Murder on the Mauretania Read Online Free
Author: Conrad Allen
smile.”
THREE
G eorge Porter Dillman was called into action that very evening. After sharing a table with the Jarvis family in the second-class dining saloon, he hovered near the door for a few minutes, chatting to a steward while keeping one eye on a man in the far corner whose behavior had aroused his suspicion.
“Splendid meal!” said Dillman with evident sincerity.
“Thank you, sir,” replied the steward.
“My compliments to the chef.”
“I’ll pass them on.”
“What’s on the menu for breakfast?”
“You’re a man who likes his food, sir, I can see that.”
“One of the pleasures of traveling on the Cunard Line.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
While the steward listed the items on the breakfast menu for the following day, Dillman changed his position slightly so that he could get a better view of the dinner guest in the corner. The man had waited until everyone else had vacated his table, then shifted surreptitiously from his own seat to the next one so that his back faced into the saloon and obscured the movements of his hands. Dillman had no idea of what he was about to steal, but he saw the swift grab and knew thatsomething had been snatched with professional ease. Draining his glass of whiskey, the man rose to his feet, glanced around, then strode casually underneath the lofty dome in the center of the room and toward the exit. Short, stubby, and smartly dressed, he looked more like a successful realtor than a thief. His bald head glistened under the light of the crystal chandeliers. When he passed Dillman and the steward, he gave them a token smile of farewell before going out.
After waiting for a few moments, Dillman excused himself in order to follow the man. The second-class dining saloon was on the upper deck and opened off the grand staircase. It could accommodate two hundred and fifty people at its refectory-style tables, but only one of the diners interested Dillman at that juncture. Instead of joining the other second-class passengers in the lounge, the drawing room or the smoking room, the man headed for his cabin, sauntering along with a law-abiding gait, quite unaware of the fact that he was being trailed at a discreet distance. Dillman waited until the man reached his door before he moved in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, closing in briskly, “but I believe you may inadvertently have taken something from the dining saloon that doesn’t belong to you.”
The man stiffened. “You’re crazy!” he retorted.
“I watched you put it in your pocket, sir.”
“Then you need your eyes tested, mister.”
He glared at Dillman with controlled belligerence, as if deeply offended by the charge. His accent had Brooklyn overtones. Dillman remained deliberately polite.
“Would you have any objection to emptying your pockets, sir?”
“You bet I would!”
“Then we’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the purser.”
“Whatever for?”
“He doesn’t approve of theft.”
“And I don’t approve of being accused of something I haven’t done!” said the other, flaring up. “Can’t a man enjoy a meal without having someone spy on him? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I work for the Cunard Line, sir.”
“Well, I’m a passenger, buddy. That means I help to pay your wages, indirectly. It also means you’re supposed to be nice to me. Got it?”
“In the circumstances, I’m being extremely nice,” said Dillman, letting his voice and eyes harden slightly. “The Cunard Line has certain idiosyncrasies, I’m afraid. One of them is that it doesn’t condone the loss of its property. If you’d care to come with me to the purser, I’m sure that he’ll explain the rules to you in full.”
“Listen here, wise guy!”
Squaring up to Dillman, he seemed to be on the point of striking him, but he quickly repented of his hasty action. Dillman did not flinch. Not only was the detective much younger and taller, he looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a
THREE
G eorge Porter Dillman was called into action that very evening. After sharing a table with the Jarvis family in the second-class dining saloon, he hovered near the door for a few minutes, chatting to a steward while keeping one eye on a man in the far corner whose behavior had aroused his suspicion.
“Splendid meal!” said Dillman with evident sincerity.
“Thank you, sir,” replied the steward.
“My compliments to the chef.”
“I’ll pass them on.”
“What’s on the menu for breakfast?”
“You’re a man who likes his food, sir, I can see that.”
“One of the pleasures of traveling on the Cunard Line.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
While the steward listed the items on the breakfast menu for the following day, Dillman changed his position slightly so that he could get a better view of the dinner guest in the corner. The man had waited until everyone else had vacated his table, then shifted surreptitiously from his own seat to the next one so that his back faced into the saloon and obscured the movements of his hands. Dillman had no idea of what he was about to steal, but he saw the swift grab and knew thatsomething had been snatched with professional ease. Draining his glass of whiskey, the man rose to his feet, glanced around, then strode casually underneath the lofty dome in the center of the room and toward the exit. Short, stubby, and smartly dressed, he looked more like a successful realtor than a thief. His bald head glistened under the light of the crystal chandeliers. When he passed Dillman and the steward, he gave them a token smile of farewell before going out.
After waiting for a few moments, Dillman excused himself in order to follow the man. The second-class dining saloon was on the upper deck and opened off the grand staircase. It could accommodate two hundred and fifty people at its refectory-style tables, but only one of the diners interested Dillman at that juncture. Instead of joining the other second-class passengers in the lounge, the drawing room or the smoking room, the man headed for his cabin, sauntering along with a law-abiding gait, quite unaware of the fact that he was being trailed at a discreet distance. Dillman waited until the man reached his door before he moved in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, closing in briskly, “but I believe you may inadvertently have taken something from the dining saloon that doesn’t belong to you.”
The man stiffened. “You’re crazy!” he retorted.
“I watched you put it in your pocket, sir.”
“Then you need your eyes tested, mister.”
He glared at Dillman with controlled belligerence, as if deeply offended by the charge. His accent had Brooklyn overtones. Dillman remained deliberately polite.
“Would you have any objection to emptying your pockets, sir?”
“You bet I would!”
“Then we’ll have to discuss the whole matter with the purser.”
“Whatever for?”
“He doesn’t approve of theft.”
“And I don’t approve of being accused of something I haven’t done!” said the other, flaring up. “Can’t a man enjoy a meal without having someone spy on him? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I work for the Cunard Line, sir.”
“Well, I’m a passenger, buddy. That means I help to pay your wages, indirectly. It also means you’re supposed to be nice to me. Got it?”
“In the circumstances, I’m being extremely nice,” said Dillman, letting his voice and eyes harden slightly. “The Cunard Line has certain idiosyncrasies, I’m afraid. One of them is that it doesn’t condone the loss of its property. If you’d care to come with me to the purser, I’m sure that he’ll explain the rules to you in full.”
“Listen here, wise guy!”
Squaring up to Dillman, he seemed to be on the point of striking him, but he quickly repented of his hasty action. Dillman did not flinch. Not only was the detective much younger and taller, he looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a
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