The Lusitania Murders (14 page)

“Are you quite sure? Are you certain you know why that list of prime passengers was found in the dead spy’s shoe? Do you truly think a man who’d been stabbed in
the heart found his way to the next floor before dying?”

Anderson couldn’t seem to find any words with which to respond.

“I know you’re just trying to do your job,” she told him, backing off. “And I’m doing mine. . . . Now, I still have work to do. Unlike Captain Turner, I doubt I’ll be ‘catching’ a few hours sleep.”

“Nor will I,” Anderson said. He sighed. “I meant no offense, Miss Vance . . . if I spoke out of turn . . .”

“No apology needed. This is an unusual situation—we’re all finding our way, as best we can. But if I might be so bold . . . think for yourself, Captain Anderson.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

She nodded toward the door of the captain’s suite. “You’ll have to: That salty old bastard doesn’t have a brain in his head. . . . Good evening.”

Anderson looked as if he’d been poleaxed, and Miss Vance walked quickly down the corridor, and I followed her. We took the stairs, not the elevator, to our floor one deck below.

And then we were walking along the empty corridor where, not long ago at all, a corpse had resided on this very linoleum.

“I’m going to examine that knife handle for prints,” she said, at her door.

“Do you need my help?”

“No, thank you. It’s a one-person job.” She touched my cheek; her flesh was cool. “Get some rest.”

I thought about kissing her, but it didn’t seem befitting, somehow. So I blew her a kiss instead, and walked down to my room.

I had washed up, and climbed first into my nightshirt
and then beneath my covers, when a sharp knock at the cabin door startled me.

Answering it, I found Miss Vance there—her eyes wide, her face white—and she brushed by me, and sat on my bed. She was in quite a state.

“It’s gone!” she said.

I sat next to her—she fully clothed, me in my nightshirt—and asked, “What is gone?”

Her eyes flashed at me. “The knife, you fool—someone took it from my room.”

“My God—then there
is
a murderer on the crew!”

She sighed. “Not necessarily—a passenger could have bribed a passkey . . . and, remember, Anderson was concerned about my fingerprinting the crew and/or the passengers, even before Turner brought it up.”

“You mean, he could have had someone remove it, just to prevent that inconvenience?”

“Yes . . . these British boneheads have some very peculiar ideas about propriety.”

I put an arm around her, and she fell against me—even a strong woman like this could go soft from defeat.

“What good would it do to make accusations?” she wondered aloud. “Suppose they agreed to search the ship—you know damn well that knife has been pitched overboard, long since!”

I could only agree. “What does that leave us? In the eyes of Turner and Anderson, this incident is closed . . . at least until we reach Liverpool, and the British authorities are brought in.”

She sat up, eyes brightening. “Has it occurred to you that the late Klaus may have found his way to first class because he had an
accomplice
there?”

“Well, no . . . but why would anyone in first class be
an accomplice to German stowaways . . . ?”

She was smiling, tightly. “That is what we must find out, Van.”

“How?”

“By talking to our most likely suspects . . . who I believe are the same names on that list found in the stowaway’s shoe.”

I was frankly bewildered. “What makes
them
the most likely suspects? Before, you said they were potential victims—either of assassination, or robbery . . .”

“I still consider that a strong possibility. Perhaps the name of the real mastermind was mixed in with the targeted victims to encourage ruling that person out as a suspect.”

“You’re saying Vanderbilt or Madame DePage might be German spies, or at least in league with them? Or that imbecile Hubbard . . . ?”

But she was on to her next possibility: “Or maybe it was a list of targets
plus
the name of their shipboard contact, in first class! Right down to the cabin number!”

“Vance, is that really likely?”

She cast that glittering predatory gaze on me again. “However you look at it, these same six names have turned up twice: first, in those warning telegrams; next, in a list that was in the dead stowaway’s possession . . . which directly ties those six people to that murdered man.”

“I suppose it does. But how?”

“That,” she said, “would seem to be the question . . . and since you have to interview them anyway, who besides S.S. Van Dine will have a better opportunity to find out?”

And to seal the bargain, she kissed me.

NINE
C’est La Guerre

The alarm clock that woke me was a powerful bellow, like the mournful cry of some mythical sea beast—in reality, of course, the ship’s foghorn. I’d made arrangements to meet Miss Vance for the second breakfast sitting, and could well have rolled over and gone back to sleep; but the events of the day previous had been so intense, that when I’d awakened, so had countless thoughts and myriad questions.

After toiletries that included a refreshing shower and a trimming of my beard, I dressed in a gray houndstooth-check suit and walked out onto the wide sheltered promenade, which was lined with deck chairs, none currently in use. In fact, I seemed to have the rail all to myself as I gazed out where the endless expanse of ocean should be, seeing instead an impenetrable whiteness. The ship’s foghorn—half roar, half moan—blew its melancholy warning out into the swirling nothingness, and no doubt keen eyes on the bridge were at this moment searching
for any sign of another ship, whose dark blur might loom abruptly, and perilously, out of the shroud of fog.

The great ship might well have been suspended in midair, a misty hand gripping her all around and underneath, freezing her in place. Though the ship may have seemed motionless, surely it had not stopped but only slowed
*
—soon the
thrump
of the bow cutting through a wave put the illusion to rest.

The otherworldly, almost surreal atmosphere gave me a chill, though the weather was mild enough—weren’t murders enough? Must Nature herself conspire to make the
Lusitania
a ghost ship?

Such thoughts were forgotten, however, when (perhaps an hour later) I repaired to the First Class Dining Saloon, where I joined the lovely—and astonishingly refreshed-looking—Miss Vance. She again was boldly hatless, and her attire striking, her Gibson-girl figure nearly done justice by the dark green satin dress with yoke-style overblouse and much lighter green high standing collar and sleeves.

Once more our tablemates were Madame DePage and her colleague Dr. Houghton, and (across from them) Miss Pope and her young paramour, Mr. Friend. Again, I had gone directly to Madame DePage to thank her for allowing me to join with their little group.

“Please consider yourself one of us,” she said, “for the remainder of the voyage.”

I asked if we might sit down for that interview today sometime, and she said most certainly—would this morning in the music room, at eleven, be convenient? It would. After a few other morning pleasantries, the three couples—Miss Vance and I comprising the third—fell into their private conversations.

These conversations were limited, however, as the ship’s banquet of a breakfast took up much of one’s attention. We chose between fruit or fruit juice, followed by a selection of oatmeal, grape nuts, malted milk or hominy; then kippers, turbot, lemon sole or Yarmouth bloaters; eggs to order or sauteed calf’s liver; and Cumberland lamb or Wiltshire bacon and Cumberland lamb, with a side of baked apples or pancakes. About that point a waiter offered from a tray of cold cuts an array of ham, beef, smoked ox tongue and capon. And there of course were oatcakes, toasted muffins and scones . . . with tea, coffee or cocoa. For those disappointed in such light fare, special orders of steak, mutton chops or chicken were available from the grill.

I ate heartily, despite my knowledge of the corpses sharing the cold storage compartments, and so did Miss Vance, whose pragmatic nature continued to impress.

“Are you planning to attend the morning’s divine services?” Miss Vance asked me, between nibbles of scone.

“My mother and father were deeply religious,” I said, and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “Sober citizens and devout churchgoers. . . . They saw to it that in my youth I attended enough services to last my lifetime.”

“Captain Turner’s conducting the services in the main lounge,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “No doubt asking
for blessings on the king and all those at sea.”

“A religious service as served up by Bowler Bill surely would have its rewards, as entertainment if not theology.”

Across from us, Miss Pope was discussing religious matters as well, in her own unique way—specifically, the glories of Sir Oliver Lodge, the spiritualist.

“I would imagine,” Miss Vance said, “that as little as the captain likes rubbing shoulders with passengers, the Sunday service must seem one of those ‘perils of the sea’ to which the prayer books allude.”

Keeping my voice a near whisper—the orchestra was silent at breakfast, the only music the chatter of conversion and the clink and clank of china and silver—I said to her, “I believe we need to make amends to Staff Captain Anderson.”

Miss Vance nodded. “Yes—things grew tense last night. Perhaps I made an inappropriate remark or two.”

“In my view, you were all too easy on these Cunard clods . . . but we need Anderson on our side, to help our other interviews. Don’t you think that steward Leach should be questioned? And Master-at-Arms Williams?”

With a thoughtful frown, she said, “I do . . . but not just yet. I consider them . . . and for that matter, Mr. Anderson himself . . . suspects.”

I was buttering a muffin. “I assume that is why you withheld certain information from Anderson and Captain Turner last night. . . information of a bluish, almond-scented variety.”

Nodding again, she said, “If one of them is either a murderer or an accomplice to the stowaways—”

“Or both,” I cut in.

“—or both . . . then better to give that unknown party a false sense of security. After all, we’re stuck on this
boat for the better part of a week—no one’s going anywhere, just yet.”

“Particularly not the stowaways,” I said, as those conversing—and feasting—around us remained blissfully unaware of the tragedy and danger in their midst.

Perhaps an hour later, Miss Vance and I were walking on the open-air promenade on the Boat Deck—the fog had been replaced by bright morning sunshine, touching the vast shimmering blue with golden highlights—and quite by accident encountered Staff Captain Anderson.

The square-jawed, burly Anderson was aft of us, and had not yet seen us, being otherwise occupied—he raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew a shrill command. Miss Vance and I glanced at each other curiously, and positioned ourselves along the rail, watching. A handful of crew members suddenly appeared from here and there, like ants sensing sugar at a picnic, climbing into life jackets to which they affixed badges with the number fourteen on them.

The lifeboats were slung from davits above the rail, turning their portions of the generously wide Boat Deck into narrow walkways.
*
Right now those crew members were clambering up and into the hanging lifeboat—boldly numbered fourteen—which swung a little during the course of the exercise. Soon the sailors were sitting
straight and trim within the suspended boat.

Then Anderson blew his whistle again, and the sailors leapt from the boat onto the deck and disappeared like those same ants scurrying back to their hills.

We approached Staff Captain Anderson, who seemed to frown just a little when he saw us, but I could not be certain.

We both bid him good morning, and I said jovially, “You look surprisingly well-rested, after such a long night.”

My remark seemed to put him at ease, and he said good morning to us, adding, “It was indeed a long night, Mr. Van Dine. . . . However, the two of you look none the worse for wear, I must admit.”

I patted my stomach. “If I can survive all this food . . . Miss Vance and I were just walking off a hundred or so courses of breakfast.”

A simple soul, Anderson beamed, proud of his ship and the service it delivered to its passengers. “We do try to keep our guests well-fed. People have come to expect a steamer to be a floating gourmet banquet.”

“The
Lusitania
fills that bill easily. . . . What were you up to, there, Captain? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Oh, I was conducting a lifeboat drill.”

“It’s all very well drilling your crew,” Miss Vance said, already risking the staff captain’s enmity, “but why aren’t you drilling the passengers?”

His affability remained. “Captain Turner doesn’t consider it necessary for passengers to take part in these drills.”

I said, “What’s your opinion?”

“Cunard doesn’t pay me to have opinions on subjects that the captain has already formed one about.”

Miss Vance was shaking her head. “With all this talk of U-boats and torpedoes, I should think a drill would provide the passengers comfort and reassurance.”

Now the strain was showing in his tightening features. “Captain Turner does not care to have the passengers unduly alarmed.”

The subject seemed closed, so I inquired about Anderson helping me with certain celebrated passengers.

“I’m sitting down to talk with Madame DePage this morning,” I said. “Could you possibly arrange for another interview or two for the afternoon?”

“Certainly. Any preference of order?”

“None.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Vance decided to press her luck, and asked if she might make a small suggestion.

“Of course,” Anderson said, but not terribly enthusiastically.