Murder on the Minnesota (8 page)

“I think we all know what yours is, Father Slattery,” ventured Bruce Legge.

“It was a golden rule at Toby Unwin’s parties,” announced Moira, clapping her hands like a child. “No religion and no politics. They ruin everything. That’s why Toby’s parties were so successful. They were dedicated to harmless fun.”

“There is nothing harmless about fun,” decreed Slattery.

“You weren’t there,” she retorted.

“Thank goodness!” murmured Legge.

Slattery hit his stride. “We should have higher ideals in life,” he argued. “Were we really put on this earth to eat, drink, and waste our energies in pointless frivolity? Of course not. As ever, the Bible is our surest guide. God created us in His own image for a particular purpose.” He glanced at Natsuki, who was sitting bolt upright. “That includes you and your wife, Mr. Natsuki. God is not limited by geographical boundaries.”

“Your God is not ours,” Natsuki reminded him.

“He would be if you had the sense to let Him into your life.”

“I feel that we should respect other cultures,” said Genevieve reasonably.

“Not if they are based on fundamental error, Miss Masefield.”

“That’s a very unkind observation, Father Slattery.”

“Truth sometimes is unkind.”

“Have you ever
been
to Japan?”

“No,” he replied airily, “but that doesn’t invalidate my point. I’ve never been to Africa, but I know that it’s full of ignorant savages.”

“We are not ignorant savages in my country,” said Natsuki.

“Yet you’re very resistant to change. I’ve read the reports from our Catholic missionaries there. They struggle to make an impact on the Oriental mind. Japan is very hidebound,” asserted Slattery, blithely unaware of the effect he was having on the others. “That’s what happens when a country is isolated for so long from the rest of the world. It loses touch with reality.”

Horace Langmead tried to wrest conversational control from him, but Slattery would not yield it. Opposition only served to inflame his lust for argument. Genevieve saw the reactions of her companions. Etta Langmead was gritting her teeth and vowing never to share a table with the priest again. Bruce and Moira Legge suffered in silence. Hisako Natsuki sat there with a fixed smile while her husband resorted to the occasional defensive remark. Though never less than polite, Natsuki was finding the indiscriminate attack on his faith very hurtful. Genevieve sensed that the wounds were deep. She did her best to deflect Father Slattery from his theme, but he surged on as if in his pulpit, six feet above contradiction. What annoyed the others was that he continued to enjoy his meal so much while he spoke, swallowing food between sentences and washing it down with liberal quantities of wine. It was perverse. In taking away their appetites, he seemed to have increased his own.

Suddenly, much to their relief, the diatribe was over. Father Slattery rose to his feet without warning and dabbed at his lips with a napkin before setting it down beside his empty plate. He exuded bonhomie.

“Please excuse me,” he said, distributing a smile around the table. “I have a service to take later on and need to prepare myself. It’s been so good to meet you all. The meal was a positive delight.”

Cheered by the prospect of getting rid of him, Horace Langmead shook him by the hand, then waved him off. Shoulders hunched in apology, he turned to the others.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he said gloomily. “We made a hideous mistake. When we first met him, he was charming.”

“I thought he’d never stop talking,” moaned Etta.

“Or eating.”

“Yes, Horry. And he had the gall to lecture us on world starvation.”

“Fancy being a member of his congregation!” said Bruce Legge.

“No, thank you,” moaned his wife. “When he stood up like that, I thought, for one horrible moment, that he was going to take a collection.”

Langmead chuckled. “If it meant sending him on his way, I’d gladly have contributed.” He turned to Genevieve. “You had the worst of it, Miss Masefield, sitting next to him. That foghorn of a voice was right in your ear. He was quite insufferable. Is that what celibacy does to a man?”

They laughed at the remark, but each one of them was still deeply upset. Father Slattery had deprived them of the enjoyment they would certainly have had without him. Luncheon had been an extended ordeal. The Langmeads kept apologizing for inflicting the turbulent priest on the others, and Bruce Legge tried to lighten the atmosphere by telling some feeble anti-Catholic jokes. Genevieve’s attention was caught by Tadu and Hisako Natsuki. Where the others had been irritated by Father Slattery, they had been hurt at a deep level. Natsuki was talking to his wife in Japanese. His voice was low and his manner restrained, but Genevieve sensed the crackle of real anger. She wished that she could understand what he was saying.

Mike Roebuck had worked on passenger vessels too long to be surprised by anything. Stowaways were a predictable hazard. The purser sighed with resignation.

“How many of them were there, George?” he asked.

“Two. Wu Feng and his father.”

“Hiding on the orlop deck?”

“Yes,” said Dillman. “Heaven knows how they got down there! Steerage is uncomfortable enough but at least you get a bunk, even if you have to share a cabin with complete strangers. The Fengs were sleeping on the bare floor. They had virtually no luggage.”

“What about food and water?”

“Barely enough to survive on.”

“They must be desperate.”

“They were, Mike. They implored me not to report them.”

“Poor guys!” commented the purser. “What a way to travel! Most stowaways sneak aboard, then mingle with the steerage passengers during the day to cadge food from them. It sounds as if these two would have spent the entire voyage without any natural light. What was their story?”

“They hated America.”

“Then why go there in the first place?”

“The usual hopes of making good. They hadn’t counted on antagonism.”

“Hostility to immigrants is growing all the time.”

“They found that out, Mike. First week they arrived, the old man was beaten up in Seattle. He still has the scars to prove it. Wu Feng couldn’t earn enough to keep the two of them, so they decided to go home.”

“By means of a free trip on the
Minnesota
.”

“That was the idea,” said Dillman, “but it would never have worked. Sooner or later, one of us was bound to find them down there.”

“They’re lucky. Fifty years ago, skippers weren’t so considerate. They’d have thrown stowaways overboard like any other unwanted cargo. Wu Feng and his father would have had to swim to China.” Roebuck touched the peak of his cap as an elderly female passenger went past. “Where are they now?”

“With the master-at-arms.”

“He’ll sort them out. Thanks, George. You did well.”

“It’s all part of my job.”

“We want you hunting bigger game than a pair of fleeing Chinamen.”

They were standing at the rail on the upper deck. When Dillman tracked him down, the purser was listening to a catalog of complaints from a Mexican passenger whose grasp on English was very insecure. Mike Roebuck had been grateful to be rescued by the detective. Dillman told him about his thorough search of the ship.

“Have you spotted our prime suspect yet?” asked Roebuck.

“Yes, Mike. Your description was as accurate as a photograph.”

“Rance Gilpatrick’s photograph ought to be on a wanted poster.”

“In effect, it is.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, he had the new lady in his life on his arm.”

“What on earth do they see in that fat old fraud?”

“Wealth and power always attract some women.”

Roebuck grinned. “Is that why I lose out with them?”

“You’re too honest to make your fortune the way Gilpatrick did. Besides,” said Dillman, “he’s living on borrowed time. When we catch him, his wealth and power will disappear in a flash.”

“So will his supply of wives.”

“Yes, they’ll run for cover. The present Mrs. Gilpatrick didn’t have the look of a woman who’d stand by him if he went to prison.”

“Maxine might turn out to be his weak spot.”

“That’s what I suggested to Genevieve.”

“I know, George, and I’d reached the same conclusion. I asked your partner to snuggle up to Maxine Gilpatrick in the hope of finding something out.” He gave a wistful smile. “What a treat! If Genevieve Masefield snuggled up to me, I’d tell her everything.”

“Including the fact that you’re married?”

“Don’t spoil my dream!”

“How did you get on with Genevieve?”

“Extremely well. She’s a very special lady.”

“It takes nerve to do the kind of work that she does.”

“She looks as cool as a cucumber.”

“Genevieve will prove her worth on this voyage,” said Dillman fondly. “She always has in the past. Nobody ever suspects her of being a detective. Especially the men. They’re too busy being dazzled by her charm.”

“It worked on me, George. I freely admit it.”

Dillman gazed thoughtfully at the undulating expanse of the Pacific.

“Let’s hope that it works on Maxine Gilpatrick as well,” he said.

Genevieve Masefield was happy to see Fay Brinkley again. Separated during luncheon, they met again in the Ladies’ Boudoir and exchanged notes. Fay listened sympathetically to Genevieve’s tale of woe.

“What rotten luck!” she said. “I had the opposite experience. Everyone at my table was very nice but excessively dull.”

“Oh, Father Slattery wasn’t dull,” conceded Genevieve. “Just annoying.”

“Why did the Langmeads invite him?”

“They’re still trying to work that out, Fay.”

“Let’s make a point of dining together this evening.”

“Yes,” agreed Genevieve, “as far away from Father Slattery as possible.”

“It’s a deal!”

“I was so embarrassed on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Natsuki.”

“They probably dismissed him as another brash American. Anyway,” said Fay with a knowing smile, “let’s put him aside, shall we? I want to hear about the other man in your life.”

Genevieve was caught off-guard. “What other man?”

“Our lovestruck artist.”

“I’d forgotten him.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s forgotten you, Genevieve. Mr. Seymour-Jones has an obsessional look about him. Once he commits himself, he does so to the hilt.”

“Oh dear!”

“You should be flattered.”

“Well, I’m not, Fay.”

“Wouldn’t you like to enjoy a mild flirtation?”

“No,” said Genevieve. “Especially not with David Seymour-Jones.”

“Underneath that bohemian exterior, he’s personable enough. And you saw that portrait he drew of you,” noted Fay. “It was a declaration in itself.”

“It’s not one that I sought or wanted. Why choose me?” asked Genevieve with quiet exasperation. “I’ve done nothing whatsoever to encourage his advances.”

“Try looking in a mirror.”

“What?”

Fay nudged her playfully. “Oh, don’t pretend to be so naive. With a face and figure like yours, you attract men by the dozen. I suspect that you’ve coped with it pretty well until now. David Seymour-Jones is hardly a serious threat to your virtue.”

“I know, Fay, but I wouldn’t like to hurt his feelings.”

“We’re all bound to break a few hearts along the way.”

“Not deliberately.”

“So what will you do?”

“Keep out of his way.” She glanced around. “I may be in here rather a lot.”

“Why?”

“Ladies only. It’s the one place on the ship where I’ll be safe from Father Slattery and David Seymour-Jones. I can keep religion and romance firmly at bay.”

“One of them will still find a way to get to you,” teased Fay.

It was an ideal place for a meeting with a friend. The chairs were comfortable and arranged in a way that allowed complete privacy. Seated in an alcove, Genevieve and Fay had a good
view of the rest of the room. There was a scattering of women in the boudoir, exchanging gossip, making plans for the evening, reading magazines, or simply enjoying the melodies that someone was playing on the piano. Genevieve basked in the restful atmosphere. It was a comfort to have a friend like Fay Brinkley in whom she could confide. The American had a worldliness that was noticeably lacking in all the other women Genevieve had so far encountered. Etta Langmead, Moira Legge, and Hisako Natsuki were extensions of their respective husbands, women who had no independent life of their own. Blanche McDade was kept in an even darker shadow of a man. Fay would never settle for being a mere accessory on a man’s arm. It was one of the many things about her that appealed to Genevieve.

The room gradually emptied until only a handful of women remained. Fay excused herself. Genevieve stayed to finish her cup of tea and to reflect on the long conversation she had enjoyed. She realized with a start that the music had stopped. Genevieve was disappointed. Even though she had only heard them intermittently, the soothing melodies in the background had been a delight. She got up and made her way to the piano. Sitting on the stool, she played a few chords, then looked around to see if anyone objected. Nobody even turned a head in her direction. Genevieve played on, starting with the “Moonlight Sonata,” relieved to discover that her fingers still retained much of the skill they had developed during long years of piano lessons. Her confidence slowly grew and she plucked a waltz from her memory. After working through her repertoire, she glanced down at the music in front of her and read the name of Stephen Foster. Humming to herself, she played the first verse of the song. When she started the second verse, she discovered that she had company.

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chanting, the wild Lorelei.
Over the stream …

It was not the voice of an amateur, singing the familiar words out of sentimental impulse. The woman was a soprano with perfect pitch, hitting each note with the ease and conviction of a true professional. As the voice soared on, Genevieve felt a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to play the rest of the song. She was keen to oblige. Acting as accompanist to someone with such obvious talent brought out the best in her. Everyone in the room turned to listen with appreciative smiles. When the final chord was played, they broke into spontaneous applause.