin. He and Dillman were old friends who had not seen each other for a number of years. It was a happy reunion. After exchanging banter for a few minutes, Roebuck spread his arms.

“What’s the verdict, George?” he asked.

“That purser’s uniform lends you real distinction.”

“I wasn’t talking about myself, you idiot. What do you think of the
Minnesota?
”

“I like what I’ve seen of her, Mike.”

“She’s a tidy ship,” said Roebuck proudly. “Best I’ve ever sailed on.”

“I’ll enjoy finding my way around.”

“Let me give you some help.”

The two men were in the purser’s office, a neat, rectangular cabin with a large desk at its center. Charts and framed photographs covered the walls. A faint whiff of polish hung in the air. Roebuck indicated the drawing that was laid out on the desk. It was a detailed plan of the vessel.

“This is just what I need,” said Dillman, poring over it with interest.

“There’s another one underneath, giving you a cross-section.”

“Excellent. Can I borrow these, Mike?”

“Be my guest.”

“What’s this?” asked Dillman in surprise, spotting a name on the drawing. “Am I seeing things or does it actually say Opium Den?”

Roebuck grinned. “We don’t call it that, George, but that’s what it amounts to. Let’s face it. You sail to and from China, you’re going to carry a lot of Chinese passengers. The guy who designed the ship reckoned that they ought to have a space set aside for them.” He jabbed a stubby finger at the drawing. “There it is.”

“I’ll enjoy studying this,” said Dillman, straightening up.

“What else do you need?”

“A look at the manifest.”

“I had a rough copy made for you,” said Roebuck, opening a drawer to extract a small sheaf of papers. “As you’ll see, we’ve got a mixed cargo. There’s a full passenger list as well and various other bits of information. Here you are, George,” he said, handing the papers to Dillman. “You’ll find everything here except the shoe size of the captain. Oh, by the way, he wants to meet you.”

“What sort of man is Captain Piercey?”

“A veteran sailor. Runs a tight ship. I think he’s a first-rate skipper.”

“Does he mind having us onboard?”

“Heck, no!” exclaimed Roebuck, clapping him good-humoredly on the shoulder. “Captain Piercey is delighted to see you. So am I, George. And not simply because we go back a long way together.”

“How did you get on to me in the first place?”

“Your reputation went before you.”

Dillman was astonished. “All the way to Seattle?”

“Word travels,” said Roebuck. “One of our officers served on the
Mauretania
for a while. We were talking about security with him when your name suddenly popped up. Tom Colmore gave us glowing reports of what you did during the maiden voyage.”

“I had a lot of help,” said Dillman modestly.

“From what I hear, you and your partner saved the day. And it wasn’t an isolated case. According to Tom, you’re their number-one man. You’ve had a string of successes on Cunard ships. That’s why we were so keen to poach you.”

“Borrow us, Mike,” corrected Dillman. “We’re only on loan. When this voyage is over, we go back to the transatlantic service.”

“What if you fall in love with the magic of the Orient?”

“I never allow distractions.”

Roebuck laughed. “You always were a single-minded son of a gun.” His face slowly hardened. “Okay,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, “let’s get down to serious business. We’ve got problems, George. We have strong reason to believe that somebody is smuggling right under our noses. We can smell the stink, but we can’t quite work out where it comes from.”

“What alerted you?”

“A name that kept appearing on our passenger list. Mr. Rance Gilpatrick. He’s a real menace. The cops have a file inches thick on him but he’s far too clever to be caught. His sidekicks always take the rap.”

“Is he aboard now?”

“Oh, yes. Gilpatrick has one of the premier suites on the boat deck.”

“Does he travel alone?”

“No, George,” said Roebuck with a roll of his eyes. “He always brings his wife. Except that the lady who’s sharing his cabin today is not the same one we had a few months ago. The time before that, there was a different one again. He seems to have an endless supply of Mrs. Gilpatricks. The guy must breed them.”

“Maybe he’s a bigamist.”

“I don’t think any of these unions have been blessed in the sight of the Lord.”

“Like that, is it?”

“Judge for yourself, George. The last ‘wife’ was thirty years younger than him.”

“No law against that.”

“But there is a law against falsifying passports.”

“So why hasn’t he been picked up?”

“His documents always seem genuine,” admitted Roebuck. “He gets through customs without a hitch and we never challenge him. We prefer to have Rance Gilpatrick where we can keep an eye on him.”

“What do you think he’s smuggling?” asked Dillman. “Narcotics?”

“Possibly, but that’s not his main interest. We think he’s into another highly lucrative market—silk. Last time we docked in Yokohama,” he explained, “we had Gilpatrick trailed by a detective. He followed him to a dealer who specializes in silk. There was only one drawback, George.”

“Drawback?”

“Before he returned to the ship, our man was beaten up in an alleyway by a couple of Japanese thugs. He was half-dead by the time they found him.”

“I get the message, Mike.”

“Pass it on to your partner. Things may get rough. Needless to say,” Roebuck went on, “we couldn’t link the assault to Gilpatrick in any way. And since the current wife rejoined the ship with a couple of silk kimonos, he appeared to have made a legitimate purchase from the dealer.”

“In other words,” concluded Dillman, “he knows that you’re on to him.”

“He revels in the fact, George. That’s what makes it so galling. Gilpatrick is taunting us. It’s simply a game to him, and he always seems to win.”

Dillman pondered. “I’ll change the rules slightly,” he said at length, flicking through the sheaf of papers. “But there’s something you forgot to give me, Mike. I need a list of crew members.”

“There’s over two hundred and fifty of them.”

“Give me the name of everyone aboard—including the ship’s mascot.”

“You’ll have it.”

“One more thing,” said Dillman. “Who’s the assistant purser?”

“Pete Carroll.”

“How tall is he?”

Roebuck was baffled. “About your height, I guess. Similar build.”

“Good. Does he have a spare uniform?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I may need to borrow it,” said Dillman.

On the first evening at sea, dinner was a relatively informal affair. First-class passengers converged on the dining saloon on the upper deck. Lined with mahogany and lit by an array of glittering chandeliers, it had a grandeur worthy of a luxury hotel. Genevieve Masefield was glad that she had made the acquaintance of the Langmeads. They not only invited her to join their table, they introduced her to five other passengers
they had managed to befriend since coming aboard. It soon became clear that Horace and Etta Langmead were compulsively gregarious. They collected people.

One of them was a red-faced old man with a walrus mustache that concealed his upper lip and a bald head that positively gleamed. Joseph McDade had strong opinions.

“Teddy Roosevelt is a disaster!” he declared, smacking the table for emphasis. “We don’t want that damned cowboy as our president.”

“The American electors disagree with you, Mr. McDade,” said Horace Langmead.

“Only because he pulled the wool over their eyes.”

“I think Mr. Roosevelt has his virtues.”

“Well, they’re outweighed by his vices, Mr. Langmead. And, boy, does he have enough of those!” He turned to Genevieve, seated beside him. “What do you think, Miss Masefield? How do you rate our so-called president?”

“I can’t make a fair judgment, Mr. McDade,” she replied tactfully. “I know too little about him.”

“We have the opposite problem. We know too much about the guy.”

“Joe, dear,” said the pale Blanche McDade, sitting meekly on the other side of her husband. “Maybe this is not the best time to talk politics.”

McDade ignored her. “Have you heard about his latest act of madness?”

“No,” said Genevieve.

“He’s sent our entire fleet—sixteen battleships in all—on a trip around the world. It’s lunatic!” insisted McDade. “The chairman of the senate committee on naval affairs condemned the notion. His colleagues disliked it. Every sane mind in Congress was against it. But does that stop Teddy Roosevelt? Oh no! He trampled over the opposition as if he were leading his Rough Riders in a cavalry charge in Cuba. It was shameful.”

“President Roosevelt is his own man,” said Langmead reasonably.
“You have to give him that, Mr. McDade. Nobody tells him what to do.”

“Well, I wish that someone would,” retorted the other. “It’s all very well adopting a big-stick policy, sending the U.S. fleet on a journey of almost fifty thousand miles so that we can impress everyone with our naval power. But what happens while they’re away?” he demanded, plucking at his mustache. “We could be invaded by Japan or Russia or, worse still, by China. Has our imbecile president never heard of the Yellow Peril?”

“This conversation belongs in the smoking room,” suggested Henrik Olsen with a diplomatic smile. “We don’t want to bore the ladies, Mr. McDade.”

McDade bristled. “I wasn’t boring anyone.”

The waiter arrived to pour wine into their glasses and provide a welcome pause. Genevieve looked around the table. With the exception of Joseph McDade, she had a set of amenable companions. The Langmeads were turning out to be a delightful couple, generous and extroverted, and Blanche McDade, albeit subdued by her forthright husband, exuded a quiet intelligence. Genevieve hoped to talk to her on her own at some stage. The other woman at the table, Fay Brinkley, was even more interesting. She was an attractive woman in her thirties with a poise that indicated a high social position. Traveling alone from Washington, D.C., Fay Brinkley was on her way to Shanghai to visit a brother in the colonial service. Seated next to her was the diminutive figure of Henrik Olsen, a white-haired Norwegian banker who was celebrating his retirement by making extended visits to America, Japan, and China. Olsen was there to enjoy himself and did not want his evening marred by a tirade from McDade against the incumbent president.

Genevieve found the eighth person at the table the most difficult to assess. David Seymour-Jones was a tall, rather gangly man in his early forties with a full beard and a shock of red hair. Though his jacket was expensive, it was too large and
badly creased, giving him a slovenly air. Seymour-Jones was an enigma. His face was impassive and his eyes gave nothing away. Genevieve could not make out if he was shy or simply cowed by the bluster of Joseph McDade. As conversation broke out again around the table, she turned to the silent Englishman.

“I understand that you’re an artist,” she began.

“Of sorts, Miss Masefield.”

“What do you paint?”

“Anything and everything,” he said softly. “I have a particular passion for the fauna and flora of Japan. But don’t confuse me with a real artist,” he went on with a self-deprecating smile. “You won’t ever find my work hanging in the National Gallery or the Tate. All that I do is to record what I see. I keep a sort of pictorial diary.”

“Purely for private use?”

He shook his head sadly. “Even we bohemians have to eat occasionally, Miss Masefield. My earlier work in Japan was published last year and they want to bring out a second book in due course.”

“That’s wonderful!” she said with sincere approval.

“It does enable me to soldier on. Along with my other little enterprise.”

“You have another iron in the fire?”

“Of necessity,” he explained. “I collect curios and artefacts to sell to museums back in England. The problem is that I hate parting with some of them. Have you ever felt the sheer joy of possessing something beautiful?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Seymour-Jones.”

“Well, I have. It gives me the most indescribable pleasure. I’ve hung on to certain items until the very last moment.” He looked at her quizzically. “What do you know of Japan, Miss Masefield?”

“Precious little,” she admitted. “Though I did see
The Mikado
at the Savoy.”

He managed a first grin. “That’s a travesty of the real thing, I’m afraid. Gilbert and Sullivan have no understanding at all
of Japanese culture. Besides, wherever they’re set, their operas are essentially about England.”

“I’d have to agree with you there.”

“What’s your interest in Japan?”

“Oh, I’m a tourist, Mr. Seymour-Jones. A wide-eyed traveler.”

“I knew that you two would get along,” said Etta Langmead, easing herself into the conversation. “Have you discovered any mutual acquaintances back in England?”

“Not yet,” replied Seymour-Jones.

“You will, I’m sure. Where are you from, Miss Masefield?”

“London,” said Genevieve.

“And what about our artist?”

“I was born in Cambridge, Mrs. Langmead,” said Seymour-Jones, reaching for his wineglass. “But I’ve spent a lot of my life abroad.”

“Seeking inspiration, I daresay.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re a restless spirit.”

“I suppose that I am, Mrs. Langmead.”

“What’s your favorite country?”

“The one that I’m in at any given moment.” He sipped his wine and turned away to escape her amiable interrogation.