Very quietly, as if he were speaking to a small child, Futrelle said, “I was the telegraph editor at the Herald during the Spanish-American War… from Manila Bay to San Juan Hill, the news flowed in constantly. I was working twenty-four hours a day, and like many newspapermen, I was a burned-out case, after a time. I spent several months away from the pressures of that job, in a little cottage that belongs to my wife’s sister. When I felt up to it, I took a job offer from Mr. Hearst with his new Boston American, where I started publishing my ‘Thinking Machine’ stories and made lots of money… none of which you and your fellow extortionists will ever see. Not one red cent, sir.”
Crafton shrugged slowly, his tiny dark eyes widened. “If you don’t feel that your public, your publishers, will be put off by your mental aberrations, sir, your, your… dementia, then—”
“Listen, you damned little weasel—my public and my publishers care nothing about me except that I keep coming up with good stories. If my screws are loose, well then I’m colorful and more interesting—do you know the slightest thing about Edgar Allan Poe? Please, do me a favor, publicize away… my sales will go up.”
“We’re not bluffing, sir.”
“Neither am I. How can I best make my point? I know… Please, just for a moment, sir, come with me.” Futrelle rose. He curled a finger. “Come along, man—I won’t bite. I’m not really a lunatic.”
Crafton rose, suspiciously, gathering up his gloves and hat and walking stick.
Futrelle slipped an arm around the much smaller man’s shoulders and walked slowly with him toward the balustrade of the balcony. “I think you’ve misjudged people like myself, and have attracted more trouble than you know.”
“Are you threatening me again, sir?”
“No, no! Just giving you some advice. Are you aware that you’re being followed?”
“Followed?”
“And by a very unsavory character, at that.”
“I’ve seen no one.”
Futrelle moved closer to the railing of the balcony. “He’s lurking in the shadows of the reception area, below there….”
Crafton leaned forward, and Futrelle shoved him over, and Crafton’s hat and gloves and cane fell from his grasp, gloves spilling and landing in gray handprints on the marble stairs, hat and cane clattering onto the linoleum floor below, pocket change raining, even as Futrelle grasped onto the man’s ankles, just above his spats, letting him dangle there like a ripe fruit from a branch.
“Put me down, sir! Put me down!”
Several startled passengers below noticed this bizarre sight, and scurried away.
“Are you sure, Mr. Crafton, that that is what you desire of me? To put you down?”
“I mean, pull me up, at once, at once!”
Futrelle, however, let the man swing there, over the marble staircase and the floor just to the side of it, like a big pendulum. “Of course, sir, you could be right about me… I could be quite mad indeed.”
“I won’t say a word about you! Your secret is safe with me!”
Futrelle dragged the man up and over the finely carved oak railing as if he were hauling a big catch onto the deck of a fishing boat.
Crafton, on his feet again, began smoothing out his wrinkled attire, shaking as if he had the palsy. “That’s assault, sir—you could be put in irons! There were witnesses!”
“The witnesses seem to have gone—but we could bring this matter to the attention of the ship’s master-at-arms. Since I have no concern whatsoever, whether the information you hold on me is ever released to the public, I’d be glad to bring extortion charges against you.”
Crafton, still smoothing out his attire, thought about that, and said, “You may hear more from me later.”
“Why don’t you keep digging on me? Maybe you’ll come up with more. There are rumors to the effect that I have a terrible temper.”
Crafton moved down the stairway, at first quickly, then grasping onto the railing, as if afraid of losing his footing, and walking more slowly, if not steadily; he retrieved gloves, fedora, and walking stick, gathered up his change, and disappeared through the reception area, almost running.
Below, several navy-blue-jacketed stewards darted into view. They looked up at Futrelle, who leaned casually against the railing; one of them called: “Is there a problem, sir? We had reports of an altercation.”
“Really? I thought it was some sort of acrobatic display. Part of the ship’s entertainment.” He shrugged, and smiled, nodding to the confused stewards as he strolled down and around the stairs to use the electric lift.
When he got to their stateroom, May was entertaining the Harrises—who pretended to be outraged by the Futrelles’ superior quarters—and soon the little group decided to take one of the tours of the ship the purser was offering. The tour began with an inspection of the purser’s own office, followed by a look at the spacious kitchens with their modern timesaving devices (including an electric potato peeler), the libraries and other lavish public rooms, peeking in at the squash court, swimming pool and gymnasium. Rumors of a racetrack aboard were entirely unfounded, they were assured.
The purser’s Cook’s tour even included a quick stroll through the normally off-limits Second and Third Classes. Lounges and libraries that would have been First-Class on any other ship were glimpsed in Second, and the mix of English, French, Dutch and Italian immigrants in Third Class had comfortable lounges and smoking rooms, and a dining room with separate tables and swivel chairs, that were anything but typical of steerage.
After the tour, the Futrelles again climbed to the boat deck, where orchestra leader Wallace Hartley and his little group were giving an open-air concert of ragtime and other lively popular tunes. Before long the sun was low in the horizon.
“Is that France?” May asked from a polished wooden railing. It was just May and her husband, the Harrises having already gone in to get dressed for dinner.
The coastal chalk cliffs glowed in the reddish sunset, as if they had somehow caught fire, and yet the effect was strangely soothing. At the end of a long breakwater, a structure was making itself known as a lighthouse.
“That’s France,” he told her.
They stood watching the dying sun’s rays reflecting across the breakwater’s gentle swells. The ship’s speed slackened; the great ship would soon be dropping anchor to take on more passengers.
“I’m tempted to get off, and continue our second honeymoon there,” she said.
The city of Cherbourg lay ahead, spread along the low-lying shore, dwarfed by the Mount Roule, purple in the twilight. The lights on deck winked on.
“Believing the bad omens, darling?”
“No, no, Jack… France is just so romantic.”
The wind was kicking up, waves getting choppier, the sky dark with more than just approaching night.
“I think a squall’s coming,” Futrelle said. “Let’s get inside and change for dinner.”
“Oh yes,” May said, holding on to her feathered chapeau. “Oh, Jack—what about the terrible man you were going to meet? You didn’t strike him, did you?”
“No, dear,” Futrelle said. “I didn’t strike him.”
DAY TWO
APRIL 11, 1912
FOUR
CAPTAIN’S TABLE
LIKE THEIR PREVIOUS STOP, CHERBOURG, the Irish port of Queenstown ahead was too small to accommodate the Titanic; so anchor would be dropped offshore, for the arrival of the final batch of passengers and the taking on of mail sacks (the R.M.S. in R.M.S. Titanic did, after all, stand for “Royal Mail Ship”).
From the starboard boat deck, where Jack and May Futrelle sat side by side in deck chairs, blankets wrapped about their already coat-clad bodies, the morning seemed an exceptionally lovely one, blue cloud-fleeced sky, wind rather high but the blue-green waters surprisingly calm. They were unaware of the full Atlantic swell crashing against the ship’s port side, deceived by the ship’s uncanny ability—even on the boat deck—to emulate terra firma.
René and Henry would point out this luminary and that one—here John Jacob Astor, his young bride and their rambunctious friend Maggie Brown; there Benjamin Guggenheim trailing behind his mistress, the glamorous French singer Madame Pauline Aubert, as if fooling anyone that they weren’t together (an effort that would be short-lived).
But these were just glimpses of famous faces and opera-house fashions, and at the orchestral evening that followed in the lounge (selections from Tales of Hoffmann and Cavalleria Rusticana), the newcomers were nowhere to be seen. Nor did they appear in the smoking room later, where Astor and Guggenheim might be expected to drop by for a Cuban cigar and a snifter of brandy.
Of course, both millionaires had boarded with beautiful young women, and Futrelle was of the opinion that Cuban cigars and snifters of brandy came in a distinct second and third in a contest involving the late-night company of such beauties.
And none of it seemed to be happening on a ship, rather in some landlocked hotel; only those nearest the windows could have suspected that outside, on deck, a gale was blowing.
Now the gale was a memory, the morning clear, as the Irish coastline showed itself, the gray mountains of Cork bobbing above the horizon.
“There it is!” May said, pointing. “The Old Head of Kinsale!”
The rocky promontory, peaked by a lighthouse, was a familiar and comforting sight to well-seasoned transatlantic travelers like the Futrelles.
“Cork Harbor’s just around the bend,” Futrelle said.
And, as if at Futrelle’s bidding, the great ship began its long, easy turn to port.
The married couple had taken a late breakfast—pressing ten-thirty—in the exquisitely continental à la carte restaurant, nicknamed the Ritz after the Ritz-Carlton dining rooms of White Star’s German rival, the Hamburg–Amerika Line. They had spent an at times spirited, at times tranquil morning in their stateroom, doing the sort of things a healthy, loving couple on their second honeymoon tend to do.
Two miles offshore, within the shelter of twin forts guarding the harbor, the Titanic dropped anchor, as twin tenders—the Ireland and America—drew alongside her with passengers and mail. The waterfront of Queenstown—a quaint seafaring village not unlike Scituate, the Massachusetts home of the Futrelles—was lined with sightseers, tiny well-wishers whose waving could barely be made out, whose cheering could scarcely be heard.
“Good morning!”
The voice belonged to J. Bruce Ismay, standing tall and thin, a handsome Ichabod Crane in a dark blue suit with gray pinstripes and matching gray spats, and, brisk breeze or not, no topcoat or hat.
As the blanket-bundled Futrelle and May stirred, Ismay urged them, “Don’t get up, please don’t get up on my account!” Before Futrelle could make introductions, the White Star Line director bowed to May. “J. Bruce Ismay, madam—I presume you’re the lovely Mrs. Futrelle.”
“If I’m not,” she said, “the lovely Mr. Futrelle has some explaining to do.”
Ismay laughed, once—he used laughs as punctuation, having enough of a sense of humor to know where to place them, though no more. “I understand you’re an author yourself.”
“A novice compared to Jack, here, I’m afraid.”
“But published.”
“Oh yes. Several times.”
“An accomplishment I envy. May I sit?”
“Please,” Futrelle said, and Ismay pulled up a deck chair on the husband’s side.
“Would it be bad form, sir, to ask if you’ve had time to consider my proposal?”
“Not at all.” Futrelle nodded toward his wife. “I have discussed it with May. She’s favorably disposed toward doing a mystery set aboard your ship.”
He beamed so widely at her, the ends of his mustache threatened to tickle the corners of his eyes. “I’m grateful, madam. I was not at all convinced your husband would say yes.”
“I haven’t said yes,” Futrelle reminded him.
“I hope that isn’t ‘no,’” Ismay said.
“I haven’t decided, but I am leaning in your direction, sir.”
“Splendid! What can I do to aid you?”
“We’ve had a tour of the ship, thanks to your personable purser, Mr. McElroy.”
“Wonderful chap.”
“Yes he is. But we may wish to take a closer look at the Titanic, from the crow’s nest to the boiler room. As a newspaperman turned fiction writer, I find the more truth I can build my tale around, the better.”
Ismay was nodding at the good sense of that. “Well, tonight at the captain’s table, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Andrews. I’m sure he’ll take you anywhere on the ship that you wish, and he has keys to everything.”
“Thomas Andrews? The master shipbuilder responsible for this vessel?”
“Himself,” Ismay said, clearly pleased that Futrelle was this knowledgeable, though Futrelle knew only what a few articles had told him.
A small and colorful flotilla of bumboats laden with local vendors and their wares had followed in the wakes of the two tenders; the bumboats bobbed out there, voices traveling over the water, “Lace and linens!,” “Knick-knacks and fineries!”
With comical urgency, May asked Ismay if they’d be allowed to board.
“It’s White Star’s policy to let the more reputable merchants come aboard,” he said, with a tiny shrug, “as a courtesy to our passengers.”
Her eyes were bright; shopping was one of May’s passions. “Where will they be setting up, and when?”
“On the aft A-deck promenade, madam, and soon.”
May turned to her husband, and said, “Jack, I need to get my handbag in our stateroom. Why don’t you continue your chat with Mr. Ismay, and I’ll meet you down on deck in a few minutes.”
Futrelle said that was fine, stood to help his wife unbundle herself from her blanket, they exchanged pecks on the cheek, and she was gone as if fired from a rocket.
“My wife is the same,” Ismay admitted. “Someday you simply must visit my wing at Harrods.”
Futrelle chuckled; that was a pretty good jest, coming from Ismay. “Actually, Bruce…” They were on first-name terms, after all; Ismay had insisted, yesterday. “I’m pleased we have a moment in private. There’s a subject I need to broach that I’d prefer to keep from my wife.”
Ismay frowned in interest, saying, “Continue, please.”
And Futrelle told Ismay of his meeting with Crafton on the balcony of the Grand Staircase—omitting, of course, his dangling of the man over the railing.
But Ismay didn’t need to be told of the latter.
With a smile and a genuine laugh, Ismay said, “Well, that finally explains it—the rumor I heard that a man of your description had hung a smaller man upside down off the balcony.”
“Weren’t you going to bring that up, sir?”
“Why? No complaint was filed by Mr. Crafton, and my policy, my company’s policy, is to treat our honored guests with… discretion.”
“How discreet was I, hanging that bastard over the railing?”
“Not very. Frankly, if I’m not out of line, Jack, I would discourage such practice in future… though that little snake in the grass is worthy of worse.”
“I know for a fact that he’s approached a number of your other passengers; I’ve happened upon him in the act, several times.”
Ismay’s expression darkened. “That is distressing news.”
Futrelle ticked the names off on his fingers. “Major Butt, Mr. Straus, Mr. Stead, even a Second-Class passenger named Hoffman… They’ve all apparently sent him packing.”
/> “Good for them.”
“Of course, I have no way of knowing what sort of threat he made, in these individual cases… He clearly represents an international blackmail ring.”
“Clearly.”
“With what did he threaten you, Mr. Ismay?”
Ismay blinked; he hadn’t seen that question coming. “Pardon?”
“I saw him knock on your door, shortly after I left your suite yesterday morning… just before noon? And I saw you admit him.”
Half a smile settled in Ismay’s check, raising one end of his mustache. “You do get around, sir.”
“This is a large ship, but a small city. I’m merely more observant than the average person, because of my line of work. That’s what you get when you cross a newspaperman with a mystery writer… You’re not obligated to tell me, Bruce. I’m just curious, as a fellow Crafton-appointed ‘client.’”
Ismay shrugged. “He was simply threatening to widely circulate a certain canard about the building of this ship.”
“What canard would that be?”
“A foolish rumor that this ship was built at such a supposedly ‘frenetic pace’ that a crew of workers were trapped within her hull, and that we simply left them there… to ‘suffocate and die.’”
“Were there any deaths in the building of this ship?”
Another dismissive shrug. “From keel laying to launch, only two—quite within acceptable standards—the unwritten rule of British shipyards, you know.”
“What unwritten rule is that, Bruce?”
“ ‘One death for every one hundred pounds spent.’”
It was attitudes like that that bred unions and strikes. But at the moment Futrelle was more concerned with blackmail than politics, and said, “Crafton threatened to spread this ‘trapped crewmen’ tale in the ‘sensationalist’ press, I suppose.”
“Certainly.”
“Please tell me you didn’t pay him off, Bruce.”
The Titanic Murders Page 7