The Titanic Murders (27 page)

To the former he whispered, “You are in no danger of discovery if you do as I suggested previously, and on leaving this ship, promptly disappear.”

Hoffman gratefully clutched Futrelle’s arm and whispered, “God bless you, sir.”

“Good luck to you—and your boys.”

To Davies, Futrelle merely said, “I’ve passed your information along.”

The strapping lad seemed concerned. “I seen her sittin’ up front. She’s still with them kids, sir.”

“Only until crossing’s end. All is well.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “See you in the promised land, Fred.”

Davies grinned his crooked yellow grin, which suddenly seemed almost beautiful to Futrelle. “See you in the promised land, sir.”

The tranquillity, the reflection, of Sunday-morning service was already dissolving in the clatter of dishes and silverware and the scraping of chairs and tables, as stewards rushed to set the room up for luncheon at one. The noon siren prompted Futrelle to temporarily abandon May—who was on her way back to their suite—so that he could hie to the Smoking Room, to see how he made out in today’s pool.

The figures for yesterday’s run—though Futrelle came up a loser—were impressive: 546 miles.

A familiar voice behind him said, “Twenty-two and a half knots—impressive for a vessel this size.”

Futrelle smiled at his friend Archie Butt, one of many in the crowd of men checking out the bulletin board. “Are you a winner, Archie?”

“Hell no. But I hear the engines are turning three revolutions faster today… you may wish to figure that into your bet for tomorrow’s pool.”

For all his joviality, this military man—who, with his jutting, dimpled jaw and erect carriage might have walked off a recruiting poster—had the saddest eyes Futrelle had ever seen.

“Archie—a private word?”

“Certainly.”

And, taking the major to one side, Futrelle told him that Crafton was dead, and that his blackmail documents were to be destroyed. He also told his friend that he could give him no details, and he must not repeat this to anyone, except Frank Millet.

Major Butt said nothing, at first. Then a smile appeared under the trim mustache and he swallowed, rather thickly, and said, “Jack, you’ve given this old soldier a new lease on life.”

“I’m sure May would like an invitation to the White House.”

Archie laughed, and the laughter carried to his eyes, where a veil had been lifted. “I’ll pull some strings.”

Luncheon was the usual feast, a buffet beyond imagination, and Futrelle took the opportunity to whisper into regular tablemate Isidor Straus’s ear the same information he’d shared with Archie Butt. Straus merely smiled and nodded.

Early afternoon, a cold snap made a ghost town of the open decks. Even in the open promenades, passengers who’d taken to deck chairs were bundled up, often warming themselves with cups of beef broth, courtesy of the ever-attentive stewards. In the public rooms and cafés of the great ship, passengers took to letter writing, cardplaying, reading, and conversation.

Throughout the long, lazy afternoon, Futrelle gradually talked to the other Crafton “clients,” passing along the same gratefully received information about the blackmailer and his documents, gently refusing any details or explanations regarding the séance of the evening before.

His remark to Ben Guggenheim was typical: “For the rest of your life, you can brag about sitting at a séance on the
Titanic,
with none other than W. T. Stead as the medium. Isn’t that enough? Must you also understand what it was about?”

Guggenheim—who’d been walking the enclosed promenade with the lovely Madame Aubert, when the Futrelles came upon them—accepted Futrelle’s terms, gladly.

“My only condition,” Guggenheim said, “is that Crafton remain dead.”

Only Maggie Brown, having a light dessert in the Parisien café, gave the writer a hard time.

“You can’t tell me that séance wasn’t a put-up job!” she said. “You coached that little Gibson girl! You wrote her damned lines, didn’t you, Mr. Thinkin’ Machine?”

“You’re right…”

“I knew it!”

“… I can’t tell you that.”

“Jack, nobody likes a wiseacre!” But she was grinning at the time.

Futrelle found Alice Cleaver, as usual, in the Verandah Café, watching golden-haired Lorraine playing with a top that was mesmerizing baby Trevor.

The nanny sat so somberly, her black livery might have been mourning clothes. Then she noticed him approaching, and smiled nervously as Futrelle took the chair at the wicker table next to her.

Almost whispering, Futrelle said, “I’ve spoken to the captain. I believe your chances are good.”

“Oh, sir…”

“No tears. No scene. And no guarantees—we’ll know tomorrow, sometime. Until then—everything as usual, my dear.”

The beautiful eyes in the blunt-nosed face welled with tears. “Mr. Futrelle… I owe you everything.”

He patted her hand. “You owe me your best efforts toward making a better life for yourself.”

The writer and the nanny sat quietly and watched the two lovely Allison children capering. They were served tea and scones by the good-looking young steward who, days before, had been exchanging winsome glances with the broken-nosed beauty. He had a small bruise on his jaw—maybe she’d slapped him for his freshness, the shipboard romance foundering on the rocks. At any rate, the towheaded boy remained businesslike, and Alice didn’t bother acknowledging his existence.

Suddenly the nanny blurted, “Mr. Futrelle, do you think God will ever grant me another child of my own?”

“I don’t know, Alice. Do you want Him to?”

She was pondering that as Futrelle took his leave.

Once Futrelle had made the rounds of the Crafton clients, he and May retreated to their stateroom, where fully dressed they flopped onto the bed to read their respective novels—May,
The Virginian,
her husband,
Futility.
Futrelle had a shorter book to finish, and drifted off into a nap; May, the Western saga finally completed, slammed the covers shut and woke him, on purpose.

“For having nothing to do,” she said, “the days certainly go by quickly.”

“Nothing to do?” he muttered sleepily. “I only solved two murders.”

“I thought
we
solved them.”

“You’re right. That was ungracious. We.”

“I’m starting to think of this suite as home.”

“Dangerous thinking—this is
nicer
than home.”

She laughed a little. “Oh, Jack, this has been a wonderful second honeymoon… exciting… romantic…”

“Especially romantic,” he said, and he kissed her.

They were still kissing when the nightstand telephone rang; it was Henry Harris, wanting them to join him and René for some cards before supper.

“How ’bout we meet on the Grand Staircase balcony?” Henry suggested. “Half an hour?”

“All right. But make it an hour… we’ll need to dress for dinner.”

“It takes you an hour to dress for dinner?”

“Not me. You know how women are.”

Then he hung up and went back to what he and May had been doing.

Dorothy Gibson joined the two couples for poker on the balcony; dressed in their evening clothes and looking like a million dollars, they played penny-ante stakes and had a wonderful time. And it gave Futrelle the opportunity to thank the young actress.

“You were superb last night,” Futrelle told her, shuffling the cards.

May pretended to misunderstand and said, “Would you care to explain that remark?”

There was general laughter, and Dorothy said, “I was afraid I was overdoing the deep ‘man’s voice.’”

“No, it was splendid,” Futrelle said, dealing. “Henry, I think you may have your next Broadway star on your hands.”

“Henry B. will kindly keep his hands to himself,” René said.

Miss Gibson was embarrassed by that, but everyone else laughed.

Henry said, picking up his cards, “Why don’t you write a movin’-picture script for Dorothy, Jack?”

“Henry B.,” René said, “quit hounding the man. Jack, why don’t you?”

The bugler announced dinner.

“There’s nothing to do on these damned ships but eat,” René said. “So—shall we?”

Everyone agreed with her on both counts, but as they were going down the stairs, René’s high heel caught her dress and she went tumbling down half a flight of stairs. Futrelle’s first thought was that Crafton’s ghost had tried to shove him and caught René instead.

Everyone rushed to her side, and found her laughing and crying and swearing, all at once.

“First critical thing I’ve said about this ship,” she said, “and the damned thing decides to break my arm.”

Her arm indeed was broken, her self-diagnosis confirmed by Dr. O’Loughlin, and a Dr. Frauenthal—a joint specialist who was traveling First Class—agreed to set it in plaster. Dorothy Gibson went off to join her mother in the First-Class Dining
Saloon, but the rest of the group decided to wait to eat until René could join them, agreeing to meet for a late dinner in the à la carte restaurant, the so-called Ritz.

Just before nine
P.M.,
the Futrelles were the first to take their seats at the table in the luxurious restaurant, which—with its Louis Seize decor, from its floral-pattern plaster ceiling to the gilded, finely figured French walnut paneling, from its crystal chandeliers to the rose-hued Axminster carpet—might have been the dining room of some fine hotel in Paris.

The passengers dining at the spacious Ritz were dressed to the nines, as traditionally the second-to-last night out was the final opportunity to dress up (last night out was for packing and formal dining attire was set aside). The men in their white tie and tails, the women in the latest Parisian gowns, pale satins and clingy gauze, arrayed in glittering jewelry, were in high spirits, the air ringing with giddy laughter and wafting with the sweet aroma of flowers.

“You know, Jack,” May said, admiring the vase of American Beauty roses that was their table’s centerpiece, “something has been troubling me.”

None of the rich, fashionable women around them had anything over May: she was ravishing in her gold silk-satin gown, its short sleeves decorated with strands of glass beads, her hair up and adorned with bird-of-paradise plumes.

His wife’s beauty made him light-headed; or was it the wine he was sipping? “What, darling?”

“It’s about the Cleaver girl.”

Futrelle smirked. “Whatever could you find troubling about a nice girl like Alice?”

“That fellow—Rood? He was a big man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, well, tall, anyway. Not heavyset.”

“But, still… how could she have lifted him into that lifeboat?”

“She’s got considerable strength, dear.”

“Perhaps, but—”

“Here are the Harrises.”

René was making a rather dramatic entrance, in a short-sleeved gown showing off her new cast, Henry following dutifully after. Word of her accident had traveled around the ship, and the passengers in the restaurant applauded her.

As Henry pulled out a chair for his wife, Futrelle said, “I thought the show-business expression was ‘break a leg’?”

“I believe in setting trends,” she said, though she was obviously suffering.

A private party in honor of Captain Smith’s approaching retirement was under way, and both the captain and Tom Andrews stopped by to compliment René on her “spirit” and “spunk,” respectively.

Futrelle chatted briefly with Andrews, who looked surprisingly fresh.

“Tom, what’s wrong?” Futrelle asked. “You actually look like you’ve had some sleep!”

Andrews grinned, leaning a hand on the writer’s chair. “Well, it’s just that I’ve finally caught up with all the problems on this little rowboat. I believe she’s as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.”

“Judging by the human brains I’ve encountered,” Futrelle kidded him, “that’s not much of a testimonial.”

Andrews laughed at that, graciously, and went back to the party honoring his captain.

The dinner was eight amazing courses, trundled over by the usual succession of white-jacketed waiters, bearing exotic
dishes with French appellations that translated to quail eggs with caviar, spring pea soup, lobster thermidor with duchess potatoes, filet mignon with wild mushrooms, mint sorbet, quails with cherries, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and fresh fruit salad.

Familiar faces were dotted around the elegant restaurant: Archie Butt and Frank Millet were among the jovial guests at the Widener family’s party for Captain Smith, who had long since retired to the bridge; John and Madeline Astor, at a table for two, the expecting couple huddling romantically; and Ismay and Dr. O’Loughlin, in a side alcove, huddling in a different manner, a serious, businesslike fashion at odds with the gaeity all around. Futrelle could only wonder if the good doctor was being enlisted to carry out the mystery writer’s suggested course of action, i.e., the signing of certain documents, specifically death certificates for the late Crafton and Rood.

The Futrelles and the Harrises took their time with the endless meal, sipped their wine, told stories on each other, filling the air with laughter and forgoing the evening concert for each other’s company. By the time the night was over, Futrelle had agreed to write both a Broadway play and a cinema script for the producer, and René—who had been holding court throughout the evening, as virtually every passenger dining in the Ritz stopped by to celebrate her pluck—grandly announced that having a broken arm was a definite social asset.

Despite the now bitter cold, Futrelle and May took one last stroll on the boat deck, in their elegant evening wear, without their coats; it was now eleven o’clock, but they were warmed by wine and each other.

“It’s been a wonderful second honeymoon,” he told her, as they paused at the rail, the sky was again flung with stars, the
preternaturally calm ocean stretching out like the skin of a vast black pudding.

“You were wonderful, Jack,” she said, not very drunk. “Brilliant as Professor Van Dusen himself—and braver than Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, you’re a much prettier Watson, my darling. Also, smarter.”

Her laughter was brittle yet musical, like a wind chime echoing in the sea air.