The Lusitania Murders (6 page)

I froze between bites and put down my sandwich. “I don’t recall mentioning that I was.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Truthfully . . . yes.” I looked unhesitatingly into those remarkable eggshell-blue eyes. “I’m aboard on a journalistic assignment. In fact, you might be in a position to help me out.”

She cocked her head. “Really? How so?”

“I’m hoping to interview the travelling celebrities . . . and your mistress, Madame DePage, certainly qualifies.”

With a tiny wave of a gesture, she said, “That shouldn’t prove difficult. The madame is friendly to the press—she has a point of view she’s most anxious to communicate. I would be happy to pave the way for an audience.”

I grinned at her—toasted her with my teacup. “Most generous of you, Vance.”

“My pleasure. . . but I must say I’m a bit surprised you’re a reporter. I would have taken you for an author of fiction, or perhaps literary criticism.”

“Why not a poet?”

She was studying me the way a scientist looks at something smeared on a slide. “I don’t sense the romantic in you . . . at least not in the conventional sense. You have an acid eye, of a sort that would seek expression more directly than in that elliptical way a poet might employ. . . . Besides, I don’t believe poetry would strike you as a manly pursuit.”

Miss Vance was remarkably insightful—although I had written some small amount of poetry, in my time—but I was wondering how she had gathered so much about me in so short a span.

“Vance,” I said, frankly exasperated and not a little impressed, “how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was
any
kind of writer?”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “Well, Van, you’re a very well-groomed gentleman—your beard is immaculately trimmed . . .”

“Thank you.”

“But on your right hand, you have ink under your nails . . . either from a pen and/or the messy ribbon of one of those beastly typewriting machines.”

Reflexively, I looked at the nails of my right hand and, to my dismay, she was quite right.

“In addition,” she said, “at the dock you were observing passengers in a manner that indicated you were either, one, an agent or police official, private or government; or, two, a writer intent on observing human behavior. In retrospect, I should have noticed that you were keen on only
the celebrities standing in line, which would have sent me in the direction of journalism.”

This seemed quite a remarkable observation to me, and I said as much.

“Further,” she said, keeping right on with it, “your attire reflected money and a sense of style, and yet was brand-new—”

Now I had to interrupt. “Certainly it’s not unusual for a passenger about to board an ocean liner to dress in recently purchased apparel. What woman doesn’t buy a new ‘outfit’ for a trip?”

“Well, Van, you’re not a woman—”

“Thank you for noticing.”

“But your freshly purchased apparel, added to the other facts, spelled
writer
.”

“Why?”

“Writers, even the most successful of them, lead a relatively solitary existence, and most often work at home. It’s characteristic of the professional writer to be rather . . . indifferent where fashion is concerned.”

Understanding, I said, “But a writer who’s attending a special event . . . a play, an opera, a wedding . . . will certainly go out and buy new apparel.”

Her smile indicated she liked that I was following her line of logic. “Yes. But this, added to these other seemingly insignificant details—topped off by your extraordinary gift with language—led me to risk sharing with you my assumption that you are, indeed, a writer.”

Maybe she was a detective, after all.

“Well, I am a writer,” I said, “and a damned good one, if you’ll forgive my frankness.”

“I like your frankness, Van. By the way, what’s your real name?”

Again, she had startled me.

“How . . . why . . . ?”

She smiled and made a breezy gesture with her left hand. “The initials ‘S.S.’ for a man on a steamship voyage—could anything be more absurd? And when I asked you what the initials stood for, you had to think about it! You don’t strike me as a man whose limited mentality does not include a ready retention of his own name.”

I could only laugh; she had me!

But I told her, for reasons of my own, I needed to keep my real name to myself; she would have to be content with my pseudonym.

“I guess I don’t mind, terribly,” she said. “But perhaps I was wrong—perhaps you aren’t a writer.”

“Oh?”

“Yes . . . mayhap you’re a German spy.”

I almost choked on my tea. “Please . . . in time of war, that’s not amusing.”

Still, her expression was one of amusement. “Ah, but America is not at war.”

“Ah, but . . . we’re not in America any longer. In fact, on this ship, we’re in Great Britain.”

She nodded. “An astute observation.”

A burly officer—in the typical white cap and navy gold-braided blazer—was swaggering down the promenade; he had broad shoulders, a shovel jaw and an amiable manner. I had never seen the fellow before, but he smiled and nodded at me, as if we were old friends. On the other hand, the officer was nodding and speaking to other passengers, who lined the rail, so maybe I was imagining things. . . .

“Do you know that gentleman?” Miss Vance whispered.

“No.”

“He seems to know you.”

And indeed the officer was striding over to us. I touched my napkin to my lips and stood.

“Mr. Van Dine?” the officer said, his voice a tenor, somewhat surprising coming out of such a formidable figure. He had dark bright blue eyes and rather bushy eyebrows, and was extending a sturdy hand.

Shaking it, I said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

He had a firm grip, but had stopped short of showing off about it.

“I’m sorry—you were pointed out to me, on deck,” he said. That struck me as odd: No one knew me to do that!

He was introducing himself: Staff Captain John Anderson.

And now I understood—this was the contact aboard ship Rumely had told me about, the Cunard employee aware of my real name, and that I was a journalist aboard to write flattering articles about the ship and its passengers.

I introduced Miss Vance.

“We’re honored to have Madame DePage with us,” Anderson said to her. He had the faintest cockney around the edges of an accent he’d obviously worked at to make acceptable to the upper-class passengers. “She’s a great lady, with a fine cause.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Miss Vance said, not sounding terribly sincere.

“Would you sit down with us?” I asked him, politely.

Anderson seemed almost embarrassed, as he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Van Dine. I’d hoped to catch you after lunch, so I might show you around a little.”

Miss Vance said, “We’re quite finished with lunch, Captain Anderson.”

“Well, I’m certainly free,” I said, “if you’d care to take time away from your duties to bother with me.”

“Not at all. I’m anxious to. . . . Miss Vance, would you care to accompany us?”

“You’re very kind,” she said, rising, “but I need to join Madame DePage. She likes to write her correspondence after lunch.”

“Can I escort you to her?” I asked.

“No . . . I’m a big girl, gentlemen. I’ll find my way.”

And the individualistic Miss Vance nodded to us, and moved off down the promenade, or actually up—she was heading toward the entryway where an elevator or stairs could convey her to her employer.

“Interesting woman,” Anderson said.

“Fascinating.”

“Probably a suffragette,” he sighed.

“Probably,” I said. “But then, no one’s perfect.”

Anderson suggested we sit for a moment, and we did. He told me he hoped to help me arrange interviews, and offered to do whatever he could to make my access to the ship and its passengers as complete as possible, and my voyage a pleasurable one.

“We’re grateful to the
News
for this opportunity,” Anderson said, “to show potential passengers that this war scare is no reason to avoid travel.”

“Well, that’s a wonderful attitude, and quite the opportunity for a journalist. . . . And I’m happy that you seem willing to give me a sort of Cook’s tour, as I do want to write about the ship itself, and not limit my work to these celebrity interviews.”

Anderson’s smile was wide and infectious. “That’s good news, Mr. Van Dine. Shall we start?”

Of course, Anderson wouldn’t have been as cooperative if he knew I was here to search out contraband; so I worked hard to make a friend of him. It’s not a pretty thing, but money was involved—and, anyway, if the Cunard line was using passenger ships to transport war materials, the practice should be exposed. Passengers—like myself, about whom I cared greatly, after all—would be at risk, if this indeed were happening.

The tour I received was certainly complete, and the company entirely amiable—though I did not press Anderson with overtly prying questions, and neither did the good staff captain duck any of my queries . . . even those of a more sensitive nature.

“What about these rumored guns supposedly hidden on deck somewhere?” I asked him, about midway in our tour.

“Like most rumors,” Anderson said, half a smile digging a hole in one cheek, “there’s a certain basis in fact . . .”

I tried not to reveal the inner excitement I felt at this revelation.

“. . . but the reality is rather less sinister, as I will demonstrate.”

At the appropriate moments during my tour, the staff captain pointed out to me four deck platforms—two forward, two aft—with mountings awaiting three- or six-inch guns. Either caliber would require dockside cranes, Anderson assured me, and such weapons could hardly be camouflaged, “much less hidden.”

This disappointed me, but I instinctively believed Anderson—his frankness seemed obvious, and his character appeared lacking in guile. (Nonetheless, in my spare time,
I prowled every foot of deck space above the waterline; peering beneath any recess or overhang, checking under every winch, I saw no guns mounted or unmounted.)

Though Anderson’s affable candor impressed me, I did not yet feel comfortable enough with him to broach the subject of contraband—that, I felt, might come later. I would make it a priority to establish a friendship with the man, in hopes of learning more.

Anderson definitely was the man to whom I needed to get close: He admitted that “the internal distribution of the cargo” was very much his responsibility.

“And I do not take that responsibility lightly,” he assured me. “Faulty cargo planning can materially affect the trim of the ship, you know.”

“Indeed,” I commented, though truthfully I had not a clue.

Surely I could have asked for no more friendly nor knowledgeable tour guide. Anderson, anxious to impress the press with the Cunard line’s superiority, began with the fabulously luxurious public rooms of Saloon class, which might have been lifted bodily and set down on the ship out of some splendid hotel or exclusive London club. In addition to the description-defying dining room (about which more later), these included a reception room and various lounges, as well as music, reading-and-writing and smoking rooms. In addition, the ship offered a barbershop, a lending library, a photographer’s dark room, a clothes pressing service, a separate dining saloon for valets and maids, and even a switchboard for its innovative room-to-room telephone system.

I don’t consider myself easily impressed, but I felt as wide-eyed as a schoolgirl, strolling acres of deep carpet
through first-class lounges extravagantly appointed with plush armchairs, marble fireplaces, grand pianos, rich drapes and expensive (if dull) oil paintings. A man of impeccable taste such as myself, marooned for months in cheap flats and ghastly garrets, could only wonder at this oasis of late-Georgian elegance, this world of silk waistcoats, gold watch chains, double-staffed settees, mahogany paneling, carved maple-topped tables and wrought-iron skylights.

Since I was travelling first class, Anderson did not bother showing me a sample of the sumptuous cabins. But I quickly became as impressed with the size of the ship as I had been with the luxury of Saloon class—the damned thing seemed to go on forever, interminable corridors with their polished linoleum floors and a dizzying profusion of white, red and blue lights marking exits, fire extinguishers, washrooms, pantries and other shipboard appurtenances, all within a maze of decks and companionways, towering masts and funnels and, of course, self-important people, some of them passengers, others stewards or crew members, the officers with their gold braids and medal ribbons seeming to wear perpetual expressions of faint disapproval.

Anderson was a pleasant exception to the latter, and I felt his genial nature was not due merely to my status as a member of the press. We passed between first, second and third class with no change in his attitude of friendliness toward passengers—a young man in ill-fitting clothing in steerage, seeking a new life in America, got the same nod and hello from Anderson as a Vanderbilt or Kessler.

Now and then, however, the staff captain would show
a sterner side, if he encountered a crewman whose dress or bearing was not up to snuff. We paused for three or four of these dressing-downs.

Moving along from one of them, Anderson sighed and said, “It’s a problem, it is.”

“What’s that?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Off the record, sir?”

“Certainly. My goal here is to build up, not to tear down.”

“We are rather desperately understaffed,”
*
he admitted. “And some of the staff we have is, frankly, not up to snuff.”

“That doesn’t sound like Cunard’s style.”

“It isn’t. But the Royal Navy has scooped up many of our best crew, for the war effort. Finding able-bodied seamen for this trip was a chore, I must admit.”

“You don’t seem entirely satisfied with the result.”

“I’m not. There are crew members aboard who’ve never sailed other than as a passenger.”

This was the staff captain’s only negative remark of the tour, and I must say the meticulous craftsmanship of the ship’s construction carried over into the second and third classes. The public rooms of second class—from dining saloon to smoking room—could have been taken for those of the first class of almost any other ship sailing the North Atlantic. Plainer in style (white remained, gold did not), the public rooms were large and well-appointed; the example of a stateroom—a four-berth—that Anderson saw fit to show me was only a small step down from my own.