Vanderbilt said, “Well, these potential robbers will find precious little in these quarters to make their efforts worthwhile.”
Miss Vance’s brow was knit as she asked, “You’re not travelling with valuables of any kind?”
“Not in particular, no.”
“What about money? Understand, sir, I ask this in strictest confidence as a representative of the line.”
The millionaire shrugged. “A few hundred pounds. No need for more-I maintain a residence in Park Lane, an apartment, and a furnished houseboat at Henley. So I have bank accounts to draw upon, for time I spend there.”
Williamson offered, “I’m not travelling with valuables, either.”
I asked him, “How about paintings or art objects for clients?”
“No-and I, too, maintain a London residence. I’m travelling with less than a hundred pounds.”
Miss Vance was clearly trying to reckon with this shift from pattern, but I felt I knew the answer. “Mr. Vanderbilt, the thieves would
The art dealer’s air of superiority was nowhere to be seen now. “Should we be concerned?”
We asked them if they had observed anything suspicious-either a steward who didn’t seem to be where he belonged, or overly friendly strangers among the passengers, seeking to create an “in” with them.
Neither man could recall anything of that nature.
“I appreciate your interest,” Vanderbilt said, “and we will stay alert, and report to you anything suspicious we might observe. . but as to this German threat-why worry about submarines? The
Shortly after that, we took our leave, and Vanderbilt walked us to the door, a gracious and friendly host whose melancholia had diminished as we had been drawn into our conversation and these other matters of import.
Before we left, Williamson said to me, “We must have a drink, and talk art at more length.”
In the corridor, as we walked back to our side of the ship, I asked Miss Vance what she had made of all that. She said she was still troubled by the fact that Vanderbilt and Williamson did not fit the motif of the others on our list.
“Unless they’re lying,” she said, “and are carrying cash and, perhaps, valuables from the world of art.”
“I don’t know, Vance,” I said, as we strolled into the Promenade Deck’s Grand Entrance area. “Vanderbilt seems straightforward enough.”
“What about Williamson?”
“He’s a patronizing bastard, but otherwise. .”
“There’s something you don’t know about him.” She glanced about, and several other passengers were waiting in the wicker-dominated entry area, for the elevators. “Let’s go to my room, Van. .”
That was an invitation I hadn’t yet turned down, on this voyage; but as we sat on the bed, making love was not on the beautiful detective’s mind.
“I trust you are aware of the Ruiz incident,” she said, “which Williamson referred to-saying it was off limits for questions?”
“Of course. Vanderbilt’s mistress who committed suicide in London.”
“That’s open for debate. The Pinkertons were investigating that matter, for one of the late Mrs. Ruiz’s relatives. . but the case was dropped, when client funds ran out.”
“It was not a suicide?”
“That may never be known. What we do know is that Charles Williamson was also a friend of Mrs. Ruiz-had apparently been something of a go-between in the years of the affair. It was Williamson who closed up her house on Grosvenor Square, after her death; it was he who took charge of her belongings and dismissed the servants. It was he who paid fifteen thousand dollars to a pair of reporters to spike their copy about the night of her death. . the night Williamson discovered the body of Mary Ruiz.”
THIRTEEN
Mid-morning Tuesday, Philomina Vance and I requested a meeting with Captain Turner and Staff Captain Anderson. This elicited little enthusiasm from Anderson-apparently anticipating even less enthusiasm for the idea from Turner-but Miss Vance was insistent.
“We have important new information to report,” she told Anderson, when after breakfast we had caught up with him on the starboard side of the Promendade Deck, where he’d just concluded another of his ineffectual crew-members-only lifeboat drills.
The morning was warm and bright, the sea smooth and free of whitecaps. The throb of the engine, the swish of water, the ship-sea smells, were lulling; but we would not be lulled.
“I know he’ll be available in his dayroom at ten-thirty,” Anderson said, mildly frowning. “But I must warn you, Miss Vance, to Captain Turner, this affair is over.”
“Then I must warn you, Mr. Anderson,” Miss Vance said crisply, “that your captain is misinformed.”
And she was not bluffing or even boasting-Miss Vance had received significant new information by cable from her home office. The Pinkerton agents in New York had come through for us splendidly.
So it was, at just after ten-thirty, that we had reconvened in the captain’s white-walled, oak-wainscotted dayroom. We sat again at the round maple table, Turner and Anderson, in their blue gold-braided uniform jackets, seated opposite each other, with Miss Vance-typically fetching in pale blue linen with white Bulgarian-embroidered trim and, as was frequently her wont, no hat-seated across from me. I must have been wearing some suit or other.
“I suppose you have that fingerprint information for us,” Turner said gruffly, and incorrectly. He had a pipe in his right hand, and the fragrance of its smoke seemed to me singularly unappealing.
“Actually, no,” Miss Vance said, with the sweetest smile. “That knife-our murder weapon-was stolen from my room.”
Anderson sat sharply up. “What?”
Jaw jutting, eyes hard, Turner demanded, “When was this?”
“That first night-or I should say, Sunday morning, in the wee hours, after we first met here in your quarters, Captain Turner.”
Through his teeth, Turner asked, “And why have you not reported this before?”
“The only person who could have taken it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “was a crew member. For that reason, I felt it only judicious to keep the information to myself, for the time being.”
Anderson seemed less irritated than Turner, but he too was unhappy with her. “Your implication is insulting, Miss Vance-we have said before that we stand behind the integrity of our crew.”
I said, “You’ve also said before that you scraped the bottom of the barrel to find them.”
The staff captain’s eyes flared at me. “I won’t put up with that, Mr. Van Dine! You are here at our discretion and under our sanction, I must remind you.”
Straightening, Turner said, “A passenger might have got hold of a key somehow-either a spare room key, or a passkey. You seem quick to impugn the integrity of our staff.”
Anderson shifted in his chair. “We’ll conduct a search of the ship for that knife, immediately.”
I said, “Why waste the effort? It was surely tossed overboard, long ago.”
Neither captain had any reply to that.
“Absent fingerprints,” she said, “I do have new developments to share. Mr. Van Dine and I have successfully completed our interviews with those passengers named on the stowaway ringleader’s list.”
“We believe that several of them,” I picked up, “may be identified strongly enough with the Allied cause to inspire assassination attempts.”
“In particular,” Miss Vance said, “Madame DePage and Alfred Vanderbilt are involved with aiding the Allied
