The False Inspector Dew

5

After dinner Alma went to her stateroom to do some sewing. She was glad to have something positive to do. Johnny had provided her with needle and thread and even a thimble. It was amazing how many materials and "props" came to hand when the passengers really applied themselves to creating fancy dress. In one stroll along the boat deck that afternoon she had seen pieces of rope being teased into wigs and beards, hats fashioned from table napkins and togas from Company bedspreads. With less ingenuity Alma had decided to go as a nurse. She hoped that this would enable her to participate without drawing too much attention to herself.

There was a knock. She got up, prepared to send Johnny away. She thought she had made it clear that she would give him his fitting in the morning. It would be most improper to receive a visit from a gentleman in the evening, whatever the pretext.

She opened the door a fraction. It was Walter. He said nothing. He expected to be admitted. She hesitated, trying to suppress her unease from the previous night.

Walter looked more tired than threatening. She stepped back and admitted him. They did not embrace.

He went towards the armchair.

'Not there,' she told him. There was a needle and thread sticking into one of the arms.

'What are you making?' he asked as he went to the upright chair.

'Fancy dress. I'm trying to behave like any other passenger.'

'Good.'

'It's easier for me. Nobody is watching me. I keep wondering how you are managing. It must be a terrible strain trying to convince them that you are a detective.'

'I am a little weary,' said Walter, 'but they accept me as Dew.'

'How do you know which questions to ask?'

'Oddly enough, I haven't asked many. People just talk to me. I try to make reasonably interested responses. I take down their names in my notebook to the best of my ability. They all treat me with awe so far. I wonder how long it can last.'

'We're supposed to be reaching New York on Thursday morning,' said Alma. 'Three more nights.'

'I don't mind the nights. I have the impression that people will start expecting me to reach some conclusions soon. I promised to speak to the captain later this evening.'

'Is there anything you can tell him?'

'Practically nothing. A faint suspicion of something — not murder, unfortunately.'

'What's that, Walter?'

'I talked to the people who were playing whist with the victim on the evening she was murdered. There was a rather smooth-tongued fellow, English, with light-coloured hair plastered back from his forehead. And a young American couple, probably very rich. While I was listening to them I found my thoughts harking back to my days in the music halls. I told you the kind of thing I used to do, didn't I?'

'Mind-reading. Walter, how brilliant! You read their minds!'

He shook his head. 'Nothing so impressive as that. What I mean is that I was reminded of the way we obtained our volunteers from the audience.'

'Yes, you told me. You called them plants.'

'Yes. It's no more than a sort of intuition, but I can't help feeling that Gordon — the unctuous Englishman — planted himself on the young Americans.'

'To cheat them at cards?'

'Ultimately. You see, Westerfield — the American — mislaid his wallet and Gordon picked it up and handed it to the purser. Naturally, Westerfield went to thank him. There was a bond of confidence between them. While they were having a drink Katherine Masters came by, apparently seeking volunteers for the concert. Instead, a game of cards was got up. On the face of it, a perfectly spontaneous arrangement.'

'But you suspect that she was in collusion with Gordon?'

'It crossed my mind. It would be a neat confidence trick. Gordon said not a word to me about the wallet being found.'

'Is that significant?'

'It is if the wallet was lifted from Westerfield's pocket and put somewhere for Gordon to pick up.'

'Who would have done that?'

'A girl called Poppy who came aboard with Westerfield.'

'It sounds a very elaborate fraud, Walter. Did they win a lot of money?'

'They lost.'

Alma shook her head sympathetically. 'It rather knocks your theory on the head, doesn't it?'

'No. As you say, it's elaborate. If there's anything in it at all, they wouldn't be aiming at one evening's cards. They would go through the week raising the stakes, and make their killing on the last night.'

'So they may have deliberately lost.'

'Yes. In fact, they appear to have played quite well for a few hands and then gone all to pieces. She was critical of his play and he reduced her to tears at the end of the evening.'

'Do you think it was stage-managed?'

'It certainly seems to have convinced the Americans.'

'But what was the point?'

'To reassure them that Gordon and Miss Masters didn't know each other, couldn't play very well together and could easily be beaten. The American girl was left comforting Miss Masters and promising to play bridge the next night.'

'It does begin to sound plausible,' commented Alma. 'You really are a detective.'

Walter's face lit up. 'Do you think so?'

'But it doesn't explain why Miss Masters was murdered.'

'No.'

'And now that she is dead it will be very difficult to prove.'

Walter nodded glumly.

'Unless…' said Alma.

'What?'

'You could find out for certain whether she was on the concert committee.'