The Lusitania Murders (13 page)

On the elevator, Miss Vance said to Anderson, who stood between us, “Assassination isn’t the only purpose that list might hold.”

Anderson looked sideways at her, brow knit. “Can you tell me another?”

“These are rich people—don’t forget, I’m here in part to guard Madame DePage’s charity chest, which is itself
a small fortune. Perhaps that list is meant to direct these stowaways . . . posing as stewards . . . to those cabins—for plunder.”

The elevator deposited us at the Grand Entrance of the Boat Deck, where more wicker and ferns awaited. Anderson paused there, his patience obviously wearing thin.

“Miss Vance,” he said, “these are spies—German spies.”

Her smile was cheerfully professional. “And may I remind you that the darkroom found nothing at all on their camera plates?”

This was the first I’d heard of that; but I didn’t see it as significant: We’d merely captured the espionage agents too early for them to indulge in their information gathering.

Anderson said something of a similar nature to Miss Vance, who replied, “Why do you assume theft and sabotage are mutually exclusive concerns?”

The staff captain’s eyes tightened and his head titled to one side—this was an interesting question.

She continued: “Why not commit espionage and/or sabotage, with a side dish of thievery. . . . If they were planning to wait until near the end of the voyage, off Ireland, our three ‘tourists’ may well have been picked up by members of the IRA, who are in collusion with Germany, after all.”

Miss Vance never ceased to amaze me. I said, “You mean they could be funding IRA efforts to aid the German cause?”

“They could. Or they could be saboteurs taking advantage of their proximity to so much wealth, to do their country’s foul bidding even while feathering their own nests.”

I nodded. “Perhaps it had been offered as an incentive, in undertaking a perilous task?”

“Perhaps.”

Anderson seemed weary. He was really not up to this level of deliberative assessment, and I felt anything further Miss Vance offered would fall on deaf ears. What the staff captain said next confirmed my suspicion.

“With all due respect,” Anderson said to her, “I must request that you refrain from sharing with the captain any of these far-fetched theories.”

“I thought he’d requested my presence,” she said, “for me to make a full report.”

Anderson twitched a humorless smile and shrugged. “Use your own judgment, then.”

The captain’s suite of rooms took up the forward end of the Boat Deck, adjacent to the raised officer’s house on the navigating bridge. Anderson knocked on the middle of three unlabelled doors and a deep voice from within bellowed, “Come!”

We entered.

This was a day room—even if it was three in the morning—with white walls relieved by oak wainscotting and the occasional framed nautical print and a ship’s wheel clock; the furniture was Colonial and the effect spartan. A round maple table with four chairs was central, and on the table was a tray with tea service.

The old boy—though in his late fifties, he seemed nearer seventy—was smoking a pipe and pacing; he was wrapped up in a dark blue dressing gown, which somehow conveyed a military bearing, an effect undercut by his white pajama trousers and brown leather slippers. His thinning white hair was mussed from sleep—he had not bothered to brush it, apparently—and his jutting jaw, flat
nose and slitted eyes combined to convey distinct grumpiness.

“Thank you for coming,” he said to us, his tone at odds with his words. There were no introductions, no ceremonial handshakes. He simply gestured to chairs at the round table, and offered everyone tea—“Coffee would defeat sleep,” he said, “and we do hope to have some yet, tonight, don’t we?”

No one pointed out to him that night was long since gone; but everyone accepted his generous offer and Miss Vance volunteered to do the serving, which Captain Turner took her up on, with a gruff, “Thanks.”

Turner’s big blunt-fingered hands lay on the table like fists waiting to happen, the pipe in one of them; the smoke smelled no worse than burning refuse. His grizzled countenance seemed to accuse, even as his words claimed otherwise: “I want you people to know I appreciate your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anderson said.

Miss Vance and I thanked him, as well, and sipped our tea.

“These are dangerous times,” the captain said, “and I don’t take them lightly.”

Had anyone suggested he had?

“I have a boy serving in France,” he said. “Artillery officer. And my other boy is in the Merchant Marine . . . also an officer.”

There was an implied “of course.”

“Seems to me I’ve spent my life racing Cunard ships against these . . . Germans,” he was saying, pausing for a few puffs of his pipe, as if stoking his personal boiler. “Their
Deutschland . . . Kronpriz Wilhelm, Kaiser Wilhelm II,
even this new one,
Kronprizessin Cecile
 . . . hah!
My girl
Lusitania
has shown them all her stern.”

Miss Vance and I smiled politely; Anderson, too.

“Now here we are racing their goddamned U-boats,” he growled, shaking his head. To Miss Vance he said, “Pardon a sailor’s salt, ma’am.”

“Don’t think of me as a woman,” Miss Vance said, making an impossible suggestion. “I’m a Pinkerton agent, Captain—and your ship’s detective.”

The weathered face smiled, but the cold eyes indicated his true opinion of Cunard having hired a female detective.

I risked a question. “How much danger
are
we in from U-boats, Captain?”

“None.” He puffed the pipe. “Even at our reduced speed, we’ll have no trouble outrunning them.”

“Reduced speed?”

One shoulder shrugged, and contempt curled his upper lip, a bit. “The powers that be have ordered me to get by on three of my four boilers—to save coal, and to suit our reduced crew. That takes our top speed down from twenty-six knots to twenty-one . . . cruising speed from twenty-four to eighteen.”

“Still, no steamer cruising at even that speed has been torpedoed yet,” Anderson said, with an unconvincing offhandedness, shifting in his chair.

“That’s reassuring,” I said, but it would been more so without the “yet.”

Anderson locked eyes with me and said, “Mr. Van Dine, you do understand we’ve taken you into our confidence. Normally we wouldn’t share such information quite so casually . . .” And here the staff captain shot a look at his superior officer. “. . . in front of a newspaper man.”

But this point seemed lost on the old boy, who rattled on, “Anyway, even if we were struck by a torpedo, we’d never sink . . . not with our watertight bulkheads.”

“That’s reassuring, as well,” I said.

Anderson had a dazed expression.

“And if we should sink,” Captain Turner said, with a fatalistic shrug, “the sinking would be so slow, we’d have plenty of time to get the passengers away in the lifeboats.”

“This is all encouraging information,” Miss Vance said, “but might I be so bold as to inquire how it relates to the murders of these stowaways?”

Turner sighed smoke, then gestured with the pipe in hand. “My understanding is that they aren’t ‘murders’ at all—it’s a falling-out among spies, and they’ve killed each other, and we’re all the better off for it.”

Her eyes wide, Miss Vance said, “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“Young lady,” the captain said, “it’s the only way. The passengers on this ship, God bless them, came aboard despite alarmist talk of U-boats and sabotage and war. I do not want them unnecessarily burdened with further trepidation.”

“Captain,” she said, setting her tea cupdown with a clatter, “these men may have an accomplice on your crew—it’s no secret the
Lusitania
had to settle for second best, and worse, in assembling—”

“That’s a gross exaggeration,” Anderson said, bristling.

I was surprised she had broached this—but I noticed she continued to guard her hole card carefully: the cyanide poisoning of the two stabbed cell mates.

Turner patted the air with his pipe in hand. “Let her talk. Let her talk.”

Crisply she said, “Someone had to help smuggle those
men aboard. And when the stowaways were captured, perhaps that same someone butchered all three, to cover his tracks.”

“Suppose he had,” Turner said. “Suppose we have a greedy boy who invited those Krauts aboard. . . . If so, he’s no spy, he’s no German, just . . . a greedy boy. He’s killed our spies for us—our passengers are hardly in any danger now.”

Miss Vance seemed stunned by this response, as well she should have been: Its absurdity was worthy of Lewis Carroll, and the captain did after all vaguely resemble Alice’s walrus.

“Captain,” I said, trying to do my part, “a new piece of troubling evidence has come to light—Mr. Anderson? The list?”

Anderson showed Turner the list from Klaus’s shoe, and the captain frowned and asked us what significance we gave it.

Miss Vance presented the two theories—an assassination agenda, or a blueprint for shipboard robbery. Turner listened, entertaining himself with sips of tea and puffs from his pipe.

Then he made an expansive gesture with one hand, saying, “How does this change anything? Don’t we still have three dead Germans, who can neither kill nor steal? Don’t we still have passengers who deserve to make this crossing without undue trepidation?”

No one had answers to any of that.

So Turner went on: “And here is what we’ll do. Those bodies will be moved from the hospital to a refrigeration compartment on the lower deck. . . . See to it, Anderson, that these cadavers are kept quite separate from the beef, mutton, vegetables and so on.”

News of that might upset the passengers more than German spies!

“Yes, sir,” Anderson said. “We’ll store them in ice, sir.”

“They have to make the full journey, after all,” Turner said, “before we turn them and this entire situation over to the British Secret Service.”

Anderson nodded toward Miss Vance. “Our detective has taken the knife in question into her personal custody.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Turner said.

“She has with her fingerprinting equipment, sir.”

Turner frowned, pipe in his teeth. “How does that help the situation?”

Miss Vance said, “If I find fingerprints on the knife, I can compare them to our three dead stowaways. If prints belonging to a fourth party are present, we probably have a murderer aboard . . . possibly a crew member.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well,” she said, and she was keeping her tone strictly business-like, “we would fingerprint the crew, to make comparisons.”

Turner’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Ye gods, how long would that take?”

“It can be done gradually, when they’re off duty. It’s tedious, but easily accomplished . . .”

Those eyebrows were still high. “And if there’s no match among the crew?”

She shrugged. “Fingerprinting the passengers might be beyond my capability, under these circumstances . . . but I can assure you the British authorities will not allow anyone off this boat before they themselves have taken this measure.”

Turner was shaking his head. “I don’t see how I can allow this . . .”

“Captain,” Miss Vance said tersely, “you have no choice.”

His eyes and nostrils flared. “Oh, don’t I? Are you running the ship now, young lady? Is ‘detective’ a rank above ‘captain,’ where you come from?”

She was sitting rather stiff-backed. “As a Pinkerton operative, sir, I am an officer of the court. If I have knowledge of a crime, it is not only my duty, but my legal responsibility to report it.”

Anderson said, “No one is suggesting that this crime not be reported!”

Gesturing with his pipe in hand, smearing the air with smoke, Turner said, “We’re not talking crime, Miss . . . uh, Vance. This is an instance of espionage, and it’s a military matter, not a criminal one.”

“That’s for others to judge,” she said.

Turner’s pale face began to turn a peculiar shade of purple. “The captain is the only judge on the high seas, my dear . . . and you are sorely trying the patience of the captain.”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir, I was hired by Cunard, not by you. I answer to Cunard, to Pinkerton . . . and to the law. I will cooperate with you in every way—both Mr. Van Dine and I have already pledged our confidentiality to Staff Captain Anderson. We have no desire to alarm the passengers, or even the crew . . . in fact, our investigation will proceed more effectively under a similar cloud of secrecy.”

“Your ‘investigation,’ ” the captain curtly said, “will consist of checking that knife handle for fingerprints. When you have a result, come to me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Turner’s beady gaze swivelled in my direction. “I’ve
talked freely in front of you, Mr. Van Dine—and I know it’s made Mr. Anderson nervous.”

“No need for anxiety,” I said. “My intentions are honorable. My goal is to conduct interviews with various passengers—that is all.”

That those passengers were the same ones listed on the scrap of paper in the dead man’s shoe I did not point out.

Anderson said, “Mr. Van Dine assures me he intends to portray our ship in the best possible light.”

Sitting back, puffing his pipe, Captain Turner said, “Very good—Miss Vance, I would like you to help arrange these interviews. . .perhaps starting with your charge, Madame DePage.”

“Certainly, Captain.”

Turner rose. “Now I would suggest we all try to catch a few hours of sleep. . . . I can tell you that’s what I plan.”

After a brusque good-bye, we found ourselves back in the hallway.

Anderson confronted his ship’s detective. “Most of that was entirely out of line, Miss Vance.”

She stood up to him, her nose inches from his. “Let me ask you a simple question, Captain Anderson—how will you feel if one of your passengers turns up murdered?”

He reared back. “Why would—”

But she pressed forward. “And, afterward, it’s learned that you and the captain were unconcerned that a killer was at large on this ship . . . that no attempts were made to find him?”

His eyes were wide. “The . . . the stowaways are dead. The danger is past.”