Free Murder on the Mauretania by Conrad Allen Page A

with such authority that they all gaped at him in admiration. One of the people at the table was exhibiting more than admiration. Seated beside Hirsch, touching his arm affectionately as he made them all burst into laughter, was the woman whom Dillman had seen him paying his attentions to on the previous evening. Short, stout, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, she was holding middle age at bay with mixed success, but friendship with Max Hirsch had apparently taken years off her manner. Teeth bared in an adoring smile, she was gazing at him with an almost girlish intensity.
    It was not the ideal moment for Dillman to speak to his prime suspect. In any case, he did not get the opportunity. Another priority suddenly beckoned as Alexandra Jarvis came trotting across the room to beam up at him.
    “There you are, Mr. Dillman,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
    “Hello, Ally,” he said fondly.
    “Come and join us. We’ve been waiting for you.”
    Before he could stop her, the girl grabbed him by the hand to lead him off.
    Because her maiden voyage was in November, when a rough crossing was feared, the
Mauretania
was not full to capacity. Nevertheless, she was carrying a record number of passengers for that time of year, and there was certainly no visible sign of a shortage of numbers in first class. Almost every table was taken in the dining saloon for Sunday luncheon. It was one of the most spectacular rooms in the vessel. Set on two levels on the upper and shelter decks, the saloon was designed in the style of Francois I, each panel of light oak with a different carving, with the richer and more elaborate work in the lower half of the panels. The splendid glass dome, a thing of wonder in itself, gave the upper half of the saloon an additional sense of light and space. Between the two rooms was an open space, defined by the carved balustrade that encircled the upper area with decorative solidity.
    Genevieve Masefield was glad there was no room for them in the upper section, where tables could accommodate from two to six guests. Instead of being an exclusive unit, she and her friends had to share with four complete strangers a table for ten in the lower section. What pleased her even more was that she collected a courteous nod of acknowledgment from Orvill Delaney as she took her seat. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Ruth Constantine.
    “Someone you know, Genevieve?” she asked.
    “Yes,” said the other. “Mr. Delaney.”
    “An American, by any chance?”
    “From Wisconsin. He gave me some advice about what to read.”
    “Is he an author or something?”
    “No, Ruth. I think he’s what you would describe as a man of means.”
    “He looks prosperous enough,” said Donald Belfrage with condescension. “I’ll grant him that. But where does his wealth come from, that’s what I want to know.”
    “The slave trade probably,” suggested Harvey Denning mischievously.
    “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
    “He’s not like us, darling,” said Theodora Belfrage. “We have Old Money.”
    “What does it matter where it comes from,” said Ruth crisply, “as long as you have it? Besides, I don’t think that you can occupy the moral high ground with an entirely clear conscience, Donald. I seem to recall that one of your illustrious ancestors owned a fleet of ships that was engaged in the slave trade.”
    “That was almost a century ago!” protested Belfrage.
    “Quite,” she said. “Old Money.”
    “The slave trade has long been abolished, Ruth.”
    “Except inside marriage.”
    “That’s an appalling thing to say,” squeaked Theodora.
    “Ruth was only joking,” soothed her husband.
    “If only I were!” sighed Ruth.
    “I think that Mr. Delaney looks more like a captain of industry,” decided Susan Faulconbridge, stealing a glance at him over her shoulder. “Something deliciously vulgar. An oil magnate perhaps.”
    “I’d say he owns a steelworks,” said Theodora. “Or something equally