The principal thing I did not know at the time was the truth. So bear with me, my irritated friend: in due course you shall know the truth yourself. Whether you believe it or not is a totally different matter.
Furthermore, I’m now going to make you angry again. More apparent red herrings are going to be drawn across the trail: herrings which, I once again repeat, seemed as red to me then as they will to you now.
On the 31st of July the celebrated American multimillionaire, Cosmo A. Miller, steamed into Southampton Water in his equally celebrated yacht, the Hermione. He had with him on board the type of party that a multimillionaire might have been expected to entertain. To take the ladies first, there was his wife, for whom he had recently bought the notorious Shan diamonds. The diamonds of death, they had been christened: strange, wasn’t it, how they lived up to their evil reputation! Then there was Angela Greymount, a well-known film star: Mrs. Percy Franklin, a New York society woman and immensely wealthy; and finally Mrs. James Delmer, the wife of a Chicago millionaire. The feminine side of the party was to be completed by the Duchess of Sussex—also an American, and Lady Agatha Dawkins, an extremely amusing woman whom I knew slightly. These last two were to join the yacht at Southampton, and it was to pick them up that the Hermione called there.
The men consisted of the owner, three American business friends, the Duke of Sussex and Tony Beddington, who was, incidentally, a pal of Drummond’s. He and the Duke also joined the yacht in England.
Cowes week was in progress at the time, of course—so the eyes of social England and the pens of those who chronicle the doings of the great were already occupied in that quarter. But the arrival of the Hermione was something which dwarfed everything else. Never had so much wealth been gathered together in a private yacht before. Mrs. Tattle, in that bright and breezy column which she contributed daily to the Morning Express, stated that the jewellery alone was worth over two million pounds sterling. And it is, I gather, a fact that a dear friend of Mrs. Cosmo Miller’s once stated that she’d lunched with Minnie’s diamonds and she believed Minnie was inside.
The yacht itself was a miniature floating palace. It had a swimming pool and a gymnasium: it had listening-in sets and an electric piano encrusted in precious stones—or almost. There was gold plate for use at dinner, and the plebeian silver for lunch. In fact it was the supreme essence of blatant vulgarity.
In addition to the guests there were the Wallaby Coon Quartet, the Captain, the wireless operator, four maids, the chef and the writer of The Three Hundred Best Cocktails as barman. The crew numbered sixteen.
So that when the Hermione steamed slowly down Southampton Water there were in all forty souls on board. The sea was like a millpond; the date was August 2nd. On August 4th a marconigram was received in London by the firm of Bremmer and Bremmer. It was from Mr. Miller, and is of interest merely because it is the last recorded message received from the Hermione. From that moment she completely disappeared with every soul on board.
At first no one worried. When the Hermione failed to arrive at the Azores, which was originally intended, it was assumed that Mr. Miller and his guests had changed their route. But when, on August 10th, Bremmer and Bremmer having obtained the information required by Mr. Miller proceeded to wireless it to the Hermione, no response whatever was received from her. The sea was still beautifully calm: no report of any storms had been received from the Atlantic. And somewhere in the Atlantic the Hermione must be, since it was definitely certain she had not passed Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean.
By August 12th the whole Press—English and American—was seething with it.
“Mysterious Disappearance of Multimillionaire’s Yacht.”
“Cosmo A. Miller beats it with Wallaby Quartet.”
“S.Y. Hermione refuses wireless calls,” etc., etc.
Still no one took it seriously. The yacht was fitted with a Marconi installation: the sea was still like glass. The general opinion was that there had been a breakdown in the engines, and that for some obscure reason the wireless was out of action.
But by August 20th, when the silence was still unbroken, the tone of the Press began to change. Once again I will refer to my file of cuttings, and quote from the Morning Herald of that date.
“The mysterious silence of the S.Y. Hermione has now become inexplicable. The last communication from her was received more than a fortnight ago. Since then nothing further has been heard, though Mr. Cosmo Miller, her owner, has been repeatedly called up on important business matters. It is impossible to avoid a feeling of grave anxiety that all is not well.”
But what could have happened? The wireless operator was known to be a first-class man, and it seemed impossible that such damage could have happened to his instruments, in a perfectly calm sea, that he would be unable to effect a temporary cure.
Then some bright specimen had an idea which held the field for quite a while. It was just an advertisement—an elaborate publicity stunt. They were receiving all these messages, and taking no notice of them merely in order to keep the eyes of the world focused on them. Such a thing, it was argued, was quite in keeping with at any rate Mrs. Miller’s outlook on life. And it wasn’t until August 25th came and went that one of the officials at Southampton Docks shattered that theory. The Hermione’s bunkers only held sufficient coal for a fortnight, and that only when steaming at her economic speed. And it
