The Lusitania Murders (22 page)

“That’s right,” I said. I had left my cabin (and telephone) number for him yesterday; and of course he knew Miss Vance was staying with Madame DePage in the ship’s only other Regal Suite.

Vanderbilt was frowning. “That steward . . . I believe his name is Leach . . . was coming out of your cabin, Mr. Van Dine. He looked rather . . . alarmed, when I noticed him. He hurried off, and I knocked on your door . . . but there was no answer.”

“Because I was here,” I said, with a nod.

“I know that, now—but what was that steward doing in the unattended cabin of a passenger? Stewards don’t make beds or clean rooms, do they?”

“That’s certainly not Mr. Leach’s job,” Anderson said.

On the
Lusitania
, as on most ships, stewards tended to matters of food service and other passenger needs.

“Well,” Vanderbilt said, “both Mr. Williamson and I found it damned questionable.”

Miss Vance said, “Yesterday we observed Mr. Leach deliver a Marconigram to Mr. Vanderbilt’s suite—Mr. Anderson, has he been assigned to the wireless shack?”

“Stewards or bellboys deliver those messages,” Anderson said, “depending on their availability.”

Vanderbilt seemed embarrassed. “I hope I’m not making a mountain from a molehill.”

“No, sir,” Anderson said. “This is useful information. Thank you!”

Vanderbilt smiled, and took his leave.

“I would suggest,” Miss Vance said, “prior to questioning Mr. Leach, a thorough search of Mr. Van Dine’s cabin be made. . . . You have no objection, Mr. Van Dine?”

“None, Miss Vance,” I said. “In fact, I quite insist. . . .”

Captain Turner returned to the bridge, and left us in Staff Captain Anderson’s hands. We took the elevator down to the Promenade Deck, and Anderson himself assumed charge of the inspection of my cabin, which was
too small for us to join in. Miss Vance and I waited in the hallway, leaning against the mahogany railing, exchanging (to be frank) smug expressions. It felt quite good to have been so right.

Within minutes, our vindication cranked up a further notch.

“Ye gods,” Anderson said. He was on his knees, looking under the bed, as if a cuckolder might have been hiding there from a vengeful husband. He withdrew an object, holding it up for us to observe.

Though I had never seen one before, I felt quite convinced I knew what the object was.

But Miss Vance breathlessly confirmed my opinion: “A pipe bomb!”

Exiting my cabin gingerly, Anderson held the thing out at arm’s length—a half-foot of lead pipe, plugged with reddish brown wax at either end.

“I really should examine it for fingerprints,” Miss Vance suggested, though her tone was tentative.

“I’m afraid we will have to forgo such detective work,” Anderson said, making a preemptive decision, and he moved quickly aft, heading toward the Grand Entrance area, and the nearest access to the sheltered deck and the open air.

Miss Vance unhesitatingly followed behind him, though he said several times, “Keep back, both of you! Stay away!” Against my better judgment, I ignored his advice, and followed Miss Vance and her example.

When we reached the deck—passengers were lined up along the rail, enjoying the sunshine and the view of the quiet sea, others in deck chairs, reading or napping—Anderson yelled, “Make way! Make way!”

And as the burly staff captain ran up to the rail, a space
was cleared for him by wide-eyed passengers, who looked with wonder as Anderson drew his arm back like a baseball pitcher, and hurled the lead pipe toward—and into—the sea. He had a good arm, the staff captain, and the object flew a good three hundred feet before the greedy water swallowed it with a gulp.

Miss Vance, her expression perplexed, approached Anderson, who was catching his breath. “That was evidence, you know,” she said.

“It was also . . .” And he glanced around at the curious faces of passengers, to whom he smiled, nodded, saying, “Nothing of importance! As you were . . . back to your, uh, enjoyment of this fine day!”

The passengers received this awkward statement with the skepticism it deserved, and milled and murmured amongst themselves; but no mutiny emerged—they simply, grudgingly, returned to their relaxation.

And as Anderson stalked back in the direction from which he’d come, we fell alongside him, on his either arm, and he said tightly to Miss Vance, “That was also, quite likely, a bomb.”

Neither of us argued with him; what else could it have been? A joke in—to quote Vanderbilt, the other day—“questionable taste?”

“What now?” I asked.

“I’m going to collect Mr. Williams,” he said, referring the master-at-arms, “and request that he get his revolver.”

Miss Vance, keeping pace with the staff captain’s stride quite nicely—we seemed to be headed toward the elevators—asked, “May I assume you’re heeding our advice, and taking Mr. Leach into custody?”

“You may. But I would prefer you leave this matter to me.”

“Mr. Anderson,” she said, “don’t talk rubbish—we’re accompanying you. I’m the ship’s detective, and Mr. Van Dine is my assistant.”

So I was Watson after all!

Within minutes we were on D deck, so far forward we were in the very nose of the ship, where—past the mess-hall-like Third Class Dining Room—a number of the stewards kept their quarters. Leach and another fellow shared a tiny cabin on the starboard side. Many of the stewards roomed together in dormitory-style areas another deck or two down, known as the “gloria.”

But Leach, friend of Anderson’s that he was, had been assigned one of these coveted cubicles. He had not been at his work station—he should have been busy with food service matters, involving the children’s dining room—and Anderson was checking the man’s quarters, accordingly.

Master-at-Arms Williams had the revolver in hand, to the right of the door, while Miss Vance and I were lined along the wall, down a bit, to the left. Anderson knocked.

“Mr. Leach!” he called.

Nothing.

“Mr. Leach!” Anderson called again.

Still nothing.

So the staff captain, backed up by the revolver-ready master-at-arms, used his passkey, and swung open the door.

They went in and we waited.

We heard a muttered, “Jesus Christ,” apparently from Anderson.

“Miss Vance!” Anderson called. “Come in here, please.”

She squeezed in; though not officially invited, I followed.

Leach was on the lower bunk, as if taking a snooze; but this was no nap: His posture was not one of repose, rather an ungainly sprawl that looked not a bit restful. His eyes were open, seeing nothing; his mouth was open, saying nothing.

And his skin bore a noticeable tinge of blue.

FOURTEEN
Party of Two

A cup of tea, two thirds of which had been consumed, the remaining third of which displayed the telltale aroma of bitter almonds, was found on a small wooden table near the bunks in Steward Neil Leach’s cabin.

Anderson declared the death an obvious suicide, and I will spare the reader the detailed redundancy of our next meeting with Staff Captain Anderson and Captain Turner, in the latter’s dayroom, in which the matter was declared once and for all finally closed.

“With the discovery of the pipe bomb in your quarters,” Anderson declared, “the purpose of the stowaways, and their crew member confederate, is established clearly as sabotage . . . not theft, however much money some of our first-class passengers may have been foolish enough to bring along with them.”

Miss Vance seemed to have her doubts, but she did not express them to the two captains; from the tightness around her eyes, I could sense she had determined the
uselessness of any effort to continue. She did request—a request that was granted—that she be allowed to take the late Leach’s fingerprints, and compare them to any prints found on the cup of cyanide-laced tea. This procedure, however, revealed only the dead man’s hands.

The following morning, Wednesday, we sat in the Verandah Cafe, enjoying the sparkle of the sea, the lullingly monotonous drone of rushing water, and glasses of iced tea (with lemon, sugar, but no cyanide). We had both received formal invitations to two parties Thursday evening: Theatrical producer Charles Frohman was throwing one in his suite, and wine magnate George Kessler would be taking over the Verandah Cafe itself for his do.

Traditionally, such end-of-the-voyage parties would have been held closer to . . . the end of the voyage; but Staff Captain Anderson—to whom such social concerns had been relegated—had organized the ship’s final concert for Thursday night. The
Lucy
would be arriving in Liverpool early enough on Saturday that reserving Friday evening for packing and other disembarkation preparations seemed prudent.

We were just discussing the parties, when Charles Williamson—out enjoying the fine day, spiffy in a gray suit, and as hatless as Miss Vance—stopped by to inquire about the same subject.

“Will you be attending the Frohman affair?” he asked cheerfully, after we had invited him to pull up a chair and join us.

“Yes,” I said, “and probably the Kessler one, as well.”

The breeze ruffled his dark hair. “He’s a beastly character, this Kessler . . . but he’s invited me, so I suppose I shall do the polite thing and attend.”

Miss Vance asked, “How is your friend Mr. Vanderbilt
today? Is he recovering from his personal blow?”

Williamson frowned, shaking his head. “He’s quite melancholy, frankly. But I did manage to get him to take his meals at the dining room yesterday, and he’s agreed to attend the Frohman party.”

“It will be good for him,” I said.

“He’s quite a fan of Mr. Frohman and his theatrical ventures. The night before we embarked, I accompanied Alfred and his wife to a Frohman production.”

“
A Celebrated Case,
perhaps?” Miss Vance asked.

The production at the Empire Theater was a particularly popular one.

“Yes—excellent show.” The handsome, slender art dealer glanced at the sea, the blue of his eyes a darker shade than the waters. “Hard to believe this trip is almost over.”

“Such voyages seem forever,” I said, “and in an instant they’re gone.”

Williamson grinned wolfishly. “Now you’re sounding like that fellow Hubbard.”

“Please! No insults.”

Again he shook his head. “And we haven’t had a chance to really talk art yet—we have a debate ahead of us, on Synchromism, I feel.”

I returned his smile, saying, “Perhaps we do.”

“Maybe at the Frohman party,” he said, rising, nodding to us. “Or the Kessler. . . . Miss Vance, good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Williamson.”

He disappeared off down the deck.

“He’s in a pleasant mood today,” she said.

I ventured a smirk. “Maybe that’s because we didn’t bring up the Ruiz ‘suicide.’ That fellow can smile all he likes—he’s a scoundrel.”

Her own smile was amused, but the twinkle in her eyes seemed different, this time. “Do you think so?”

“Certainly. He either arranged a murder for Vanderbilt, or took it upon himself to kill the discarded mistress, and he’s wormed his way into his very rich friend’s life and pocketbook, ever since.”

Miss Vance was beaming at me. “Why, Mr. Van Dine—I believe you’re exactly right. . . . We don’t really think this investigation is over, do we?”

“No. Leach had an accomplice in first class, who spiked the poor bastard’s tea with cyanide, so the dead steward could take the full blame.”

She sipped her harmless tea. “Well, Leach was in it to his navel, no question—this was the work of a party of two. Leach got the stowaways aboard, and the plan was to disguise them as stewards . . . probably in plain sight.”

“Giving them simple duties, you mean?”

Nodding, she said, “Possibly hiding the Huns when they weren’t gathering espionage materials, seeking to show the ship has munitions and other contraband aboard.”

“So they were, in your view, saboteurs.”

“Yes—but they were discovered too soon. . . before they could talk at length with Leach, and meet their confederate in first class, for full instructions.” Her smile outsparkled the sea. “You caught them, Van, ants in their pantry—speaking German with a camera in their hot little hands.”

“And Mr. Leach panicked, with the stowaways taken into custody. . . . Two of the Germans seemed anxious to talk, to make a deal, which would have meant the end for Mr. Leach.”

“So,” she said, picking up my thread, “he fed them a
cyanide-spiced dinner. . . but only two of them. Their ringleader was loyal to the cause, and went along with Leach’s improvised plan, to stab the corpses, and (he hoped) cover up their murder by cyanide.”

Now I picked up her thread. “Leach then accompanies Klaus to first class, where they meet with their confederate. . . . But why was Klaus stabbed? He had complied with Leach’s murder of the other two, after all.”

Her eyes stared unblinkingly into her thoughts, which she collected for several long moments. Then she said, “I believe their ally in first class saw no use for Klaus—the plan was now defunct, after all. Our first-class conspirator would recoil at the suggestion that Klaus be hidden in
his
room! The German was of no further use, and eventual questioning of Klaus in Britain by the secret service might well expose the conspirator’s aiding and abetting of sabotage.”

“A capital crime,” I said, with an arched eyebrow and a nod. “So . . . after Leach escorts Klaus to first class, a discussion ensues in the hallway . . . an argument?”

Miss Vance shrugged. “Possibly Leach and his accomplice offered Klaus the opportunity to take a lifeboat into the sea. But Klaus may have objected—without a U-boat waiting, that was near certain death. Or possibly Klaus was a good German, and wished to finish his mission of sabotage, before departing, however much danger he put them all in.”

“Then we were wrong that this was a matter of robbery.”

She shook her head forcefully. “
No
—we were right that this is about
both
sabotage and robbery. Leach’s accomplice in first class—the brighter of the two by far, possibly a criminal mastermind—was in this only for the money.”