Murder on the Caronia by Conrad Allen Read Free Book Online Page A

him. Theo needs a clear run.”
    “Here he comes again,” noted Dillman.
    They watched as the cyclist sped past. Odell checked the time again then gave a grunt of approval. Keeping up a steady rhythm, Wright pedaled on as if he were in the middle of an open road.
    “There’s obviously money in the sport,” said Dillman.
    “We survive.”
    “If the pair of you can afford to travel first-class, you’re clearly not paupers.”
    Odell was brusque. “We’re not in it for the money, Mr. Dillman.”
    “You lust after glory, do you?”
    “All I want to do is to make Theo the best.”
    “He is the best. In America, at least.”
    “He has to be tested in France,” said Odell. “That’s where it really counts. They understand cycling there. The French close whole towns and villages when a big race is on. Can you imagine that happening anywhere else?”
    “Probably not.”
    Dillman was not enjoying the conversation and Odell was making it clear he would rather be on his own to study the progress of his young charge. The coach was an unprepossessing fellow. He might have driven Theodore Wright to the pinnacle of his sport but, Dillman mused, he could never teach him the most basic social skills.
    “I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Odell,” he said.
    “Thanks.”
    “Good night.”
    But the coach was not even listening. Tapping his foot impatiently on the deck, he was waiting for the cyclist to flash past once more. Dillman took his leave, making his way down through the different levels of the ship. The promenade deck was deserted, as was the shelter deck, but there were a few people walking along the upper deck. Dillman did a circuit there before going down to the main deck. Over a dozen passengers were standing at the rail, delaying the moment when they had to return to their pokey cabins in third class or steerage. Others had elected to spend the whole night in the open air and were huddled together in the stern. Their memories of the crossing would be far less rosy than those of the more privileged passengers on the
Caronia
. Dillman was still gazing at the sleeping figures when someone came up quietly behind him.
    “What are you doing down here, Mr. Dillman?” he whispered.
    Dillman was taken by surprise. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,Sergeant,” he said, turning around to recognize the burly figure.
    “I was enjoying a smoke.” Mulcaster pulled on his cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke. He scrutinized Dillman through narrowed lids. “Are you on patrol?”
    “In a way.”
    “I’d have thought you’d be in bed by now.”
    “I could say the same of you.”
    “Like to stretch my legs before I turn in,” said Mulcaster. “But I can guess why you’re still up,” he added with a hint of mockery. “You were a Pinkerton man, weren’t you? I remember their motto: ‘We Never Sleep.’ ”
    “It served its purpose.”
    “And what was that?”
    “To deter criminals,” said Dillman. “To let them know that someone, somewhere, would be on their trail twenty-four hours a day if they stepped out of line.”
    “I don’t rate the Pinkerton Agency all that highly, I’m afraid.”
    “That’s because you don’t know enough about it, Sergeant.”
    “I know all I want to know,” returned Mulcaster, dropping his cigarette to the floor before grinding it under his sole. “Allan Pinkerton had a great reputation but he couldn’t save President Lincoln from being assassinated.”
    “That’s true,” agreed Dillman. “It was a source of profound regret to him that he wasn’t at the theater that night to protect his friend. But it’s unfair to judge the agency on the strength of one isolated event. You obviously haven’t come across Mr. Pinkerton’s autobiography.”
    “I’m not a reading man, Mr. Dillman.”
    “You should acquire the habit. It might teach you something.”
    “There’s not much I don’t know about this game,” Mulcaster boasted.
    “I think you’d find there is, if you