Murder on the Caronia by Conrad Allen Read Free Book Online

walked along the deck, Dillman saw only one couple locked in an embrace, braving the cold air, and they hurried into the shadows when they became aware of his approach. He lengthened his stride so that he could pass them swiftly and restore their privacy. At such a time in their relationship, there was no place for a third person.
    Since coming aboard, he had liked everything he had seen of the
Caronia
. Apart from an incident three years earlier when she had run aground off Sandy Hook, the ship had an excellent record. Indeed, the
Caronia
and the
Carmania
had been among the most popular vessels in the Cunard fleet from the moment they entered service in 1905. New standards may have been setby the
Lusitania
and the
Mauretania
since then, but “the pretty sisters” were still regarded as favorites by many passengers. Dillman could see why. The
Caronia
was a fine ship, well designed and well run. Captain and crew took a justifiable pride in her. Dillman could understand why the purser was so keen to root out any drugs that might have been smuggled aboard. They defiled the carefully protected image of the
Caronia
.
    After completing a circuit, Dillman was about to go down the steps to the promenade deck when he heard a swishing sound behind him. He turned to see a sight that was startling in its novelty. Crouched low over his machine, a young man, wearing a sweater and knee-length shorts, was cycling toward him at speed. So intent was he on maintaining his pace that he did not even spare Dillman a glance. Realizing it must be Theodore Wright in training, Dillman looked after him with curiosity. He admired the cyclist’s commitment but he feared the couple enjoying a romantic interlude would be chased off the deck by the whirring wheels. He was still standing there when a short, thickset figure ambled up to him, holding a stopwatch in his hand. The accent seemed to come from somewhere in the Midwest.
    “You’d best keep out of the way, mister,” he advised.
    “I can see that.”
    “We didn’t think anyone else would be out here.”
    “No,” said Dillman. “I’m sure you didn’t. And when the other passengers know that a phantom cyclist rules the boat deck at midnight, they won’t come near the place.” He offered his hand. “George Dillman,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, that was Theo Wright who shot past me just now.”
    “It was,” confirmed the other, shaking his hand. “I’m his coach.”
    “Then you must be Wes Odell.”
    The newcomer was astonished. “I didn’t take you for a cycling fan, Mr. Dillman.”
    “I can’t claim to be that,” Dillman admitted, “but I’m an avid reader of the sports pages in the newspapers. Theo Wright hastaken professional cycling to a new level and most articles give you much of the credit.”
    “So they should.”
    “What’s the secret of good coaching?”
    “Being ruthless.”
    Odell said it with such emphasis that Dillman knew he was not joking. He peered at the coach in the half-light. Odell was a solid character in his forties with the weathered look of a man who had spent most of his time outdoors. He had a broken nose, bushy eyebrows that all but concealed the deeply set eyes, and a bald head that was slightly misshapen. Even though he wore only a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, Odell was untroubled by the cold wind. He looked down at his stopwatch.
    “Wouldn’t there have been more room on the main deck?” asked Dillman.
    “We tried that. Too many people about.”
    “This late?”
    “Some of them looked as if they were going to sleep there.”
    “Ah, yes,” sighed Dillman. “Steerage accommodations can be pretty spartan. There are usually some people who prefer to sleep under the stars rather than put up with a rock-hard bunk in a tiny cabin that sleeps six.”
    “They can sleep where they like,” said Odell, “but I don’t want them getting in Theo’s way. When he cycled past, half of them jumped up to complain. That only distracted