Murder on the Salsette Read Online Free PDF Page A

Genevieve by the shoulders, she gazed at her with a mixture of admiration and yearning.
    â€œYou’re the person I’ve always wanted to be,” she confessed.
    When the ship set sail, George Dillman was part of the crowd on the promenade deck, enjoying the occasion but taking a close look at the other passengers while he was doing so. Dudley Nevin was there, talking to an elderly woman with a parasol, and so was a Norwegian couple with whom he had exchanged a few words in the customs shed. Other faces imprinted themselves on his memory. Dillman wondered where the trouble would arise. Even when there were little over two hundred passengers aboard, the law of averages would come into play. Someone would probably be out to make money by stealing it, cheating at cards or extracting it from their victims by means of a confidence trick. Dillman had to remain alert.
    As the cheers of the crowd began to die away, the short, red-faced, round-shouldered man beside him turned to look up at Dillman. His eyes twitched as he spoke.
    â€œThat was quite a send-off, wasn’t it?” he commented.
    â€œYes,” said Dillman, realizing that he was talking to a fellow American. “Though I’m not entirely sure if they were sorry to see us go or glad to get rid of us.” He offered his hand. “George Dillman.”
    â€œBoston, Massachusetts,” guessed the other, shaking his hand warmly. “Judging by your accent, that is. My name is Wilbur Rollins. New York City and proud of it.”
    â€œYou’ve every right to be. It’s a fine place.”
    â€œYou’re a long way from Boston, my friend.”
    â€œI always wanted to see the world before I settled down.”
    â€œI’m trying to do it the other way around,” admitted Rollins. “I made all the big decisions first—a wife, a family, a career—then had the urge to travel when I turned fifty.”
    â€œOn your own?”
    The other man sighed. “My wife died two years ago, I’m afraid, and the children have families of their own now. Time to spread my wings.”
    â€œI hope it’s been a memorable experience.”
    â€œQuite magical, Mr. Dillman. And all grist to my mill.”
    â€œYour mill?”
    â€œI’m a writer,” explained Rollins. “One day, everything I’ve seen and done will end up between the pages of a book. I’ve made copious notes at every stage of my journey.”
    Rollins was an engaging companion, intelligent, well-informed, and full of amusing anecdotes. Once Dillman got used to the nervous twitch around the man’s eyes, he was drawn to him. In turn, the New Yorker obviously felt as if he had made a real friend. While many of the passengers dispersed to their cabins, the two men remained talking on deck. They were over a mile out of the harbor when something caught their attention. Rollins was astonished.
    â€œLook at that!” he exclaimed. “Do you see what I see?”
    â€œVery well,” said Dillman.
    â€œWhy on earth are they doing that
there
?”
    Dillman was as baffled as he was. What they were staring at was a large cargo ship that was anchored well away from the harbor while the coal in its holds was being discharged into lighters. In addition to the crew, hundreds of people were visible on the deck, coolies, women, and children. Coal was being unloaded by the most primitive and laborious method. Using shovels shaped like Dutch hoes, the coolies were filling small flat baskets then handing them along a human chain to be emptied down chutes into the lighters.
    â€œHow much coal would they have aboard?” wondered Rollins.
    â€œFive thousand tons at least, I’d say.”
    â€œIt will take them an eternity to unload all that.”
    â€œYes,” said Dillman. “They’re not even using the steam winches and derricks. Everything’s being done manually by a shore gang, just as in the old