Read Online Murder on the Mauretania by Conrad Allen - Free Book Online

you’re a brave young lady, reading a story like that on a voyage. Some people might say you were tempting fate. However,” he said, backing away slightly, “it’s your choice, so I won’t keep you from it. My apologies for intruding.”
    “Not at all,” she said, responding to his warm smile and courteous manner. “I was only whiling the time away.”
    “Then you need almost any author other than Melville. If all you want is mild diversion, find someone lighter and more inconsequential.
Moby Dick
is the kind of book that grabs you by the throat. It calls for real concentration.”
    “I found that out.”
    “Then why choose it?”
    “I wanted an American writer.”
    “You should have picked Mark Twain or Washington Irving.”
    “I toyed with Henry James at first,” she admitted, putting the book down on the table. “They have several of his books in the library.”
    “Let them stay there,” he counseled. “James is far too dull for you. He’s less of an American than a fake Englishman. Believe me, I’ve met the guy. He’s not the author to give you a true flavor of our country.”
    “Then who would you recommend?”
    “It would be presumptuous of me to say,” he replied seriously. “I only stopped by to say hello. I’m not offering to take charge of your literary education.”
    “But I’d value your advice.” She indicated the chair. “Would you care to join me?”
    There was a momentary hesitation before he spoke. “I’d love to,” he said, lowering himself into the seat beside her and offering his hand. “The name is Delaney, by the way. Orvill Delaney.”
    “How do you do, Mr. Delaney?” She shook his hand. “I’m Genevieve Masefield. And this,” she added, pointing to the book, “is the Great White Whale.”
    “Hardly suitable reading for a charming young lady.”
    “Perhaps that’s why I picked it.”
    Genevieve had no qualms about inviting him to sit down. Orvill Delaney was a pleasant, relaxed, sophisticated man of fifty with long, wavy hair streaked with gray and a luxuriant mustache. Thin, wiry, and of medium height, he was impeccably dressed and exuded a mixture of culture and wealth. There was something completely unthreatening about him, and if nothing else, the presence of an American would at least keep Donald Belfrage away from her. Unlike the potential member of Parliament, her new acquaintance had a cosmopolitan air about him and a tolerant smile. He had the look of someone who had long outgrown his prejudices.
    “Did you really meet Henry James?” she asked.
    “Of course.”
    “Where?”
    “The first time was in London. I heard him give a lecture there. Well, most of it, anyway,” he confessed. “I dozed off toward the end. The next time I came across him was down in Rye. I guess you know where that is.”
    “Sussex.”
    “Beautiful little place. I was strolling along the sidewalk one morning and there he was in front of me, crossing the street. Henry James. In the flesh, so to speak. You don’t expect great writers to do anything as mundane as crossing a street. Not that I rate him as a great writer, mark you, but you take my point.”
    “So who would you advise me to read?”
    “My own favorite is O. Henry. Best short-story writer in creation.”
    “That’s a bold claim, Mr. Delaney.”
    “Read him. Judge for yourself.”
    “I will.” She studied him for a moment. “What were you doing in Rye?”
    “You might well ask,” he said evasively.
    “In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”
    “Let me put it this way. The reason I went to hear Henry James lecture is that he and I are in what you might call associated walks of life.”
    “Are you a publisher or a bookseller?”
    “Both, Miss Masefield,” he explained, noting the absence of a weddingring on her left hand. “Indirectly, that is. I’m in the lumber business. At least I was. I sold to paper mills all over the country. Who knows?” he joked, nodding at the book. “That may