Chapter 15
“Nothing!” said Alec, gazing round at the shabby belongings heaped on the berths in the unoccupied cabin.
“No cheques, no marked cards, no spare aces, no love letters from Mrs. Gotobed, no papers at all. Which tells us precisely nothing. Welford had plenty of time to abstract any evidence before I told the steward to move Pertwee’s baggage. ”
“Or Pertwee had that sort of stuff in his pockets when he went overboard,” Daisy proposed.
“So there was absolutely no need for you to drag me out of bed for this, as I’d have realized if I’d been more than half-awake.”
“Sorry, darling!” She grimaced at the battered cabin trunk which stood in the corner, reeking of mothballs. “Must we repack everything?”
That would be quite a job, though the trunk had been only half-full.
Daisy guessed Pertwee had bought it secondhand for the voyage, mostly for show.
His best clothes, those he had worn on board, they had found in a large Gladstone bag, unmothballed.
His one decent spare shirt, carefully folded, was accompanied by several detachable collars.
Curtis Pertwee seemed to be altogether mostly for show.
“Whatever he won from Riddman, in general he can’t have done very well for himself gambling,” Daisy said.
“On shore, individuals find it difficult to compete against the clubs. That’s why the big liners are popular. He may have had other tricks in the confidence line, none strikingly successful.”
“Do you think these are all his worldly possessions?”
“Very likely. One of the stewards can repack. It’s breakfast time and I’m ravenous.”
They went out to join the trickle of passengers heading for the Grand Salon. The ship had resumed a steady pitch and roll, interrupted occasionally by a violent hiccough which made everyone grab for the rails.
Though the sea was still restless, up on the promenade deck sunlight shone in through the long windows, obscured now and then by scudding clouds. From one of these fell a dark column of rain. Daisy stopped to watch its approach. A flurry of drops beat wildly against the glass, then passed on.
Daisy shivered, glanced round to make sure no one was close enough to hear, and said, “You’ll have to search Welford’s bags next.”
“I’ll have to have some evidence that he’s involved before I even apply for a search warrant—or in this case ask the Captain’s permission, I suppose. Until I hear from Tom Tring, the best I can do is try to eliminate Fordyce and Welbeck.”
“Can’t you arrange for one of Riddman’s stewards to take a peek at Welford? If he doesn’t come to breakfast, the steward could pop into his cabin, saying he has to make a safety check or something. I bet Welford wouldn’t even notice it was the wrong man. Most people only notice the uniform.”
“Good idea! My brain cells must be working slowly for lack of nourishment. I’ll see what I can do.”
When they reached the Grand Salon, Alec consulted the
Chief Steward, who went to consult the Purser, and returned with his consent to Daisy’s plan.
“I’ll see to it at once, sir,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “Enjoy your breakfast, madam.”
Remembering all yesterday’s stairs, Daisy ate heartily. Alec consumed several buttered rolls, though he still could not face eggs, far less bacon, ham, or kidneys; and instead of his usual coffee, he opted for tea, which he drank by the gallon.
“No Arbuckle, no kippers, thank heaven,” he muttered to Daisy.
Wanda, too, was still missing. Overhearing Gotobed consulting Miss Oliphant, Daisy gathered that he thought his wife’s indisposition might be as much nervous as physical. She still refused to see him, but Baines had reported that she was agitated and weepy.
“I’m afraid she feels out of her depth,” he said. “I ought not to have …”
Daisy missed a bit as Phillip asked jocularly how the sleuthing was getting along. Alec told him about sending wireless messages to Scotland Yard, neatly diverting him from the progress of the investigation to the wonders of modern technological inventions.
The next thing Daisy heard of the other conversation was Miss Oliphant saying, “If you wish.”
“Ee, lass, that’s grand of you.”
“But even if she will see me, which I must consider unlikely, I cannot help her unless she is willing, which is still less likely.”
“It niver hurts to try,” said Gotobed philosophically.
Looking up, Miss Oliphant caught Daisy’s eye and gave her a slight, wry smile. “I am happy to see Mr. Fletcher has recovered,” she said. “Mr. Arbuckle still suffers, I fear.”
Gloria heard her and turned to say, “Poppa’s not real sick,
Miss Oliphant. He was okay last evening, remember? He just couldn’t face a whole roomful of people eating, but he’ll be up later.”
“That is excellent news, my dear.”
A bespectacled young man appeared just then at Alec’s elbow. He wore ship’s uniform, not a common seaman’s but with less gold braid than the officers and by no means as spruce. His round, ingenuous face beamed as he reported, “A wireless for you, sir.”
Alec took the paper he held out. “Thanks, Kitchener. If there’s a response, I’ll come up to you.”
The wireless operator saluted and started to turn away.
“I say, old chap,” said Phillip, “don’t dash off. I’d like to take a dekko at your apparatus some time.”
“Sorry, sir, passengers aren’t allowed in the wireless room.”
“Poppa’ll fix it,” Gloria said confidently.
“My father-in-law arranged for me to see the engines.”
“Right-oh, sir, I’ll be happy to oblige, but I’ll need Captain Dane’s say-so.”
Daisy said smugly, “Captain Dane advised me to ask you to show me the wireless telegraph, Mr. Kitchener.”
“Dash it, Daisy!” Phillip exclaimed. “The Captain’s known as a regular Tartar. How the deuce did you manage it?”
“Sheer charm, old thing.”
Gloria, Gotobed, and Miss Oliphant laughed.
Phillip shook his head in admiration of her gall, if not her charm.
Alec, folding his message after scanning it, was heard to mutter something about misleadingly guileless eyes.
Kitchener expressed his enthusiastic willingness to demonstrate his precious apparatus for her pleasure at any hour she cared to name.
“Later this afternoon? And not just for pleasure,” she informed
him. “I’m writing an article about the ship.” At least, she was supposed to be, if she could ever find time to sit down and get on with it.
After breakfast, Daisy used work as an excuse when Gloria invited her to the Arbuckle suite to consult about costumes for the Fancy Dress competition that evening.
“You choose something for me,” she said. “As long as it isn’t positively indecent, I’ll wear it, and write about it, too.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” Gloria promised.
Daisy caught up with Alec, who had stopped to speak to the Chief Steward. “Welford’s still in his cabin, claiming sickness,” he told her, “but the steward managed a good look at his face. He’s the third poker player all right.”
“I was sure he must be. I’m glad he’s still alive. What did the telegram say, darling?”
Wordless, he held it out to her.
Superintendent Crane’s wireless message conveyed the agreement of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and the Chairman of the Wellington Line to put Alec in charge of the investigation.
Detective Sergeant Tring had been seconded to follow up his queries and would report to him directly, through the Wellington cipher clerk.
The telegram ended with words which must have puzzled that clerk and Kitchener: “She’s done it again!”
“Beastly man!” Daisy said indignantly. “It wasn’t even my choice to go to America! He should blame Mr. Arbuckle. Are you going to see Riddman, darling? I noticed he wasn’t in the dining room, but I don’t think he ever does appear for breakfast.”
“Not an early riser. With this authority from London, though, added to the Captain’s orders, I shan’t hesitate to interrupt his beauty sleep.”
“Do be careful, darling. If he killed Pertwee … Still, I suppose he’s not likely to attack you in his own cabin. But
gosh! He might attack Welford in his cabin if he’s guessed he was in league with Pertwee.”
“Yes, I thought of that last night and arranged for a discreet watch to be kept on Welford’s cabin. My brain didn’t entirely cease to function.”
“Of course not, darling,” Daisy said soothingly, and they parted.
Daisy went first to the sick-bay to enquire after Denton.
For the first time, Dr. Amboyne was hopeful.
The farmer had briefly opened his eyes and seemed to recognize his wife.
His temperature was down a degree. He was breathing a little easier, though by no means had he breath to spare for answering questions.
“I can’t allow Mr. Fletcher to see him, but I do believe, barring a relapse, he’ll pull through. A tough chap. I’d not have given a farthing for his chances.”
Delighted, Daisy fetched her papers from the cabin and went up to the library, where she sat staring at her notes and wondering how Alec was getting on with Chester Riddman.
“Who’s there?”
“Your steward, sir. Gentleman to see you.”
“Can’t see anyone. I’m not well.” Riddman echoed Welford’s words of the day before, but his voice was truculent instead of shaky.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Riddman,” said Alec, “but I am under the Captain’s orders. I’m afraid I must insist on speaking to you.”
The steward let him in. The smell of stale whisky and cigar smoke made Alec’s gorge rise. He controlled the reaction with an effort.
The cabin was not only far more spacious than Welford’s, with room for a table and several easy-chairs, but much better lit. Though the curtains were closed, the brightness outside seeped around and through, showing a heap of clothes on the
floor and their owner, raised on one elbow, glaring bleary-eyed from the bed.
Alec flung open the curtains and turned. Riddman had closed his eyes to bloodshot slits. He was a revolting sight, his chin dark with stubble, his crimson-striped silk pyjamas creased, the rumpled bedclothes suggesting an uneasy sleep.