Free Murder on the Mauretania by Conrad Allen

Mr. Rosenwald,” recalled Buxton, putting his pipe backinto position. “A charming man. The complete opposite to Mrs. Dalkeith. He more or less apologized for having to report the theft. Some of your countrymen can be a little demanding at times, but Stanley Rosenwald was politeness itself. You’ll get every cooperation from him.”
    “Good. He’ll be my first port of call.”
    “Keep me informed of developments.”
    “Of course, Mr. Buxton.”
    Dillman let himself out of the cabin and walked along the passageway. His mind was racing. Four people had been robbed under his nose and that was a blow to his pride. He was determined to root out any criminal activity early on. Instincts honed by his years with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, he knew the importance of solving a crime as soon as possible after it was committed, while the trail was still warm and the details still fresh in the minds of the victims. Since three of the four thefts had taken place overnight, his thoughts immediately turned to the two Welshmen he had found loitering in the second-class section. When he had shown them the way back to their cabin, Dillman had found out as much as he could about them, suspecting that they had ventured into that part of the vessel only out of a mixture of curiosity and bravado.
    That opinion might have to be revised. Both men were extremely short of money and facing an uncertain future in America. Though the nervous Glyn Bowen did not look like a thief, there might well be enough desperation and social resentment in Mansell Price to provoke him into random theft. He was a creature of impulse. Dillman made a mental note to speak to them again in due course. He still doubted that they were the culprits; there was a distinct amateurism about them, and they had made no effort to get away when he cornered them. But they had to be investigated. Even if they were innocent, they might, in the course of their nocturnal exploration of the second-class facilities, have spotted someone on the prowl.
    That brought the name of Max Hirsch into play, and it leapfrogged immediately over those of the miners to the top of the list of suspects. Hirsch’s predilection for silver had already been demonstrated, and he had been seen flitting up a companionway the previous night. Dillman wondered if Stanley Rosenwald’s silver snuffbox was hidden away inHirsch’s cabin, along with the rest of his spoils. One thing was clear: Two immigrants from the Welsh valleys would hardly have any use for a snuffbox; it was hardly standard issue in the coal-mining industry. Bowen and Price would probably never have seen such an item before, let alone possessed one. Dillman came slowly around to the view that Rosenwald’s property had followed the same route as the silver saltcellar and the pepper pot. It was time to reacquaint himself with Hirsch.
    When he returned to the dining saloon, Dillman had a discreet word with the chief steward about the seating arrangements on the previous evening. Swift inquiries were made among the staff. The waiter who had served Stanley Rosenwald and his wife remembered the man very well because the American had left such a generous tip. He indicated the table at which the couple had been sitting. Dillman was satisfied. The table was adjacent to the one from which Max Hirsch had removed the cruet set. If, as was likely, Rosenwald had taken a pinch of snuff at some stage, the thief could not fail to have noticed the silver box.
    Dillman checked the position of the three other victims whose names had been given him by the purser, but none had been seated anywhere near Hirsch. That did not matter. The proximity of the silver snuffbox was enough to lend extra weight to Dillman’s suspicions.
    Hirsch had to be questioned again, but a second interrogation, Dillman realized, might have to be delayed. When the detective caught sight of him, he saw that the man was at one of the tables in an alcove, holding forth to his companions