The Lusitania Murders (21 page)

“I know he’ll be available in his dayroom at ten-thirty,” Anderson said, mildly frowning. “But I must warn you, Miss Vance, to Captain Turner, this affair is over.”

“Then I must warn you, Mr. Anderson,” Miss Vance
said crisply, “that your captain is misinformed.”

And she was not bluffing or even boasting—Miss Vance had received significant new information by cable from her home office. The Pinkerton agents in New York had come through for us splendidly.

So it was, at just after ten-thirty, that we had reconvened in the captain’s white-walled, oak-wainscotted dayroom. We sat again at the round maple table, Turner and Anderson, in their blue gold-braided uniform jackets, seated opposite each other, with Miss Vance—typically fetching in pale blue linen with white Bulgarian-embroidered trim and, as was frequently her wont, no hat—seated across from me. I must have been wearing some suit or other.

“I suppose you have that fingerprint information for us,” Turner said gruffly, and incorrectly. He had a pipe in his right hand, and the fragrance of its smoke seemed to me singularly unappealing.

“Actually, no,” Miss Vance said, with the sweetest smile. “That knife—our murder weapon—was stolen from my room.”

Anderson sat sharply up. “What?”

Jaw jutting, eyes hard, Turner demanded, “When was this?”

“That first night—or I should say, Sunday morning, in the wee hours, after we first met here in your quarters, Captain Turner.”

Through his teeth, Turner asked, “And why have you not reported this before?”

“The only person who could have taken it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “was a crew member. For that reason, I felt it only judicious to keep the information to myself, for the time being.”

Anderson seemed less irritated than Turner, but he too was unhappy with her. “Your implication is insulting, Miss Vance—we have said before that we stand behind the integrity of our crew.”

I said, “You’ve also said before that you scraped the bottom of the barrel to find them.”

The staff captain’s eyes flared at me. “I won’t put up with that, Mr. Van Dine! You are here at our discretion and under our sanction, I must remind you.”

Straightening, Turner said, “A passenger might have got hold of a key somehow—either a spare room key, or a passkey. You seem quick to impugn the integrity of our staff.”

Anderson shifted in his chair. “We’ll conduct a search of the ship for that knife, immediately.”

I said, “Why waste the effort? It was surely tossed overboard, long ago.”

Neither captain had any reply to that.

“Absent fingerprints,” she said, “I do have new developments to share. Mr. Van Dine and I have successfully completed our interviews with those passengers named on the stowaway ringleader’s list.”

“We believe that several of them,” I picked up, “may be identified strongly enough with the Allied cause to inspire assassination attempts.”

“In particular,” Miss Vance said, “Madame DePage and Alfred Vanderbilt are involved with aiding the Allied wounded. And Elbert Hubbard’s inflammatory anti-Kaiser position makes him particularly vulnerable.”

“On the other hand,” I continued, “we can see no reason why the German secret service would single out Charles Frohman, George Kessler and Charles Williamson for punishment. Frohman is producing a pro–
German-American play, Kessler is simply a businessman who views the war as an inconvenience and Williamson is an art dealer of less prominence than these other celebrated passengers, included among them chiefly because of his close ties to Vanderbilt.”

Turner was listening, but his eyes had that blankness one sees in a dog monitoring human speech for the word or two he recognizes—“bone,” “outside.”

“So the scrap in the stowaway’s shoe,” Miss Vance said, concluding this phase of our presentation, “would not seem to be a list of potential assassination targets.”

“However,” I said, “we have learned that a majority of these passengers are in possession of disturbingly large amounts of money or negotiable stocks. Elbert Hubbard has five thousand dollars with him, to purchase leather and other materials for his arts-and-crafts colony. Frohman has much more than that, with which he intends to secure theatrical properties. Madame DePage, of course, has one hundred fifty thousand dollars in war relief funds. And Kessler—I’m glad you’re sitting down, gentlemen—carries around two million in stocks and bonds in that briefcase of his.”

Turner and his staff captain stared across the table at each other in wide-eyed disbelief at this unbridled foolishness among such supposedly superior human beings as their first-class passengers.

“As for Vanderbilt and Williamson,” I added, “they do not seem to have undue amounts of cash or valuables with them . . . both men maintain London residences . . . but it would be a reasonable assumption on the part of thieves that such men would be worth robbing.”

“Then the stowaways were a robbery ring,” Anderson
said, eyes narrowed, nodding slowly. “Their purpose was plunder, not sabotage.”

“They may have pursued a dual purpose,” Miss Vance said, reminding them of a theory she had proposed earlier. “Stealing Allied war relief money is a blade that cuts two ways, after all—and if these stowaways had planned to do their robbing late in the voyage, they would probably have fled to Ireland . . .”

Anderson, nodding more quickly now, said, “You mentioned previously the possibility of IRA involvement.”

“Suppose near voyage’s end,” she said, “an explosive device were detonated somewhere off the coast of Ireland. In the confusion and commotion of passengers seeking lifeboats, these robberies could have been accomplished by the stowaways in stewards’ garb, and the thieves could then have been picked up by boat by IRA accomplices.”

“It seems far-fetched to me,” Turner said, shaking his head.

I asked, “More far-fetched than finding three German stowaways with a camera in one of your pantries? More outlandish than their murders?”

“Moot point,” Turner huffed. “Falling-out among thieves, simple as that. Dead men can’t steal or for that matter kill, can they? I’m damned if I know why we’re giving this matter any further attention . . . I have a ship to run!”

Turner began to rise.

Miss Vance glanced at me; I nodded—we’d discussed this, prior. Then she said to them, “I’m afraid I withheld another key piece of evidence . . . or at least potential evidence.”

Turner, now standing, exploded. “Good heavens, woman, what?”

Anderson merely stared at her, aghast.

“The condition of the two dead men locked within their cell indicated they had been poisoned, and that the stabbing was a postmortem ruse designed to suggest that ‘falling-out among thieves’ conclusion you reached, Captain.”

Turner plopped back into his chair as the Pinkerton operative explained the evidence of cyanide poisoning, from the blue-tinted skin tone to the whiff of bitter almonds.

“I would not hold your physician accountable for his poor diagnosis,” she said. “He is young, and not trained in criminal forensics.”

Anderson’s expression was grave. “And you assume the two stowaways were poisoned by a crew member.”

“Yes,” she said curtly. “My chief suspects were Master-at-Arms Williams, Steward Leach. . . who admits to having served them their final supper. . . and, frankly, Staff Captain Anderson, yourself.”

“
I
am a suspect?” Anderson said, his expression mingling alarm and bitter amusement.

“You had easy access to the stowaways in the brig,” I pointed out, “and who better than yourself to sneak them aboard in the first place?”

“Further,” Miss Vance stated in her business-like way, “you have ties to Mr. Leach, having hired him as a family friend, which opens pathways to further conspiracy.”

The usually affable staff captain was trembling with anger, his cheeks flushed. “This is an outrage. . . . I am a loyal ship’s officer, and I served with the Royal Navy! To suggest I am a German collaborator—”

“I suggest no such thing,” Miss Vance said. “You’ve been accused of nothing. We merely point out that certain
circumstances and facts place you on a list of suspects.”

“A damned short list!” he blurted.

“That is accurate,” she said. “But we have narrowed it, considerably. You see, gentlemen, I have received information from the Pinkerton agency, which points the finger away from you, Mr. Anderson . . . your record of service to Cunard and for that matter your country is not only clean, but exemplary . . . and from Master-at-Arms Williams, as well.”

“Williams also has an excellent history of service to your company and to the Royal Navy,” I added.

“Then . . .” The flush had left Anderson’s cheeks. “. . . you obviously suspect Mr. Leach. Would that not implicate me, as well?”

“You would certainly be questioned by the authorities ashore,” Miss Vance admitted. “But Mr. Van Dine and I are of a mind that you were, frankly, manipulated into hiring Mr. Leach, because of those family obligations.”

“Manipulated,” Anderson said, rather distastefully.

“Poor judgment,” I said, “is a far lesser ‘crime’ than treason, don’t you think?”

“You have a peculiar sense of humor, Mr. Van Dine,” Anderson said. “Not at all appropriate.”

“Never mind that,” Turner said brusquely. “Young woman, what do you have on this man Leach?”

Without referring to the lengthy cable she’d received, Miss Vance rather impressively recounted the new information. Neil Leach—whose father indeed was a lawyer, practicing in the West Indies—had majored in modern languages at Cambridge, with an emphasis on German.

“Good Lord,” Anderson said. “Then he could have spoken to the stowaways, and would have understood anything they said!”

“Yet he never volunteered his services,” Miss Vance said, “as a translator, after their capture.”

“Remember,” I said, raising a professorial forefinger, “when we entered the pantry, the ringleader said,
in German,
‘About time.’ ”

“He was expecting someone,” Turner said, making the simple deduction.

“Yes—someone on the crew. . .someone who had given the stowaways stewards’ uniforms.”

Miss Vance continued with her briefing on the background of Neil Leach, who in 1914 had taken up a post as a tutor to the son of a German industrialist. When the war broke out, he was briefly held, then paroled—probably recruited as a spy—and sent to America on a German ship.

“In an interesting turn of events,” she said, “on the ship he became friends with a German steward. Since mid-April, Leach and the steward have lived together in a boardinghouse on West Sixteenth Street that is regarded as a hotbed of German activity—Captain Boy-Ed, the German naval attaché, keeps a room there, as do a number of suspected German espionage agents.”

“Why isn’t something done about it?” Turner asked crossly.

I shrugged. “America is not at war with Germany.”

Miss Vance continued: “The couple who run the boardinghouse, named Weir, are vocal supporters of the German cause. And a young German woman, in the same boardinghouse, frequently spent time with Leach, and told one of our agents that ‘Neil’ had been excited about an appointment he had at the German Consulate on Broadway—she said Leach spoke of ‘financial opportunities.’ ”

“Charles Frohman is an acquaintance of this fellow,
Boy-Ed, as well,” I commented. “We doubt this implicates the producer in any way, although it’s certainly an interesting coincidence.”

Miss Vance looked from one captain to the other. “Boy-Ed may have known Frohman’s intention to travel with cash to invest in theatrical properties. . . . In any event, these circumstances may not be damning, but it’s clear Leach has suspicious affiliations with German sympathizers and even espionage agents.”

Anderson, perhaps relieved that no fingers were pointing at him (at the moment), asked her reasonably, “What should be done, in your opinion?”

“We would like to question Mr. Leach,” Miss Vance said. “But moreover, we feel he should be held in custody.”

“On what charges?” Turner asked. “What real evidence have you?”

“Hold him on suspicion,” she said with a shrug. “Hold him for questioning by the British authorities.”

“For the safety of the ship,” I said, “putting him in the brig, or at least confining him to his quarters, would seem prudent, don’t you think?”

Turner’s gaze settled on his staff captain. “Your opinion, Captain Anderson?”

Anderson was thinking, though there was nothing brooding about it; the facts Miss Vance had presented seemed to have won him over to our side. His words, finally, confirmed as much: “Sir, I’m in accord with our ship’s detective. Young Mr. Leach’s association with the enemy in time of war is quite sufficient reason to take him into custody.”

Turner began to nod slowly, then he said, “That’s good enough for me. . . . And I may owe you people an
apology. You’ve done damned fine work, and you have the ship’s best interests at heart and in mind.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

A knock at the door interrupted this meeting of our newly formed mutual admiration society.

“Would you?” Turner asked Anderson, who nodded and rose to answer it.

A familiar male voice from the doorway said, “Is the captain in, Mr. Anderson? Might I have a word with him?”

The voice was Alfred Vanderbilt’s!

“Certainly, sir,” Anderson said, and ushered the millionaire—sporty in a navy-blue pinstripe with a lighter blue bow tie and a jaunty gray cap—inside the day room.

Vanderbilt greeted all of us, acknowledging first Miss Vance, then the captain, then myself. He seemed surprised and even pleased to see us.

“Now this is a coincidence,” he said. “Captain, I’ve come because of the warning your ship’s detective and Mr. Van Dine gave me yesterday. . . . They instructed me to report anything I might see that struck me as suspicious.”

“That’s a wise policy,” Turner said.

Miss Vance asked, “What have you witnessed?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps nothing—but I had just met up with my friend Mr. Williamson, whose cabin is on the portside. . . where I believe yours is, Miss Vance, and yours Mr. Van Dine . . .”