Murder on the Lusitania (22 page)

“Along with the photographic copies of those diagrams? There was no sign of them either. That worries me. So does his wife.”

“His wife?”

“Yes, Mr. Halliday. I think that Erskine is a very likely suspect. He certainly has strength and brutality enough to kill another man. And he has a strangely critical attitude toward the Cunard Line for a man who’s used it so much. He was sounding off about disasters aboard your ships when I first met him.”

“He’s created the ones aboard the
Lusitania
.”

“Has he? Could he keep such a series of crimes from his wife?”

“Mrs. Erskine must be an accomplice.”

“Then she’s a far better actress than I took her for,” said Dillman, “and I do know a little about acting. Dorothea Erskine is not putting on a performance. She’s perfectly innocent, I’m sure of it.”

“That doesn’t put her husband in the clear.”

“No, but it introduces enough doubt to make us hold our horses. Why not leave Erskine to me?” he suggested. “I won’t let
him off the hook, I promise you. But I have other lines in the water as well. Coffee?”

“Black, please. Lots of it.”

Dillman poured two cups. “That’s how I feel this morning.”

“I need sustenance before I face Mr. Weiss again.”

“At least we know that his violin has not been destroyed. That must have given him some crumbs of comfort.”

“Not when he has to stump up all that money to reclaim it. Besides,” he said, fearing the worst, “how do we know that the thief will return it unharmed? We can’t trust him to hand over the Stradivarius. It may just be a ruse to get the cash.”

“I don’t think that for one moment.”

“Why not?”

“You translated the note for me. If your German is correct, what the thief is demanding is payment in U.S. dollars with notes of large denomination. But there are two very telling conditions.”

“Yes,” said Halliday, spooning sugar into his cup. “Weiss must get us to call off the search for the violin or it may no longer be there to be found. That really threw him into a panic.”

“It was the second condition that interested me.”

“The exchange will take place early on Friday morning.”

“The day we arrive in New York. That minimizes the amount of time we'd have to organize a cabin-by-cabin search. And we can hardly frisk every male passenger from first-class as he disembarks.”

“I told you, he’s toying with us.”

“No, Mr. Halliday, there’s something else behind this. I still believe that the theft of the violin is a diversionary measure.”

“A bloody expensive one, Mr. Dillman. Especially if we have to cough up the money. That’s what Mr. Weiss is demanding. I can’t see Captain Watt agreeing to pay for a violin we never owned in the first place. Though he may agree to loan the five thousand dollars.”

“That’s ridiculously cheap for a Stradivarius.”

“Not if you’ve already paid out vastly more than that, as Mr.
Weiss must have done in Vienna. He must wish he had never traveled on this ship. And the story is bound to get out once we reach New York.”

“Only if he’s forced to pay the ransom. Retrieve the violin ourselves and Itzak Weiss will do anything we ask. You'd better finish that coffee and get off to see him.” He drank some of his own. “No more problems with Henry Barcroft, I hope.”

“I had a man on guard all night outside that refrigerator.”

“Wise move.”

“I’ve increased security throughout the whole ship.”

“Discreetly, I trust.”

“Very discreetly. What’s your next move?”

“I need to question Erskine.”

“To get a confession out of him?”

“To see if he can speak German.”

The purser rose to leave. “I’ll be off.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Halliday?”

“What? Oh, yes,” he said, thrusting a hand into the pocket of his uniform. “Those lists you asked me to get.” He passed them over. “The two table plans are complete but I’ve probably only got about three-quarters of the people who attended the music concert.”

“That may be enough.”

“Report back if you get a breakthrough.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Dillman with a mock salute.

When his guest departed, he looked at the first list, which contained the names of those who had dined with the Anstruthers on the eve of the thefts. Dillman knew none of the names. When he saw the list of those at the Anstruther table during luncheon on the day of the theft itself, however, he recognized several of them. One leaped up at him. Jeremiah Erskine.

“You’re late,” he complained. “I began to think that you weren’t coming.”

“I got held up in the hairdressing salon.”

“What were you doing in there?”

“Pretending to have my hair done. It was the only way I could shake off my mother. Unfortunately, they were running late. That’s why I was delayed. I only had my hair trimmed so that I could be out of there in as short a time of possible.”

“You’re here now, anyway,” he said, squeezing her arm.

“Yes. You must’ve known that I’d come.”

“I’d have waited all day.”

They were sitting side by side on a wooden bench in the third-class lounge. It was not the ideal place to meet, but Violet Rymer had balked at the idea of going to his cabin again and selected neutral ground. Nobody would think of looking for them there. In the swirling crowd, they could be quietly anonymous.

“Did you think over what I said?” he asked.

“Yes, Philip, and I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“Misjudging you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was rather shocked when you told me about the money that Father gave you. Shocked that he should try to get rid of you like an unwanted beggar, and even more shocked that you’d used the money to pay for this voyage.”

“I did it to be near you, Violet!”

“I see that now.”

“So you don’t think I’m simply being mercenary?”

“Far from it.”

“Good.”

“How much was it, exactly?”

“Enough to fund this trip and to pay for my accommodation in New York. All that I have to do is to keep my head down until the great day.”

“What great day?”

Philip Garrow chuckled. “Your twenty-first birthday.”

“I’d almost forgotten that.”

“Well, I haven’t,” he said, fondling her arm. “I’ve thought about nothing else for months. That’s the day when our lives will change forever. They won’t be able to stop us then.”

“No,” she said.

“You might sound a little more pleased about it, Violet.”

“I feel so inhibited in here,” she said, glancing around.

“Would you rather go to my cabin?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could at least talk properly there. Without this din.”

Violet wanted to acquiesce but something was stopping her. It worried her that she still had reservations about Philip Garrow. She felt so proud to be with him, so happy to feel him beside her. Yet she could not bring herself to move to the privacy of his cabin again.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Of course not, Philip.”

“This is so
public
. Thank heaven I didn’t travel third-class.”

“It’s like a cattle shed down here. All these people. The smell!”

“Your snobbery is showing, Miss Rymer!” he said with a mocking smile. “What happened to the young woman who once boasted that she’d live in abject poverty with me if only we could be together?”

“And I still would!” she said effusively.

“But it won’t be necessary now, Violet. Don’t you see?”

“Not exactly.”

“Your twenty-first birthday. You come of age.”

She beamed. “Yes! That means they can’t stop me from marrying you.”

“And they can’t prevent you from coming into that money.” Her face went blank. “The trust fund your father set up for you, Violet,” he said. “On your twenty-first birthday, you come into a large amount of money and that will set me up in business and buy us our first house. How on earth could you have forgotten it?”

“I hadn’t, Philip.”

“So what’s the problem? The trust fund has got the protection of the law around it. Your father signed and sealed that document. When you're twenty-one, you get the money whatever he says. And you can do anything you like with it.”

“But I can’t, Philip. I thought you’d guess that.”

His smirk evaporated. “Guess what?”

“Father was so vengeful about you, it was terrifying. He altered the terms of the trust fund. A codicil was attached to it.”

“Codicil? What are you talking about?”

“I only come into that money on condition that I never have anything to do with you.” She saw his dismay and clutched at him. “But it doesn’t make any difference, surely. If I have to choose between you and the trust fund, I’d choose you every time. We’ll manage somehow, Philip. We’ll be together. What more do we want?”

“Nothing,” he muttered uneasily.

She clung to him. “Say something nice. Tell me you love me.”

“You know I do, Violet.”

“Then why have you gone so distant all of a sudden?”

“I’m thinking, that’s all.” He chewed his lip. “There must be a way of getting around this somehow. Tell me again about this codicil.”

It was afternoon before Dillman finally cornered the Erskines. Elusive during the morning, they had not come into the saloon for luncheon. Both of them surfaced in the first-class lounge. Dorothea Erskine was part of a circle that included Matthew and Sylvia Rymer, Ada Weekes, Nairn Mackintosh and his wife, and Miguel, the Spanish artist. At a table in the corner, a card game was in progress. Edward Collins was dealing the cards to Cyril Weekes, Jeremiah Erskine, and three other men. Dillman wondered why they had shifted from the smoking room The move had clearly suited Erskine. He appeared to be winning for once.

Dillman strolled casually across to the group who were lounging in chairs. After an exchange of niceties, he saw a chance to use Miguel for his own purposes and plunged in with deliberate clumsiness.

“
Buon giorno, Miguel. Come stai? Sono Americano. Parla inglese?
”

The artist looked slightly baffled and the women were impressed.

Nairn Mackintosh laughed. “Faultless accent, Mr. Dillman, but
you’ve got the wrong language, unfortunately. Miguel is Spanish and not Italian.” There was general hilarity. “Why not just talk in English to him?”

Dillman apologized profusely to the Spaniard, then gave a sigh.

“Languages were never my strong point,” he confessed. “I’ve got a smattering of French but I could never get to first base with German. It’s such a complicated language. Anyone here speak it?”

“Jeremiah does,” volunteered his wife obligingly. “He’s fluent.”

“He seems more interested in the card game at the moment,” said Ada Weekes, keeping one eye on the table. “So does Cyril. If they don’t finish soon, I’m going to break up that game. It’s so antisocial.”

Having learned what he wanted, Dillman only stayed a short while before finding an excuse to walk over to Caleb Tolley for a chat. Seated in an armchair, Tolley had his leg up on a footstool and was reading a book. Dillman talked to him for a few minutes, then his attention was taken back to the card table. Mild excitement was developing. A crucial game was in progress and the pot grew ever larger. Three players had opted out but Weekes, Erskine, and Collins were still raising the stakes in turn. Cyril Weekes removed his pince-nez and rubbed his temple with them while he stared at his hand. Jeremiah Erskine was glowing, as if certain that he could recoup all of his earlier losses in one glorious moment. Edward Collins was still the most relaxed man at the table.

Ada Weekes had taken enough. Tolerant of her husband’s gambling until now, she marched across the room and stood behind Collins to wave across at her husband.

“How much longer will you be, Cyril?” she protested. “We promised to meet the Hubermanns in the Veranda Café for tea.”

“All in good time, Ada. Give me five minutes.”

“You’ve had far too many of those already,” she said, going around to him and squeezing his shoulder. “Now, please. Make this the last game or I shall be cross. Very cross.” She turned to the others. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Ada Weekes flounced off to be greeted by words of praise from
the other ladies, but Dillman’s eye stayed on the game. More money went into the pot and the three players displayed their respective hands. Erskine was horrified that he had lost and Collins was evidently surprised by his defeat. It was Cyril Weekes whose podgy hands closed on a pot worth the best part of two hundred pounds. When he left the room with his wife, she was still berating him. Caleb Tolley gave a chuckle.

“Just as well she didn’t stop him five minutes ago.”

“Yes,” said Dillman thoughtfully.

“Looks to me as if the game is over.”

Collins was trying to deal but one of the men was already rising from the table and Erskine was shaking with fury. Picking up his cards, he hurled them down with contempt, said something to Collins, and stalked out of the lounge. His wife knew better than to follow him.

Dillman had other ideas. Excusing himself, he set off in pursuit of Erskine but lost him at the first staircase. Before he could follow the man up it, Dillman saw Genevieve descending it with such a friendly smile that he was stopped in his tracks.

“Henry Barcroft was right about one thing,” she remarked.

“Was he?”

“Betting fever seems to be spreading. I’ve just had tea with two people who’ve each bet fifty pounds that we’re going to win the Blue Riband on this trip. Apparently we’re maintaining a steady twenty-five knots, which is faster than anything the German liners can manage.”

Dillman looked at her in absolute wonder as an idea dawned.

“People are betting on it?” he queried.

“Dozens of them, from what I can gather. British patriotism.”

“Thank you, Miss Masefield!” he said, reaching out to give her a kiss of gratitude on the cheek. “Thank you so much!”

Leaving her bemused, he went charging up the stairs past her.

FOURTEEN

T
he
Lusitania
was a tiny island of noise in the vast ocean. As the great ship powered its way toward an empty horizon, the clamor in its public rooms grew ever louder. Cleared of its chairs, the music room had been set aside for the dog show, open to all contestants and drawing the most astonishing range of animals from passengers in first, second, and—in the case of two spaniels and a mongrel terrier—third-class. A room that echoed to the harmonies of famous composers on the previous afternoon now reverberated with the yelps, snarls, growls, and barks of over forty dogs. Canine tempers were short, owners tried to shout their charges into submission, and partisan spectators cheered on their favorites.

Even this tumult could not compare with the pandemonium in the third-class lounge where a fancy dress parade was being held. Families with barely more than a few suitcases with which to start their new lives in America had begged, borrowed, or somehow improvised a wide array of costumes. Pirates competed with cowboys, fairy princesses with foul witches on makeshift broomsticks. There was even an infant Queen Victoria in a paper crown to fight for the throne of first prize. A tea dance for the second-class passengers
combined with the roar of the ship’s engines to swell the general commotion.

Some of the events helping to produce the cacophony had been suggested by Dillman as a means of keeping the passengers fully occupied but he did not pause to participate in any of them himself. His destination was the bridge, where he found the captain at his post with his officers. Hoping for some good news at last, Captain Watt took the visitor aside so that they could converse in private.

“Well, Mr. Dillman? Has any arrest been made?” he asked.

“Not yet, sir. But it is imminent.”

“Purser Halliday keeps saying that to me but I see no sign of it.”

“I believe that I have just made the breakthrough.”

“Does that mean you've found Mr. Weiss’s violin?”

“No, but I have every confidence that I will.”

“You’d better, Mr. Dillman. The newspapers will crucify us if something like this gets out. And Itzak Weiss is threatening us with a lawsuit. A maiden voyage is supposed to be an act of celebration, not a publicity disaster. That Stradivarius must be found. I understand there’s been a ransom note.”

“It may be something else as well, Captain Watt.”

“Something else?”

“A confession.”

“What are you on about?”

“The language in which it was written,” said Dillman. “I think that our man has unwittingly shown his hand. That’s why I came to see you. Apparently everyone is starting to get excited about the prospect of our winning the Blue Riband on this voyage.”

“Then the excitement is premature.”

“Is there no chance that the ship will lower the record?”

“There’s every chance, Mr. Dillman,” said the captain proudly. “I’d stake my pension on it. What I can’t guarantee is that it will happen on this trip. My orders are to take the
Lusitania
safely to New York, where we can expect a warm welcome, whatever time we arrive. I have not been urged not throw caution to the winds
in pursuit of any record. That will come in time. The
Lusitania
is a greyhound of the sea, Mr. Dillman. It won’t be long before she wins the race for the Blue Riband, and I expect to be on this bridge when she does it.”

“We seem to be maintaining a high speed now.”

“Yes,” said the other, “and we'll continue to do so while we can. But the North Atlantic is the most dangerous ocean of them all. The weather can change for the worst so quickly. A heavy swell would slow us right down. And reports are already coming in about ice ahead. We
could
still break that record, Mr. Dillman, but I’d advise you not to bet your life savings on it.”

Dillman grinned. “I don’t
have
any life savings, Captain. But what I really came to ask you is this. How big a triumph would it be if the ship did capture the Blue Riband on its maiden voyage?”

“An enormous triumph. Our rivals would never forgive us.”

“You’d seize business from them at one fell swoop.”

“Of course, everyone wants to travel on the fastest liner.”

“She’s rather more than a liner, Captain Watt.”

“Not at the moment.”

“What about the future?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Dillman,” said the captain with a weary sigh. “But there’s no point in trying to bamboozle a man like you. I know you’ve got a nautical background. You understand the principles of marine architecture.” He took Dillman to the window and they looked down toward the bow of the ship. “What do you see down there?”

“A narrow prow, designed for speed.”

“And?”

“Reminiscent of a destroyer.”

“What else do you see, Mr. Dillman?”

“A foredeck that could easily be reinforced to take guns.”

“Go on.”

“A compass platform could be added on top of this bridge. A second could be placed in a number of locations. Decks, fore and aft, could be cleared. Passenger accommodation could be restricted
to allow more room for cargo. Do you want me to go on, sir?” said Dillman. “This ship was designed for peace but is also ready for war.”

“It won’t be of our choosing, sir. But we’re bound to take note of the way that the Germans are building up their navy. They’re flexing their muscles. We need to be ready in case they start to swing punches.”

“In the meantime?”

“We win the battle of the Atlantic with the
Lusitania
.”

“Perhaps even on this voyage?”

“Nothing would gladden my heart more. I’ve spent a lifetime competing with German skippers who think they own this ocean. High time someone wiped that arrogant grin off their faces.” He looked around. “And we’ve finally got the ship that can do it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dillman moved off. “You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re going?”

“I have to, Captain Watt.”

“But you haven’t told me about this so-called confession.”

“I have to find the man who wrote it first.”

Dillman ducked out of the bridge and descended the stairs. While the captain deserved to be kept informed of every development, there were some things the American felt obliged to keep from him. He still believed that his own camouflage was the best means of catching the man they were after. He made light of the personal danger involved. The visit to the bridge had provided vital confirmation. He was tingling.

“Hold on, Mr. Dillman!”

A loud voice cut through the crowd on deck and he turned to see Carlotta Hubermann waddling toward him. She had a mischievous glint in her eye, which was never there when her sister, Abigail, was with her. Dillman waited until she came panting up to him.

“You sure are a difficult man to find!” she said.

“I didn’t realize you were looking for me.”

“Genevieve said you’d come in this direction. Like a bullet from
a gun, that’s how she put it. What’s the rush? This is the life of leisure, Mr. Dillman. Enjoy it while you can.”

“I intend to, Miss Hubermann.”

“Good! That means you’ll join Abigail and me for dinner this evening. We’ll meet you for drinks in the lounge beforehand.” She raised a hand to stop the protest that rose to his lips. “I won’t take no for an answer, Mr. Dillman. You’re needed for compassionate duty.”

“Compassionate duty?”

“I’m seating you next to Genevieve Masefield. Something’s upset her. She can’t hide it from me. I reckon it’s to do with that Lord Carradine. Abigail may have been right all along. Perhaps he is sinister. Anyway,” she said, squeezing his arm, “Genevieve needs brightening up and I think you’re just the man to do it. She really likes you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Miss Hubermann.”

“See you later, then. Oh, by the way, don’t go near the music room. They’re holding a dog show down there and the noise is earsplitting. A dog show! What lunatic came up with an idea like that?”

Matthew Rymer had reverted to his more usual mood of suppressed anger. Pacing the lounge in their suite, he fired rhetorical questions at his wife, who sat meekly in a chair and toyed with her purse.

“Where the devil has she got to? How long does it take to have your hair done, for heaven’s sake? Violet should have been back by now, surely? What’s got into the girl? We practically had to drag her aboard last Saturday, yet now she goes prancing off whenever she can. Is there something I should know about, Sylvia?” He stopped to tower over her. “Well, is there?”

“No, Matthew.”

“So what is happening?”

“I’m as much in the dark as you.”

“Violet has been gone for hours.”

“Perhaps she met a friend at the salon.”

“What friend? She hardly speaks to anybody.”

“That’s not true,” said Sylvia Rymer. “She often talks to Mrs. Weekes. They get on well together. Then there’s that Mr. Dillman. Violet likes him. She’s been agitating for us to invite him here to dinner one evening.”

“Well, she’s wasting her time.”

“Why?”

“Something about the fellow,” he said, on the move again. “Can’t say what it is but it worries me. I’m certainly not going to encourage any friendship between my daughter and him.”

“Mr. Dillman is so courteous.”

“Sylvia, he’s an
American
!” He sneered. “Besides, I’ve invited Nairn Mackintosh and his wife to join us for dinner here tonight. Violet can forget all about Mr. Dillman. I want her on her best behavior. Mackintosh is coming round to my suggestion.”

“That’s good to hear, Matthew.”

“It’s one of the rewards of this voyage.”

“Not the only one, I hope,”

“Oh, no,” he said, stifling a smile. His tone hardened. “I think that we should watch Violet more carefully. Too much freedom could be dangerous. Who knows what she might get up to?”

“I can’t keep an eye on her all the time.”

“We can share the load. All three of us.”

“Three of us?”

“You, Mildred and I. No point in bringing a maid unless we make full use of her,” he said airily. “Next time Violet wants to go to the salon or wander off on her own, we’ll send Mildred with her.”

“If you say so, Matthew.”

“I do say so. I insist.”

The cabin door suddenly opened and he swung round. Violet Rymer came into the room and saw the grim expression on her father’s face. She tried to control the turmoil inside her head and force a smile.

“Where on earth have you been?” demanded her father.

* * *

Dillman caught the chief engineer as he was about to leave his cabin. Fergus Rourke grinned at his visitor’s immaculate appearance.

“No need to wear white tie and tails to call on me,” he joked. “I don’t stand on ceremony here, Mr. Dillman.”

“Could you spare me a minute, please?”

“As long as you’re not going to tell me any more lies.”

“I’ve come to ask your advice, Mr. Rourke.”

“Well, that’s different.”

They went into the cabin and Rourke switched on the light again.

“I wondered if I could possibly glance at those diagrams of yours again,” said Dillman, pointing to the folder on the desk. “The ones that were stolen.”

“You mean, the ones that you found by sheer chance under a pile of sheets in a linen cupboard? I hope you didn’t prick your fingers on the drawing pins.” He opened the folder and stood back. “Help yourself. Then you can tell me what all this is in aid of.”

Dillman looked first at the cross section of the boiler room but reserved his real concentration for the wiring diagram. Miles of cable had been used, snaking its way around the entire vessel to feed electricity to its control panels, appliances, and countless thousands of bulbs. He checked to see where the generators were, then matched their position against another diagram. The chief engineer peered over his shoulder.

“You’re on to something, Mr. Dillman.”

“Possibly.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s just say that I may have seen the light.”

“Share it with me.”

“When I have more proof, Mr. Rourke.”

“Proof of what?”

“Call it maritime envy.”

“Could you put that into English for me?”

“Wrong language, sir.”

“Eh?”

“It would be more appropriate in German.”

Leaving him openmouthed in bafflement, Dillman went out.

Itzak Weiss shuttled between anger and sadness with no intervening stage. When the purser tried to console him, he was met either with a stream of vituperation or with a series of tearful pleas. Ruth Weiss was perched on the arm of her husband’s chair, alternately calming him when he shouted and patting him when he sobbed. Charles Halliday did his best to bring a modicum of cheer to the cabin.

“Your violin is safe, Mr. Weiss. At last, we know that.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, sir. Why else send the note to you?”

“It could just be a cruel joke.”

“The thief wants to exchange it for money.”

“Well, I’m not paying it out of my own pocket,” insisted Weiss. “Why should I? This is the responsibility of the Cunard Line. My property was stolen aboard one of their ships. That makes them culpable.”

“Not necessarily, sir.”

“It must,” said Ruth Weiss. “Passengers are insured against loss or damage to luggage. We saw the rates in your brochure.”

“This is a slightly different matter, Mrs. Weiss. Luggage stored away is indeed covered by the insurance premium. But we did not envisage a loss on the scale of a Stradivarius.”

“You will pay the ransom money!” howled the violinist, pointing an accustory finger. “And if the instrument is not returned to me in perfect condition, I will demand full compensation. I still have the receipt for that violin. Do you know how much it cost me?”

“I’d rather not,” said Halliday, “and I do beg of you not to fear the worst. We’ve already picked up a number of vital clues and may well be able to reclaim the instrument before Friday.”

“You saw the ransom note. You must suspend the hunt.”

“We have done, Mr. Weiss. In one sense. That’s why you do not see anyone in uniform charging around the ship to search cabins. That would be the quickest way to ensure that your violin
is tossed through the nearest porthole or smashed to pieces.”