The Titanic Murders (14 page)

Futrelle nodded. “We’re certainly not lacking in possibilities for perpetrators.”

Ismay threw his hands up. “For now, there is really nothing to be done. I ask everyone in this room—
everyone,
Mr. Futrelle…
Jack—to keep this unpleasant news to themselves. We won’t be having stewards carting a body down the corridor, either. We will keep this room locked and the body will be removed to the cold-storage hold, tonight, when the ship is sleeping.”

Futrelle regarded the cold-blooded Ismay with the dispassion of a scientist. “Not that anyone will be upset by the lack of his presence… but how will you explain the absence of Mr. Crafton?”

Ismay was walking in a tiny circle in the tiny cabin. “Should anyone ask, he’s taken ill, he is under Dr. O’Loughlin’s care, staying here in his cabin. Though I hardly think on a ship this size, and with an individual so unloved, that this is likely to even come up.”

“You may be right,” Futrelle admitted.

Through all this, the captain had remained strangely silent.

In the hallway, with the room locked up tight, Ismay leaned in to Futrelle and whispered, “Now, I must ask you not to mention this to anyone, Jack—
anyone…
including your lovely wife.”

Futrelle grinned and patted Ismay on the back. “Do I look like the sort of man who tells his wife everything?”

Ten minutes later, in the sitting room of their stateroom, Futrelle had finished filling May in on all the details, including the more grisly ones.

They were sitting on the couch together, but May had her legs up under herself, and was turned toward her husband; she looked bright as a new penny in her casual day wear—white shirt with stiff collar and cuffs, blue woolen necktie, cream-color collarless cardigan and flared beige wool skirt.

She was not frightened or dismayed by the death of Crafton; if anything, she was exhilarated. She had been too long the wife of a newspaperman, too long the companion
of a crime writer to be spooked by something so trivial as a locked-room murder.

“We should investigate,” she said.

Futrelle smiled half a smile. “I’m sorely tempted.”

“Do you think the murderer should be allowed to get away with this?”

“Frankly, considering the victim, I’m not sure the answer to that is obvious.”

“As a good Christian, and a good citizen, you have a responsibility to put things right.”

“I know. Besides, this is damned fascinating. Why was Crafton naked, do you suppose?”

“Perhaps sleeping that way was his normal practice.”

“Possibly, but you know how cold it’s been at night, even with these electric heaters. And not just anyone could have waltzed in there—whoever-it-was needed a key.”

“That’s not difficult, Jack—simply bribe someone on staff for the key.”

“Ah, but that White Star Line staff member would eventually find out a murder had been committed in the room that key belonged to, and suddenly the killer finds himself either turned over to the law or being blackmailed from a new direction…. No, it’s more likely Crafton let his murderer into his room, of his own free will.”

May frowned and smiled at once. “
Naked?
”

The phone rang and made both of them jump; they laughed nervously, Futrelle saying, “Isn’t it ducky we’re taking this murder so lightly,” and picked up the phone receiver.

“Futrelle here,” he said.

“Mr. Futrelle… Captain Smith.”

He straightened, as if he were speaking to an officer—which of course he was. “Yes, Captain.”

“Could you come to see me on the bridge? I’d like a word with you.”

“Certainly.” Futrelle decided to test the waters. “Could I bring my wife along? I’m sure she’d consider it a rare honor and treat.”

“Perhaps another time. This I think should be in private. Straightaway, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” Futrelle hung up the phone, turned to his wife, and said, “The captain wants to see me… and not you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, as my esteemed competitor’s detective is wont to say, ‘The game’s afoot.’”

The bridge, on the boat deck, was a white chamber as spartan and well-scrubbed as an operating room, attended by a brace of crisply uniformed officers, youngish men with the weathered faces their profession bestows. The row of windows onto the gray, glistening ocean and the only slightly bluer sky above gave the room an open-air effect; along those windows was a row of the porcelain-based, double-sided clockfaces of gleaming brass-trimmed, double-handle-topped engine telegraphs, and of course the wooden wheel itself, an old-fashioned instrument attached to newly fashioned technology. Looking out over the bow of the ship conveyed a certain majesty, but nowhere near the actual size of the colossal vessel.

Captain Smith, pacing slowly, eyes on the horizon, suddenly looked less a symbol, more a man. Without Ismay around, Smith seemed considerably bigger—taller, broader, more formidable.

When Futrelle was announced, the captain smiled slightly and said, “Good of you to come, Mr. Futrelle… walk with me to the bridge wing, would you?”

On the outdoor platform near the small three-sided booth from which the ship’s position was calculated by sextant, the captain leaned against the waist-high wall, regarding the sea with a stoic gaze. As they spoke, Smith rarely looked at Futrelle.

“Mr. Ismay wants the best for his company,” the captain said, “and who can blame him? This ship was his dream—he first sketched it on a napkin. But it’s my reality, Mr. Futrelle.”

“Your concerns and duties aren’t necessarily his,” Futrelle said.

“Precisely. But he is the director of the line, launching the company’s most important ship, and I am a lame duck of a captain, making his final crossing.”

“All the more reason to do what you think is right.”

Smith gave Futrelle a sideways look. “Right, as in proper? Correct?”

Futrelle shook his head. “There’s no rule book for a situation of this kind. Ismay wants to avoid bad press, but simply ignoring the incident could court disaster.”

“Elaborate.”

“Crafton didn’t just fall from the sky—even he had relatives and, presumably, friends. He certainly had business associates, in that extortion ring. Questions will be asked when we come ashore—and one may be why we didn’t ask questions aboard ship.”

Captain Smith nodded, barely. “I do believe Ismay’s discretion is well-founded.”

“Actually, so do I. Just too extreme.”

Without looking at Futrelle, Smith asked, “Would you do me a service, sir? I can repay you only with my gratitude and friendship.”

“Ask.”

“Could you—in a circumspect manner, playing upon the lack of knowledge of those aboard as regards Mr. Crafton’s demise—launch a sub-rosa investigation? Ask questions—innocent questions, on their face, but secretly knowing ones—to gather information so that I may make a decision before we reach New York.”

“Not everyone is ignorant of this murder, you know.”

“A handful know—ourselves, Ismay, the doctor and a single stewardess.”

“And there’s the murderer.”

“So there is.”

“And what if I should happen to ascertain the murderer’s identity?”

The captain’s face hardened. “Sir, I don’t care what his social connections are or how many millions he has in the bank. If he’s John Jacob Astor or some Italian beggar in steerage… If Jesus Christ is the murderer, we’ll turn Him over to the master-at-arms and slap Him in irons.”

“I admire your backbone, Captain. But might I suggest we hear our Lord and Savior’s side of it, first?”

And at last Smith turned and looked directly at Futrelle, and then he laughed and laughed; for so soft-spoken a man, the captain’s booming laughter echoed across the forward well deck and forecastle deck, startling the smattering of steerage passengers risking the brisk air.

“We’ll make no decisions until facts are gathered,” Smith said. He slipped his hand onto Futrelle’s shoulder again, and
walked him slowly back toward the bridge. “There’ll be no mention of this to Mr. Ismay, of course.”

“Hell, no.” He wasn’t as deranged as the late Crafton had thought. “After all, we have an overriding reason to keep Ismay in the dark about the investigation, beyond his own White Star–based objections to it.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“Why—he’s a suspect himself, Captain.”

“So he is.”

And the two men smiled and shook hands.

SIX

INFORMAL INQUIRY

A
T LUNCHEON, THE
C
AFÉ
P
ARISIEN
tended to be lightly frequented, and today was no exception.

The
Titanic
’s approximation of a sidewalk café on a Paris boulevard was designed more for a between-meal snack or perhaps an after-dinner aperitif; with sumptuous feasts available in the Dining Saloon and the à la carte Ritz, few passengers were willing to settle for the dainty sandwiches of the café’s circular buffet.

The younger set had largely appropriated this sunlight-streaming trellised café on the starboard B deck—with its unobstructed ocean view—making it one of the livelier areas aboard ship. But right now the café held only a modest scattering of passengers, seated on the café’s green wicker chairs at the festive round and square green-topped tables, taking advantage of the casually continental ambience, as the gently muted strains of the string trio playing in the reception room next door floated in.

Among this handful of passengers were the Futrelles and the Strauses, seated at a square table by the windows onto the ocean, tiny plates with tiny sandwiches before them all, accompanied by iced tea.

The Strauses had not selected their sandwiches from the buffet, however; a French waiter saw to it that they received kosher variations (the deviled ham Futrelle was nibbling at being wholly inappropriate). The waiter also made sure that the iced tea was sweetened, in the Southern style, as the two couples had Georgia backgrounds in common.

“What a good idea, getting away like this,” Ida Straus said. She wore a black-and-white dress (mostly black) with fancy beadwork, typical of her conservative elegance. “They feed us so much on this ship! This makes a nice change…. Don’t you agree, Papa?”

“Oh yes, Mama,” Isidor Straus said, idly stroking his gray spade beard as he contemplated the minuscule sandwiches on his plate. His suit was dark blue, his shirt a wing collar with a tie of light blue silk; he too had a quiet elegance. “I only hope the Harrises and their friends don’t mind eating alone.”

“I invited Henry and René,” Futrelle said, “but they declined—seems they exercised in the gym this morning, and worked up too much of an appetite.”

Actually, Futrelle had explained to the Harrises that he needed to speak to the Strauses in private, supposedly to gather information for a story with a department-store setting.

“If you need an expert on department stores,” Henry had said, “you’re goin’ to the wrong party…. Talk to René.”

And René had added, “Henry B. is right—I probably spend more time in Macy’s than Isidor Straus.”

But nonetheless the Harrises graciously deferred, with no prying questions.

So far it had all been small talk. For such different couples, the Futrelles and Strauses had much in common, from Georgia to New York (Macy’s was on Herald Square, after all, and Futrelle
had worked for the
Herald
). Both couples agreed that the maiden voyage on the
Titanic
was proving a perfect way to top off their respective European trips. The Strauses had been taking a winter holiday at Cap Martin on the Riviera; the Futrelles had decided to cut their trip short when Jack, with his birthday looming, had gotten homesick for their two children.

“We plan to take Virginia and John traveling with us,” Futrelle said, “when they’re older, and out of school.”

Straus nodded at the wisdom of that. “Let them be an age when they’ll appreciate what you’re giving them.”

“We have six children,” Ida said, “and as for grandchildren, we lose count.”

It went on like that, with an excursion into mutual admiration. Straus—with no college education, an inveterate reader—was impressed by Futrelle’s success in the writing field (though no mention was made of the Macy’s magnate ever having read a Futrelle story or novel). Futrelle found it fascinating that Straus—who, with his brother Nathan, had started out with a china shop in Macy’s basement and within ten years owned the store—had gone from the department-store business to Congress, becoming a close confidant of President Cleveland.

Straus was not a boastful man, and in fact downplayed his accomplishments. “I’m not interested in politics or business anymore. I’m at a stage in my life where my hobbies and traveling are more important.”

“You’re too modest,” May said. She looked youthful in a boyish leisure outfit of white shirt with blue-and-green striped silk tie under a knitted green-and-brown waistcoat; her hat was a large-crowned light brown felt number with a curled brim. “After all, everyone knows your ‘hobby’ is helping people.”

“You’re too kind,” Straus said, but he clearly liked hearing it.

Both Futrelles were well aware of Straus’s philanthropy, particularly in the areas of education and aiding Jewish immigrants. Everything Futrelle knew about Straus made the man out a saint, albeit a Hebrew one; what in God’s name could Crafton have had on this paragon of virtue?