Murder on the Mauretania Read Online Free Page A

fight. The man changed his tack at once, shrugging off his anger and extending apologetic palms.
    “Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here,” he soothed.
    “Has there, sir?”
    “Okay. I’ll come clean. I’m no kleptomaniac. You did see me take something off the table,” he admitted, slipping a hand inside his coat, “but it was only this.” The menu was waved under Dillman’s nose. “What’s more, the steward told me I could have it as a souvenir, so I guess he’s an accessory before the crime. Satisfied now?”
    “Not exactly, sir.”
    “You going to march me off to the purser because I take a lousy menu? Here,” he said, thrusting it at him. “Have it back.”
    “It’s the other item I’m after,” persisted Dillman. “The one that the steward didn’t give you permission to steal. Let’s do this properly, shall we? Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me your name, sir.”
    “Mind your goddam business!”
    “It won’t be difficult to find it out. I know your cabin. All I have to do is check the passenger list. Now, why don’t you start cooperating, Mr.—?”
    Dillman’s composure was slowly unnerving the man. He eventually capitulated. “Hirsch,” he grunted sourly. “Max Hirsch.”
    “How do you do, Mr. Hirsch? My name is George Dillman.”
    “I have another name for you.”
    Three elderly passengers came along the corridor and walked past.Hirsch looked embarrassed. It was time to move the interrogation to a more private venue.
    “Could I suggest that we step inside your cabin?” said Dillman.
    “Why?” challenged the other with vestigial defiance.
    “It’s either here or in the purser’s quarters. Your choice, Mr. Hirsch.”
    Cursing under his breath, Hirsch unlocked the door of his cabin and led the way in. Dillman shut the door behind him and glanced around appreciatively.
    “Almost identical to my own,” he commented. “Second-class cabins on the Cunard Line are now as good as first-class accommodation on earlier vessels.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “You sound like a seasoned traveler, Mr. Hirsch.”
    “Not really.”
    “How many times have you crossed the Atlantic?”
    “Enough,” said the other. “And if this is the kind of treatment I get from Cunard, I sure won’t be booking my passage on one of its liners again.”
    “Unless we can sort out this matter amicably,” warned Dillman, “you may not be allowed on board a Cunard ship again. Why not cut the shadow boxing? We both know that you took something off that table. I want to see what it is.”
    Max Hirsch studied him with a mixture of exasperation and respect. Dillman was a handsome man with a hint of a dandy about him, but the broad shoulders and lithe movements indicated someone who kept himself in prime physical condition. There was a quiet intelligence about him, and his eyesight was evidently keen. Hirsch’s only hope lay in trying to talk himself out of his predicament. Holding out both arms, he let them flap to the sides of his thighs.
    “They put the right man on the job, Mr. Dillman,” he complimented.
    “Thanks.”
    “Trouble is, you picked the wrong culprit. That’s to say, I’m no light-fingered thief. I did what a lot of guys might’ve done in my position and acted on impulse.”
    “And what did this impulse lead you to take, Mr. Hirsch?”
    “These.”
    Putting a hand in his trouser pocket, he extracted a silver saltcellar and a pepper pot. Dillman took them from him and wrapped them carefully in a handkerchief.
    “You forgot the vinegar, Mr. Hirsch.”
    “If I’d stashed that in my pocket, the stopper would’ve come out and I’d have ended up looking as if I’d pissed in my pants. That’s it, Mr. Dillman. On the level.” He spread his arms. “Frisk me if you don’t believe me.”
    “No need. I’ve got what I want. Apart from an explanation, that is.”
    Max Hirsch let out a world-weary sigh and flopped into a chair. “Where do I start?” he wondered, scratching his