The Book of Extraordinary Impossible Crimes and Puzzling Deaths Page 2

  “You won!” she gasped. “I thought you said you weren’t much of a swimmer.”

  His grin showed a lot of white teeth, a tribute to American dentistry.

  “I guess it’s all relative, honey. I did give you half a length start.”

  Cynthia giggled. “You rotter, you tricked me!”

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “You’re not about to declare war?”

  “Maybe I want to make a declaration of love.”

  She blushed prettily. “Remember, I told you. I’m entirely respectable. Spoken for.”

  “You took my cabin key yesterday evening.”

  “And I left it in your door, without going inside to await your arrival.”

  “You lost your nerve,” he chided.

  “I’m not what you Yankees call a pushover.”

  “I guess not. But you lost the race, and that changes everything.”

  “How so?”

  He grinned again. “Didn’t I mention that, either? A winner is entitled to claim his spoils.”

  ***

  “We really must stop meeting like this,” Breen said. “People will talk.”

  Sophia Vialli sat in a deck chair, reading a novel from the ship’s library, while a young couple played tennis nearby. Her glare at the interruption dissolved into amusement. “I’m beginning to suspect you are following me, Mr. Breen.”

  “The charm of your company is irresistible, signorina. I can’t deny that I enjoy our little chats.”

  Breen sat down beside her without so much as a by-your-leave. “It’s so refreshing to have a confidante. I don’t know a soul here other than Cynthia and a dreadful old couple from Holland Park, and there’s nothing I like more than a natter.” Sophia frowned in bewilderment. “A spot of gossip. Especially as I’ve made a rather extraordinary discovery about where…well, where Cynthia is sleeping.”

  “You make it sound,” she said, “extremely salacious.”

  “No, no, on the contrary. It’s simply rather…” Breen’s pause was theatrical. “I don’t know. Macabre.”

  Sophia Vialli put her book down next to the Kodak camera at her feet. “I am, as you would say, all ears.”

  Breen leaned toward her. “Cynthia is occupying one of the finest suites on A Deck.”

  She shrugged. “You told me she is an heiress. No doubt she can afford it.”

  “Letty Bohannon died in the very same suite.”

  The Italian woman’s eyes widened. “Letty…?”

  “Surely you recall the name?”

  “I…I’m not sure.” She ran a hand through her black hair. “It sounds familiar, but…”

  “Let me jog your memory.” Breen smiled as a loose return sent a tennis ball bouncing toward him. He caught it in one hand and tossed it to the server. “The Locked Cabin Murder Mystery. Now, does that ring a bell?”

  She stared at him. “The Locked Cabin…yes, I read something in the newspapers, but I’m a little confused. Did I hear correctly? You said murder?”

  Breen nodded. “Yes, the tragedy occurred during the Queen Mary’s third Atlantic crossing. The story created a minor sensation. I was certain that you’d call it to mind.”

  “It’s coming back to me,” she said. “Refresh my memory.”

  “Letty Bohannon was found dead in her cabin by the steward. She was making the crossing to Southampton unaccompanied, just like Cynthia. Give or take a year or two, they were the same age. Like Cynthia, she had everything to live for, but she was shot through the head.”

  “How dreadful. I’d forgotten her name. But in the case I’m thinking of, the girl killed herself, didn’t she? It was a clear case of suicide. Her cabin door was locked.”

  “So the authorities claimed,” Breen said darkly. “Anything else would have been catastrophic. Imagine the lurid publicity. Murder most foul on board the flagship? Unthinkable! No wonder it was hushed up.”

  “What you say makes no sense. If nobody else was involved, how could there be murder? And didn’t she write a suicide note?”

  Breen tutted as the serving tennis player double-faulted for the umpteenth time. Game, set, and match.

  “Fred Perry has nothing to fear from our fellow passengers,” he murmured. “Shall we take a turn around the deck while I tell you about the ghastly business?”

  ***

  “I’ll have you know that I’m highly respectable,” Cynthia whispered.

  After a game of shuffleboard, she and Ellis were strolling arm in arm in the open air.

  “Absolutely,” he replied.

  “I really can’t invite you back to my stateroom. And I’m certainly not going anywhere near yours. What would the stewards think?”

  “Aw, honey, you think they aren’t used to turning a blind eye?”

  “Besides,” she said primly. “There’s Algy to consider.”

  “Algy!” He tightened his grip on her arm. “You have the rest of your life to spend with Algy. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  His wheedling voice made him sound like a small boy. She shook her head and smiled. “Tell you what. After dinner, we’ll take another turn around the deck.”

  “Under the moonlight,” he said enthusiastically. “So romantic.”

  “Yes,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “So romantic.”

  ***

  “What makes you so sure that this woman—Letty—was murdered?” Sophia asked as they ambled along the deck.

  “I fancy myself,” Breen said airily, “an amateur psychologist. The way people’s minds work fascinates me.”

  “Can we ever know what another human being is thinking?” She sounded wistful.

  “I knew the Bohannon family. They made a fortune out of shipping, although old George Bohannon was terrified that his son would spend it all on fast cars and even faster women the moment he inherited the estate. A wild and impetuous young fellow, Henry, a daredevil and a gambler. He was called to the Bar, but couldn’t stick the law. Fancied himself as a thespian, but he wasn’t much of an actor. I’ve even heard whispers that he’s chanced his arm as a gentlemanly cat burglar. A second Raffles, no less.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened. “Extraordinary! He was a criminal?”

  “Nothing was ever proved. Poor Letty was devoted to the fellow. She was pretty and charming, if rather highly strung. Good sportswoman. At the time of her death she was engaged to be married to a young banker, dull but decent, you know the sort. Pots of money. Everything to live for.”

  “So,” Sophia said, “it comes to this. You can’t accept that a well-favored young woman could ever wish to kill herself.”

  “Precisely!” Breen exclaimed.

  Sophia shook her head. “Your loyalty to her memory does you credit, Mr. Breen. But you said yourself that she was highly strung.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Strange things happen on sea journeys.” She gestured toward the ocean. “Some of us love the roar of rushing waves. For others, it becomes oppressive, perhaps menacing. Even for those cocooned in luxury on A Deck, a private suite can come to resemble a well-appointed prison. If she was a poor sailor and seasick…”

  “But she loved sailing! Her death came utterly out of the blue. It made no sense.”

  “The pistol was her own?”

  “Yes,” Breen admitted. “It was a birthday present from her brother.”

  “He has a lot to answer for. Why on earth give her a lethal weapon?”

  “Letty was a first-rate shot. She and her pal Winnie would go to Bisley and…”

  “At all events, who could want to murder her?” Sophia interrupted. “Did she have enemies? Even if she did, surely it’s hardly plausible that they were on board the Queen Mary?”

  “She was rich,” Breen retorted. “And about to become even richer. Wh
ere there is money, there is envy. People will stop at nothing, not even murder…”

  “Possibly so,” Sophia interrupted. “There are enough examples of sordid crime in my own country. But how could someone get into a locked cabin, commit murder, and then escape without leaving a trace? It makes no sense. It is quite impossible.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said sheepishly. “Perhaps I’ve been reading too many detective stories.”

  “Forgive my bluntness, but I’m quite sure the inquest verdict was correct. She must have killed herself. We can only presume that the balance of her mind was temporarily disturbed.”

  “You think so?” Breen sounded weary, old beyond his years.

  “Of course,” Sophia said, “what other explanation can there be?”

  “I’m…I’m afraid for Cynthia.”

  “Superstitious nonsense!”

  “But don’t you see? She occupies the self-same stateroom. It seems like an omen!”

  Sophia halted in her tracks. “Shhh…they are coming toward us.”

  She tugged his sleeve. The couple they had watched on the dance floor were approaching from the other end of the deck. They were smiling fondly at each other, as if neither of them had a care in the world.

  ***

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Cynthia said. “Clearly you’re not a true gentleman.”

  Ellis Hart laughed. They were sitting together on the settee of the sitting room in her suite. On the small table in front of them stood a champagne bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, filled to the brim.

  “Say, tell me this. All that baloney about being worried that the steward would think you were a hussy. When did you ask him for the bubbly?”

  Cynthia giggled. Over dinner, attentive waiters had already plied them with drink, although she hadn’t attempted to keep pace with her companion. She handed Ellis a glass and clinked hers against it.

  “We need a toast,” she said. “Carpe diem!”

  “Carpe diem!” he echoed.

  “Like it?” she asked, indicating their surroundings.

  The Cunard Line had spared no expense in ensuring that passengers with the deepest pockets enjoyed the last word in luxury. The close carpeting was supplemented by woven rugs, while illumination came from lights concealed in troughs of molded glass. The furniture was quilted maple, the paneling light mahogany. The door to the bedroom was wide open, affording a provocative glimpse of pillows and bedspread of ivory satin, their pink and green ribbon appliqué a perfect match for the sitting room curtains.

  He savored his champagne. “Love it. How the other half live, eh?”

  “You’re no pauper, Ellis.” She brushed her fingers along his leg. “Not if you can afford to travel on the Queen Mary.”

  “I can’t complain.”

  “You certainly can’t, young man,” she said coquettishly. “Invited to the stateroom of a pretty fellow passenger. Plied with champagne. I only hope you have a good head for drink. Perhaps you shouldn’t have any more.”

  “Life is short,” he said, draining his glass in a single gulp. Deferential as a chambermaid, she refilled it.

  “Would you excuse me for a few moments?” she asked. “I just need to freshen up.”

  He laughed. “Honey, you’re the freshest thing on this whole damn ship.”

  She stood up and considered him. “I hope this doesn’t seem forward, but I may slip into my pajamas. I like to get to bed early, you know.”

  “Hey, you won’t need to wear pajamas tonight, baby.”

  She wagged a finger in admonition. “Patience, Ellis. You know what we say in London? Everything comes to him who waits.”

  “I don’t care to wait too long,” he mumbled. “I’m a…man of action.”

  She lifted her glass again. “Then let’s drink to action.”

  He watched with bleary admiration as Cynthia shimmied into the bedroom and, with a sly glance over her shoulder, shut the door. Hearing a key turn in the lock, he took another drink of champagne.

  ***

  “How much…longer?” Ellis Hart demanded, putting down his glass. His jacket and tie were on the settee. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair rumpled.

  “I’ve been making myself beautiful for you.” From behind the bedroom door, Cynthia’s voice was muffled but seductive. “I’m coming out now.”

  The key turned again and the door swung open, revealing Cynthia in blue Chinese silk pajamas. The black trim of her jacket was embellished with scrolling embroidery, each of the cuffs had an exotic floral motif. Only two of the four closures were fastened, allowing a generous display of pale pink flesh.

  “Worth the wait, I hope?” she asked.

  For a few seconds Ellis was motionless, as if paralyzed by the sight of her. Then he gave a short whistle.

  “Sure…sure is.”

  He stumbled toward her, and she turned her face up to his. As their lips met, the door of the stateroom was flung open.

  “So this is what you get up to when my back is turned!”

  Sophia Vialli was standing in the doorway, camera in hand. Taking a step into the room, and kicking the door shut behind her, she took a photograph. As the flashbulb popped, Cynthia screamed.

  Ellis pushed her through the open door and onto the ivory bedspread. He slumped down beside her. Cynthia wailed in dismay. Sophia followed them into the bedroom.

  Another flashbulb popped.

  “Harlot!”

  “What…what is happening?” Cynthia sobbed. “Ellis, talk to me!”

  He pushed a hand through his hair. “Honey, you shouldn’t have led me on the way you did. It’s not right…you being all but married, and all.”

  “You wanted me! You said…”

  “Never mind what he said,” Sophia snapped. “The camera never lies. And I have the evidence of my own eyes. You have been committing adultery with my husband.”

  “Husband?” Cynthia turned to the American. “Ellis, is this true?”

  He dropped down on the bed beside her. “Yeah, it’s…”

  “Slut!” Sophia hissed. “Wait till the newspapers hear about this. The supposedly respectable Cynthia Wyvern betraying her fiancé by seducing a naïve young American.”

  “Please!” Cynthia cried. “I’ll do anything! Is it money you’re after?”

  Ellis gave a foggy smile. “Now you’re…talking, honey.”

  “My silence will not come cheaply, you understand,” Sophia said.

  “How…how much?”

  “You are a rich woman.” Sophia named a figure. “Where is your checkbook?”

  “It’s too much! That amount will ruin me.”

  “What is marriage to your beloved Algernon worth? What price your future happiness?” Sophia bared her teeth in a fierce grin. “Regard it as an investment.”

  Cynthia opened the drawer of the dressing room table and lifted out a checkbook and pen. She turned to face Ellis. “You tricked me, didn’t you? It was all a ploy, so that the pair of you could blackmail me.”

  He grinned stupidly. “I guess…”

  Sophia tried to yank him to his feet. “What’s the matter with you, Joel? Don’t tell me you’re drunk! I thought you had a harder head.”

  “It wasn’t…” he began.

  The door of the wardrobe swung open. Standing there, dressed in a cabin steward’s white uniform, was Feargal Breen. In his hand was a small black gun.

  “The man’s right.” The Irish accent had vanished and he sounded as if he’d just stepped off the playing fields of Eton. “It wasn’t ordinary champagne. I slipped in, if you’ll forgive a vulgar phrase, a Mickey Finn.”

  ***

  Cynthia reached under a pillow and took out a snub-nosed revolver. “Don’t move an inch, either of you.”

  Sophia blinked. “What is the meanin
g of this?”

  “You’ve left it too late for a show of dignity,” Breen said. “I gave you your chance as we strolled along the deck. If you’d showed a degree of contrition, things might have been different.”

  On the bed, Ellis groaned. His eyes were shut and he was holding his head.

  “What are you talking about?” Sophia demanded.

  “I told you. This concerns the murder of Letty Bohannon. My sister.” He smiled as the woman absorbed his words. “That’s right, I’m Henry, the scapegrace son with a taste for acting. Rather a ham, I’m afraid, but not to worry. I do hope you appreciated my mincing Irish gossip-monger.”

  “You tricked me!”

  “Sauce for the gander. Your lover set out to seduce Letty so that the pair of you could exploit her. You travel the high seas in search of prey. Rich victims with a great deal to lose. On that occasion, however, you went too far. You threatened Letty with ruin and in a fit of panic, she shot herself. Yes, this stateroom was locked, but you killed her, just as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.”

  “She was neurotic.”

  “She was distraught,” Henry said. “That was clear from the note she left. Thank the Lord, the coroner didn’t make its contents public. Poor Letty had suffered enough humiliation. She didn’t know your real names, naturally. The inquiry agent I hired discovered the truth. You believed you were beyond the reach of the law. There was no independent evidence that either of you had committed a crime. The police weren’t interested in pursuing you. But we were. I loved my sister.”

  “And I am Winnie,” the girl said. “Her dearest friend.”

  “So what do you want?” Sophia was defiant. “We have no money to pay you back. The Bohannon girl’s check was useless, her death made sure of that.”

  “We have plenty of money,” Henry said. “These staterooms don’t come cheap.”

  “What, then?”

  “We want justice.”

  ***

  For a few seconds, Sophia was silent. Her brow furrowed. Henry had spent long enough at racecourses to know she was calculating odds. The woman was another gambler. In a tight corner, she’d risk everything if she thought she could get away with it. She couldn’t hope for help from the American. He’d lost consciousness while sprawled across the bed.