Constable Foster removed his hat and turned away, only mildly resentful. Sarcastic old bastard. But nobody's fool, either - Welland and Murphy would never have thought to tell him to take off his tile. They didn't call him Griff the Copper for nothing, and Constable Foster infinitely preferred the Superintendent's gentle irony to Sergeant Murphy's irritating habit of making him turn his back to a crowd and describe the appearance and mannerisms of some suspect they'd had under observation - that was a real pig's trick. Foster spotted the mole-hair jacket hovering close to the passenger line, and with his bowler in his hand sauntered off at an angle and lurked nonchalantly.
Superintendent Griffin resumed his progress and paused near an iron shed-pillar to observe the smaller, better-dressed queue which was forming at the first-class gangplank. There were only half the people, but ten times the amount of small luggage that there was at the second-class, with a small army of stewards and cabin boys bustling among the piled bags and cases under the guidance of valets and ladies' maids, each jealously seeing that his or her employer's effects were carefully taken aboard.
'Watch what you're doing there! Those are his lordship's optical instruments!' A sharp-faced gentleman's gentleman in a wing collar and regulation bowler prodded with his umbrella at a cabin boy who was shouldering a small leather case. 'Take particular care of them - and place them in Cabin 28 directly, d'you hear?' He chivvied the boy like an agitated hen, and Superintendent Griffin abruptly stopped his casual survey,, frowned, smiled, and then moved slowly forward towards a stout and familiar back near the foot of the gangplank.
`Good morning, my lord,' he said quietly, and the man turned. He was a large, prosperous gentleman in a fur coat, with a bland fleshy face that might have belonged to a captain of industry or a minor statesman. He started slightly at the sight of Griffin, and then smiled with over-hearty assurance as he returned the greeting.
`Why, good morning, inspector!'
'Superintendent.'
`Indeed? Then I congratulate you.'
`I'll bet you do,' said Griffin amiably. His eyes moved from the man to the bold-eyed brunette beside him; she avoided the policeman's glance and adjusted her sable wrap disdainfully. 'A little business trip to the States - my lord?'
'No - no, just pleasure, superintendent. A short holiday for my niece and myself.'
'I see.' Griffin eyed the brunette sceptically. 'What happened to that other niece of yours - Lady Hilda, wasn't it? Or was she your daughter?' He watched the cabin boy carrying the leather box up the gangway. 'And optical instruments - well. Come in little packs of fifty-two, do they, with kings and queens and jacks on 'em?'
The fleshy man looked uneasy. 'Have a heart,' he muttered, out of the corner of his mouth. 'The ship isn't on your patch - and I'm not breaking any law - '
'You will be, the way you play,' said Griffin, and turned away without another word, to draw the Chief Steward aside at the foot of the gangplank and warn him that his first-class passengers included 'Reader' Monk, alias Monte Carlo Monk, alias Dutch Monty, alias Lord Whatever-it-was, cardsharp and confidence man extraordinary, and scourge of the luxury liners. There was nothing the Superintendent could do about him, officially, but if the Chief Steward could ensure that his lordship's little leather case, which no doubt contained the tools of his trade, to wit, stacked decks, readers, clips, springs, strippers, hold-outs, and the like, somehow failed to turn up in his cabin, he would be saving the other passengers considerable expense and annoyance.
Having done his good deed, Griffin ignored the sullen glare of the frustrated swindler, tipped his hat courteously to the disconcerted niece, and glanced at the other passengers. A middle-aged woman and her maid, the latter carrying a little wicker cage containing a beribboned kitten; two fairly obvious businessmen in fur-collared coats, chuckling over a joke, the flushed red faces creased with mirth; an elderly female in a wheelchair pushed by a liveried coachman, with a maid and companion either side of her; a tall man, dark-featured, with thoughtful eyes and a black moustache lightly flecked with grey.
The Superintendent knew at once that he had seen the man before, but that was all. English, by the look of him, well-dressed with that simplicity which bespoke Savile Row or thereabouts. Not one of the Superintendent's clients, just someone he had seen some time or other, perhaps years ago, possibly embarking or landing. Probably not a businessman, not quite austere enough to be military, didn't have the air of a professional man, either. More like a gentleman of leisure. Age about forty, travelling without a servant, evidently, since he was carrying his own suitcase - might be a rich sportsman; there was a hint of strength, of the out-of-doors, that didn't quite go with the expensive broadcloth and tilted homburg and quiet air of city money.
'... and I shall be able to have Kitty in the cabin with me, shan't I? Her feeding is so important, you know, and she has never been to sea before, have you, Kitty?' The middle-aged woman smiled fondly as she tickled the cat through the bars of its wicker cage.
'Certainly, madam. The quarantine people will wish to examine her in New York, you understand. Cabin 22, steward, port side. A pleasant voyage, madam. Good morning, sir.'
The tall man with the suitcase was at the foot of the gangway, standing patiently while the Chief Steward ran a finger down his list and produced a cabin card.
'Cabin 43, sir. Starboard side. Boy - Cabin 43. A pleasant voyage, sir. Good morning, madam."
The tall passenger, having taken his card and thanked the Chief Steward, turned and looked back at the crowded sheds and quayside. He stood for a long moment, just looking, tapping the card against his thumb, while the cabin boy hovered beside him, waiting to take his suitcase. Griffin transferred his attention to the next passenger, the elderly lady in the wheel-chair with her attendants, and then to Monty the cardsharp and his popsy, who had entered into talk with the two businessmen; they were raising their hats gallantly to the smiling lady,
who was adjusting her veil and looking fetching as Monty performed the introductions. '. . . my niece, Lady Cynthia ... how do you do? ... such a jolly voyage!' You'll learn, you poor bastards, thought Griffin, and turned away, sauntering towards the other gangplanks.
Constable Foster was in the office doorway. Clipper McCarthy had attempted no dip - indeed, the only money he appeared to have gone off with had been a shilling tip bestowed on him by a stout woman whose bags he had carried.
'Sure she's still got her purse?' grunted Griffin sceptically. 'He must have spotted you, boy.'
'No, he didn't,' protested Foster. `Never even looked at me.'
'Then he certainly spotted you,' said the Superintendent heavily. He shook his head at the crestfallen constable. 'No wonder - you look more like a flatfoot than I do, even.' He patted Foster on the shoulder. `Come on, boyo - I'll buy you a cup of tea.' There were only a few passengers still waiting at the foot of the gangways now, as the two policemen went in towards the coffee stall.
Later, they came out on the quayside again to watch the huge Aquitania as she churned out into midstream, the sirens shrilling, the tugs fussing about her, the water thrashing into yellow oily surge under her stern.
`Fine ship, so she is,' commented Griffin, contemplating the great liner with satisfaction. 'A fine ship.' As they were turning to go, he noticed that on the edge of the quay, where the first-class gangway was now lying neglected under its tarpaulins, there was a small pile of two or three trunks and cases which had not gone aboard; a porter was loading them on to his handcart, trundling it up towards the sheds. As he passed the two policemen he paused to steady one of the trunks which was in danger of slipping; Superintendent Griffin automatically glanced at the labels - they said 'Aquitania. New York,' but someone had scored out the words with a heavy blue pencil and written new directions. Griffin noticed the owner's name, but after five years 'M. J. Franklin' touched no chord in his memory.
He watched incuriously as the porter wheeled the cart away, through the echoing shed, towards Riverside Station and the
London train.
Table of Contents
hesitated. to
George MacDonald Fraser, Mr. American
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