Murder on the Minnesota (7 page)

Genevieve was listening intently to Fay when he came up to accost her. After a mumbled apology, he thrust the piece of paper into her hand, lifted his hat in farewell, then shuffled quickly away. Genevieve stared down at the flattering portrait of her.

Fay Brinkley was amused. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”

FIVE

S
omething was wrong. George Porter Dillman’s years as a detective on land and sea had sharpened his instincts considerably. As he checked the freight in one of the holds, he sensed that it was not quite what it purported to be. At face value, it all tallied with the manifest. Boxes, barrels, sacks, cases, and other containers had been neatly docketed after examination by the customs officials. Every item bore a label that carried details of its contents, its weight, its country of origin, its sender, and its intended recipient. In stacking the cargo, the crew had made maximum use of space. Fragile items had been handled with great care and stored in protected areas. Dillman took a last look around the hold. Flour was the principal export, but there were other foodstuffs there as well. He wondered why he felt so uneasy about the consignment. Though it appeared to be perfectly in order, he was nagged by the thought that something was amiss. The name of Rance Gilpatrick inevitably popped into his mind.

When he had locked the door after him, he made his way along a narrow passageway on the orlop deck. It was a far cry
from the luxury of the first-class areas. Concessions to comfort simply did not exist here. There were no thick carpets and paneled walls. Expensive lampshades had been replaced by bulbs that gave minimal light. No framed paintings added color and interest. It was a part of the vessel that was purely functional. It smelled faintly of oil. His footsteps echoed on the metallic floor and his shoulders brushed the bare walls. The roar of the engines was amplified. He could feel their vibrations. Deep inside the hull, Dillman was just as intrigued as he would have been on the bridge deck. Maritime design fascinated him. As he made his way toward the lower orlop deck, he studied the construction of the vessel, noting features that would have been invisible to the untrained eye.

It was when he stopped to look down a companionway that he was conscious of a problem. Someone was lurking nearby. For the third time in twenty-four hours, he knew that he was being watched. Initially concerned that he had been deliberately trailed throughout the ship, he soon dismissed the notion. There was no sense of menace this time. He was not so much being followed as observed. It was as if he had stumbled upon someone’s territory. Dillman took immediate action. Walking along to the next junction, he turned to the right and continued on his way for several yards. Then he came to a halt, swung round, and retraced his footsteps as quietly as he could. He waited patiently at the junction of the passageways. Seconds later, he heard stealthy movement. A head peeped furtively around the corner. Dillman did not hesitate. He reached out to grab the man by the neck and pulled hard. His captive let out a shriek of protest.

“No hurt me, sir!” he begged.

“What are you doing down here?” asked Dillman.

“Nothing, sir.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, sir. I do no harm.”

“This part of the ship is out of bounds.”

“Yes, sir. I get lost.” The man turned away. “I go now.”

Dillman tightened his grip. “You’re staying here until we’ve sorted this out.”

He was holding a pale, thin, frightened Chinese man in his twenties. It was clear that the newcomer was not a member of the crew, and equally obvious from his manner that he was no legitimate passenger. Dillman had seen the same expression of terror on the face of every stowaway that he had caught aboard a ship, but the others only had to endure five days in hiding on a transatlantic voyage. This man was hoping to remain undetected for very much longer. When his captive began to sob and shiver, Dillman felt sorry for him. It was only a ruse. As soon as the detective relaxed his hold, the man tried to push him away to make his escape. Dillman was far too quick for him, grabbing both of his wrists and tugging hard. Letting out a yell of pain, the man found himself slammed against the wall. Dillman towered over him.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Wu Feng, sir.”

“Do you have a boarding ticket?”

“I lose it, sir.”

“In other words, you’re a stowaway.”

“No, sir,” bleated the man. “I come down here by mistake.”

“You got onboard the
Minnesota
by mistake, my friend,” said Dillman calmly. “The Great Northern Steamship Company takes a dim view of people who try to travel on their vessels without paying. It’s a crime, Mr. Feng, as you well know. How did you manage to sneak onboard?”

“I have ticket, sir. It go missing.”

“You’re lying again.”

“No, sir!”

“Don’t waste my time,” said Dillman, fixing him with a stare. “I’m employed on this ship as a detective and one of my tasks is to search for stowaways. I’ve seen too many of them to be fooled, Mr. Feng. You look, sound, and act like a stowaway because that’s exactly what you are, isn’t it?” Feng’s head
dropped to his chest. “I’ll ask you a second time. How and when did you manage to get aboard?”

“I have to go home, sir!” declared the other, looking up at him.

“Then you should have bought a ticket.”

“I go to China.”

“Yes, I already worked that bit out. What I don’t understand is how you got past the crew at Seattle. They control access to the vessel very strictly. You dodged them somehow, didn’t you?” Feng shook his head. “Are you alone?”

“Yes!” insisted the other, nodding vigorously. “I alone.”

“Then you’d better come with me,” said Dillman, taking him by the arm.

“Wait!”

“Do I have to march you out of here by force?” Dillman read the look in his eyes and understood. “You’re not alone, are you?” The stowaway sagged. “Okay, Mr. Feng. Let’s stop playing games, shall we? Who else is with you and where are they hiding?”

“I alone,” whimpered the man feebly. “I alone.”

“Tell that to the master-at-arms,” said Dillman. “He won’t believe you either.”

The Langmeads continued to widen their social circle. When Genevieve Masefield joined them for luncheon, she found herself being introduced to a Japanese couple, Tadu and Hisako Natsuki, and an English couple, Bruce and Moira Legge. The eighth member of the party was one that Genevieve had hoped to avoid throughout the voyage, but she concealed her dismay well when she was placed next to Father Liam Slattery. She was glad to lose the McDades and to be spared the embarrassment of meeting David Seymour-Jones again, but the priest was a new source of worry. His bustling evangelism had already upset crew and passengers alike. Genevieve did not wish to become his latest victim. She wanted the pleasurable company of Fay Brinkley, not a Catholic homily at short range. Tadu
Natsuki was a short, sleek man in his thirties with an engaging manner and a polite smile. His wife, a plump but not unattractive woman, contributed little to the discussion beyond smiles and nods of assent. The Legges were so eager to be liked that they both talked too often and too loudly, as if by compulsion. Nearing fifty, Bruce Legge was a balding man with a failed attempt at an Imperial beard. His wife, Moira, had a glass eye that disfigured an otherwise beautiful face.

Father Slattery was on his best behavior at first, allowing the others to set the pace of the conversation and concentrating on the job of methodically loading food into his mouth. Moira Legge felt the need to display their social credentials.

“In which part of London do you live, Miss Masefield?” she asked.

“Chelsea,” said Genevieve.

“Really? We had a house in Cheyne Walk, didn’t we, darling?”

“Yes, dear,” said her husband. “A fine property.”

“But rather too small for our taste,” continued Moira Legge, spearing some lettuce with her fork. “We entertain on a large scale, you know. That’s why we moved to Belgravia. We gained three more bedrooms, a huge wine cellar, a splendid garden, and a dining room worthy of the name. We can seat over twenty guests with ease.”

“It sounds like a heck of a big house,” said Horace Langmead admiringly.

“We hate to skimp, don’t we, darling?”

“Yes, dear,” said Legge. He turned to Genevieve. “Do you know the Braydons?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Legge,” she replied.

“What about the Unwins? They live in Chelsea as well.”

“It’s a large district.”

“But everyone knows Toby Unwin,” said Moira with a brittle laugh. “He and his wife give the best parties in Chelsea. At least, they did in our day, didn’t they, darling?” Legge grunted his assent. “Surely you’ve heard of Toby Unwin?”

“No, Mrs. Legge.”

“How strange!”

“I’m not fond of parties.”

“Why ever not? Bruce always claims that they’re the stuff of life.”

“I’ll say!” agreed her husband.

“Toby’s parties were legendary.”

“What about the Finch-Howards?” said Legge, stroking his beard. “They’re typical Chelsea denizens. Ever come across them, Miss Masefield?”

Genevieve shook her head politely. The Legges continued to bombard her with names, but she recognized none of them. She was also anxious to get off the subject of her London life, especially as she had now renounced it so completely. When one more question was hurled at her, she saw a way to terminate the cross-examination. Moira Legge’s glass eye glinted accusingly at her.

“Who on earth
did
you know in Chelsea?” she asked.

“Lord Wilmshurst,” said Genevieve.

“Oh!”

“I was very much part of his circle.”

It worked. The Legges were sufficient snobs to be impressed by someone who rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy. They had not quite reached that level themselves. Now that Genevieve had been placed above them in the social hierarchy, they backed off at once. She was heartily relieved that they had not pressed her for any details of her acquaintance with Lord Wilmshurst. It was the broken engagement to his son, Nigel, that had precipitated her flight from England on the
Lusitania.
Her brief connection with the Wilmshurst family was something about which Genevieve did not care to be reminded. It had been a painful experience, and the memory still rankled.

Father Slattery decided to take a more active role in the conversation.

“Are you ever troubled by guilt, Mrs. Legge?” he wondered.

“Guilt?” repeated Moira.

“Yes.”

“Guilt about what, Father Slattery?”

“Your patent lack of concern for fellow human beings. It’s so blatant.” He looked around the table at each person in turn. “What about the rest of you?” he wondered. “Any hints of remorse among you? Any troubled consciences?”

“Don’t get too religious on us, Father,” said Horace Langmead amiably. “We just want to enjoy a pleasant meal, that’s all.”

“Exactly, Mr. Langmead. We’re engaged in thoughtless self-indulgence.”

“I was simply eating a salad,” said Etta Langmead.

“Yes,” challenged Slattery, rounding on her, “but did you stop for a moment to think how many millions of people do not have the blessing of food on their table? It’s easy for us to recite the Lord’s Prayer and ask to be given our daily bread because we can take it for granted. Does it never occur to you that, while we gormandize here, a large section of the world’s population is starving?”

“You ate as well as any of us,” said Natsuki politely.

“Oh, I don’t deny it, sir. Mea culpa. I’m as guilty as you are, Mr. Natsuki. More so, in the sense that my appetite is greater than yours. But I have an excuse, you see. I go to a life where rigor will be the order of the day.” He waved an arm at the table. “I’ll never get near food of this quality again. This is my last opportunity to partake of such a delicious meal. While I eat, however, I suffer. Each mouthful is accompanied by the realization that I’ll see nothing but empty bellies in China.”

Moira wrinkled her nose. “Need we talk about such things?”

“Of course, Mrs. Legge. It’s our duty.”

“It may be your duty, Father Slattery,” said Etta Langmead pleasantly, “but we’re not Catholic priests. Naturally, we feel compassion towards those less fortunate than ourselves, but that doesn’t mean we should go without food.”

Slattery wagged a finger. “Denial is good for the soul.”

“That depends on what you mean by the soul,” suggested Natsuki.

“I’ll be happy to discuss that subject at length, sir.”

“Only not now, Father,” insisted Langmead, trying to divert him. “There’s a time and place for everything. Even you must accept that.”

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“In Japan,” said Natsuki, “we have a different idea of the soul.”

“A misleading one,” countered Slattery.

“We do not feel misled.”

“What’s your religion? Shintoism, I suppose.”

“We are proud to admit it,” said Natsuki, touching his wife’s arm.

“Nobody should take pride in their ignorance. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to enlighten people, to rescue them from their misguided beliefs.”

“Tolerance is a virtue,” said Genevieve, stung into comment by the priest’s grinning complacence. “Because you serve one faith, Father Slattery, it doesn’t entitle you to insult the religion practiced by Mr. and Mrs. Natsuki.”

“I go along with that,” said Etta Langmead pointedly.

“So do I, honey,” added Langmead.

Slattery’s face was a picture of innocence. “I insulted nobody.”

“You did, Father. We all heard you.”

“Then you misunderstood me, Mr. Langmead.”

“Oh, I see. So I’m misguided as well, am I?”

Etta raised a hand. “Don’t get upset, Horry.”

“I’m not upset, honey. I’m just trying to calm things down a little.”

“Please,” said Natsuki with an appeasing smile. “Do not speak up on my account. Let us forget it. There was no insult. We talk about something else.”

“There!” declared Slattery, banging the table for effect. “The
typical action of a man who has lost an argument. He retreats from the field.”

Natsuki’s eyes flashed. “I retreat nowhere, sir.”

“But it might be a good idea if you and I did, Father Slattery,” said Langmead as he felt his wife’s warning kick under the table. “Why don’t we take a stroll?”

“Because I’d rather stay here,” said Slattery doggedly. “You invited me.”

“Not to have a doctrinal dispute.”

“We’re having a slight difference of opinion, that’s all, Mr. Langmead.”