The Lusitania Murders (16 page)

“What are these precautions to which madame referred?” I asked her. “What secrets are you keeping from me, Vance?”

She arched an eyebrow, and her half-smile dug a dimple in her left cheek. “After last night, Van, I would say precious few.”

I did not blush. “If you don’t trust me, well then . . . you don’t trust me.”

Miss Vance touched my hand. “I would be violating Pinkerton procedures.”

“It’s really none of my business. None of my concern.”

“Don’t pout! It’s not manly. . . .” She leaned conspiratorially close, her tone shifting from quiet to near whisper. “Madame DePage has a steamer trunk in her suite. Inside is a locked strongbox in which one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in cash, resides.”

I frowned. “How is this a precaution?”

She shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “The bills are counterfeit.”

I sat back, eyes wide. “What? But surely that’s illegal. . . .”

“Not in this instance. In cooperation with the U.S. Secret Service, Pinkerton placed this fake money, as bait, in madame’s possession. Should it be stolen, and the culprits not apprehended aboard ship, those counterfeit bills will lead the authorities to them. Lists of those bills will be distributed internationally.”

“That is clever,” I admitted. “And the real money is in safekeeping?”

“It’s somewhere in my cabin,” she said. “Isn’t that enough information for you?”

It was. But I did have to wonder if it had been in her mattress—if so, I’d never been that close to so much money in my life.

Then it was time for the first luncheon sitting, though I stopped by the switchboard first—seemed we had appointments this afternoon with George Kessler, Charles Frohman and Elbert Hubbard . . . and the latter one would no doubt try my digestion.

TEN
Money Bags

Charles Frohman’s suite was on the starboard side of the ship. With the exception of last evening’s meal, Frohman had apparently not ventured out of his quarters since boarding; and he was not your typically blustery theatrical character, despite a propensity for surrounding himself with specimens of that obnoxious breed.

I was aware of him by reputation, vaguely at least—Frohman was one of the best-known and most beloved men in New York—but it was Miss Vance, that delightful actress turned detective, who prepared me for the interview.

“It’s rather remarkable,” she told me over luncheon, “that he agreed to see us at all.”

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Well, the word is he’s surprisingly shy, considering his profession—they call him ‘the Silent Man.’ He never solicits interviews and his celebrity is something he himself has never encouraged.”

Charles Frohman, she explained with respect and even awe, was widely credited with raising the standards of the American theater, almost single-handedly dragging it out of the muck of disrepute, where fifty years ago John Wilkes Booth and his pistol had sent it crashing.

In an effort to see to it that the authors and actors he favored received proper exposure, Frohman bought theater after theater; he often had as many as eight new plays in rehearsal at once—and upward of five hundred companies touring. He became much more than just a business manager to these clients—he was friend, confident, father confessor and artistic adviser. This galaxy included Maude Adams, Ellen Terry, Otis Skinner, Ethel Barrymore, William Gillette and many more.

Frohman insisted on quality—mounting well-written plays, as intelligent as they were entertaining (Miss Vance said)—and employing actors whose talent was matched by private lives clean of scandal. Miss Vance felt that the American theater was now on an equal footing with its European counterpart, and acting would soon achieve a level of respectability equal to any of the professions.

I took in this information gratefully, along with the rest of my meal, and did not point out to her how ridiculous these last few assertions struck me. My silence may have been hypocritical, but even a man of letters knows when to shut up, around a woman of pulchritude.

Standing outside the door of Frohman’s suite, Miss Vance and I exchanged smiles—the rather raucous strains of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” were bleeding through. I knocked several times—firmly, to be heard over Irving Berlin.

The music ceased, and in short order the door opened, and we were met by Frohman’s valet, a slender, cheerful,
rather effeminate young man in a dark gray suit. The valet showed us into the study of the suite, which was in the Colonial style.
*
A desk against the wall was piled with play manuscripts; an occasional table next to it bore an elaborate ship-shaped basket filled with flowers and fruit.

The frog prince of a producer was perched on a damask print settee by an open porthole—though he’d confined himself to his quarters, he could at least smell the sea air—and his squat frame was wrapped up in a burgundy silk smoking jacket, a script folded open and in his lap. His left slippered foot was on a padded stool, and his cane leaned against the sofa near his right hand. On a round table next to him was an array of dishes filled with various bite-size chocolate candies and salted nuts; and on a matching round table, on the opposite side of the settee, a gramophone rested with a stack of cylindrical discs—the source of that ragtime tune.

“I must apologize for not rising,” Frohman said. His voice was a nasal, soft-spoken baritone, pleasant enough, but unsuited for the stage. “My rheumatism can be a demanding travelling companion, when it’s so inclined—and it is, this trip, I’m afraid.”

I introduced Miss Vance, and myself, and shook hands with him—his hand was small, almost dainty, surprising for such a roly-poly fellow—and we took chairs on either side of him, pulled in to face him.

Homely as he was—his head was as squashed as a Hallowe’en pumpkin—his genial, self-deprecating nature soon lent him an attractiveness of character that dispelled his physical shortcomings.

Almost immediately he put Miss Vance at her ease, winning her over entirely.

“I know you!” he said, eyes sparking. “Philomina Vance—I saw you in
East Lynne
, at the Chicago Theater!”

She touched her bosom. “I had no idea you were there, sir!”

“We won’t have any of this ‘sir’ nonsense—my friends call me C.F. And I must insist we be friends . . . William! Ginger ales all around.”

William had been sitting on the other side of the room, reading a magazine; he rose and fetched.

Frohman’s cheeks plumped further as he beamed at Miss Vance. “You were quite wonderful—I know it was negligent of me, not to come backstage and meet you.”

“How I wish you had . . .”

“We’d never been introduced, and I felt it would be a breech of etiquette.”

“Sir . . . C.F.—in our business, such propriety is put aside! If you don’t mind my saying, you’re royalty, in the theater . . . and a king never has to stand on ceremony.”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “My dear, ceremony is all a king has to stand on—not that I’m a king. A little success doesn’t warrant abandoning good manners, or common courtesy. . . . It was my intention to have one of my agents call you, but shortly after that performance, you left the theatrical profession, I understand.”

“I did,” she said, “though if I’d had a call from Charles Frohman, I might
not
have!”

His interest seemed genuine. “And how is that you’ve become a journalist?”

“If I might interrupt,” I said, “Miss Vance is not the journalist—I am.”

He nodded. “And I understand, Mr. Van Dine, you’re with Samuel McClure—which is why I consented to your interview. I admire the muckraking Mr. McClure very much.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that. . . . Miss Vance is a friend, helping me out, you might say.”

“Such charming company is always a help,” he said to me. Then to Miss Vance, he said, “Should you ever decide to return to the theater, my dear, let me know. You cut a commanding figure, on the Chicago stage, and New York needs to know of you.”

Miss Vance was blushing from all this, and her delight was clear. “You’re very kind, C.F. Very kind.”

William brought everyone glasses of iced ginger ale.

“Help yourselves to the goodies,” Frohman said, even as he was doing so with chocolate kisses from one of the bowls. “I’m afraid I have a fierce sweet tooth . . . and I’ve passed along my confection infection to William. . . . Isn’t that right, William?”

“Yes, it is,” William said with smile, regarding his employer with obvious fondness, before returning to his chair elsewhere in the room.

“We had a regular dessert orgy last night,” Frohman chuckled.

I was beginning to wonder how chocolate had figured into that; but I was not here to pry into such things—I had several other agendas. I began with my duties for the
News
. . . .

“I understand you visit London twice yearly,” I said,
“to scout new plays and discover acting talent.”

One of Frohman’s specialties was introducing American actors to English audiences—and English actors to American audiences.

“I’m afraid I’ve fallen back to once a year,” he said. “These trips have become increasingly difficult for me.”

The articular rheumatism had developed after a fall on the porch of his home at White Plains three years before; ever since, he’d been a virtual prisoner in a suite at the Knickerbocker Hotel in Manhattan. Travel might have seemed an escape, if it hadn’t aggravated his condition so severely.

“That’s why I booked passage on this ship,” he said. “The
Lucy
’s the fastest ship on the Atlantic—and I can have the trip over and done with, as quickly as possible.”

Miss Vance asked, “Have you ever considered sending one of your staff to go to London, to see the new productions?”

“I’ve been tempted—but, in truth, I don’t trust anyone else’s judgment . . . Whether a play works, or an actor has talent, that’s something I feel here . . .” And he tapped his ample belly with a forefinger.

I asked, “Weren’t you wary of this talk of U-boats?”

“Frankly, I was. . . . My friends at the German Club . . . Captain Boy-Ed and Colonel Van Papen . . . advised me, in rather cryptic fashion, not to sail on this ship.”

This was an interesting wrinkle.

He was going on about the others who had tried to convince him not to travel on the
Lusitania
, which included many of his famous clients. Isadora Duncan and her dance troupe, and actress Ellen Terry, had cancelled their reservations on this ship to cross on the slower
New York
.

“The U-boat rumors are all about the
Lucy,
” Frohman said. “And taking an American liner is probably safer than sailing on a British ship . . . but the faster the better, for me.”

“Worth the risk?”

“Worth the risk. How can anyone take this German bluster so seriously? But so many people are.”

“You’re of German descent, obviously . . .”

He nodded, and frowned. “A German-American, yes. That doesn’t make me pro-German. But it does make me pro-American.”

“America isn’t in this war.”

“Yet. When we are, German-Americans like me will stand behind the Stars and Stripes. As a Jew, I know all too well of prejudice. . . . Now I see my fellow German-Americans already being viewed through a prism of bias.”

I made sure to write that down—that was a nice turn of phrase: “prism of bias.”

“For that reason, I’m producing a new play by the novelist Justus Miles Foreman. . . . I’ll introduce you, he’s crossing with us . . . that deals with this subject. Opens in Boston in two weeks.
The Hyphen,
it’s called . . . and it refers to the hyphen in the term German-American.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That would seem to be yet another risk you’re taking.”

He waved that off with a pudgy hand, right before it dipped back into the bowl of chocolates. “The arts . . . even the popular arts . . . must take a stand. I’m hoping to find a producer in Britain for the play, as well.”

That seemed optimistic.

“Of course,” he continued, “this trend to musicals and slangy ‘mystery’ plays threaten thoughtful drama, and the drawing-room comedy . . . though I’m not really worried
about these so-called ‘movies’—we won’t live to see them become more popular than the stage.”

I had enough for the
News
—it was time to reveal the role Miss Vance was truly playing. With a nod, I cued her.

“C.F.,” she said, “you may have noticed that I’m travelling with Madame DePage.”

He had.

She briefly explained her function as ship’s detective, and his eyes widened—he was fascinated by this, and they spoke for perhaps five minutes about her departure from the stage to the Pinkerton Agency.

“We are concerned about a theft ring aboard,” she told him.

He shifted, and pain tightened his face momentarily. “It’s rumored Madame DePage is travelling with the funds she raised.”

“I have heard that rumor,” Miss Vance said with a smile.

“Which is why you are her devoted companion. I also believe George Kessler . . . an old acquaintance, if something of a blowhard . . . may be foolishly travelling with . . . well, that’s not for me to say.”

But it was for me to note, both mentally and literally.

Miss Vance sat forward. “Are you travelling with any valuables or a large amount of money? Sir, you can trust us . . . Staff Captain Anderson has already vouched—”

“It’s ‘C.F.,’ ” he said, “and as a matter of fact, yes, I am travelling with a considerable amount of cash. Normally, I would have funds in various English banks, but we had . . . there’s no use trying to disguise the fact . . . some financial reverses. Last year was a bad one for my theater syndicate.”

“So,” I said, picking up on this, “you’re taking along funds with which to buy new properties.”

“Yes, if I’m lucky enough to find any. . . . There’s fifty thousand dollars, in that bulging briefcase by my desk.”

Miss Vance and I exchanged sharp expressions. I asked, “Has anyone approached you, aboard ship, trying to establish a new friendship?”