Futrelle was impressed, and said so.
“I enjoy tinkering,” Astor admitted.
Madeline said, “My husband could have given Edison a run for it, if his family’s business responsibilities hadn’t stood in the way.”
“Money can be a curse,” Astor observed. “Actually, I think a man who has a million dollars is almost as well-off as if he were wealthy.”
Maggie Brown’s eyes bugged out at that one; but even she couldn’t think of anything to top it.
Between the sixth and seventh courses, Futrelle asked Andrews, “Is this a pleasure trip for you, Mr. Andrews? Enjoying the fruits of your labors?”
“Well,” Andrews said, with the shy smile that caused so many to find him immediately endearing, “this trip is a pleasure… I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished. But I am working, I’m afraid.”
Ismay said, “Mr. Andrews is heading up a guarantee group from Harland and Wolff.” The White Star director was referring to the shipbuilding firm that, under Andrews’s guidance, had constructed the Titanic.
“What is a ‘guarantee group’?” May asked.
“My assistants and I move about, hopefully undetected,” Andrews explained, “tracking down the inevitable snags, flaws and breakdowns that bedevil every new ship.”
Maggie Brown asked, “Is there anything to be worried about, Mr. Andrews? We’re not guinea pigs, are we? ’Cause if so, we’re paying a pretty penny for the privilege.”
“Actually, Mrs. Brown,” Andrews said, lightly, “we’re talking about such major problems as a plugged-up kitchen drain, or a malfunctioning ice machine.”
“This ship is a marvel,” Ismay said, at once dismissive and boastful. “And Mr. Andrews, God bless him, is a professional fussbudget… Earlier he told me he’d uncovered a troubling flaw in the ship.”
All eyes turned to Ismay for this dire news.
“The coat hooks in the staterooms employ too many screws,” Ismay said.
As his tablemates laughed good-naturedly, Andrews damn near blushed, touching a napkin to his lips, saying only in his defense, “The devil’s in the details, Mr. Ismay.”
“Well, you’ve given us a lovely ship, sir,” Madeline Astor said. “Please accept our thanks, and our compliments.”
Wineglasses were raised in an informal toast and Andrews finally went the entire distance, blushing like a rose. Captain Smith raised a water glass, however, as he was not drinking alcohol.
After dessert, Ismay spoke up. “I regret to inform you that this is Captain Smith’s final crossing.”
Astor asked, “Is that right, Captain?”
A smile emerged from the trim white beard. “Yes it is. I’ll be sixty soon. Forty-five years at sea, thirty-two of them with White Star… I think it’s time to turn the helm over to younger men.”
Futrelle asked, “Do you like these big ships, Captain? Like the Olympic, and the Titanic?”
He nodded, but there was a graveness about it. “Modern shipbuilding has come a long way.”
That wasn’t quite an answer to his question, but Futrelle let it pass. He knew that Smith—whose career had been otherwise spotless—had had his first real accident earlier this year, with the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic, of which he was the captain at the time of a collision with a Royal Navy cruiser. Futrelle suspected, after the performance with the New York, that Captain Smith had not mastered the finer points of seamanship needed to navigate the White Star’s new “wonder ships.”
“You should come back to command all the maiden voyages,” Astor said. “It wouldn’t be a White Star first crossing without you.”
“I’ll second that,” Andrews said, raising his wineglass.
“And I,” Ismay added.
The entire table raised their glasses to the captain, who smiled and nodded, then said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at the end of this crossing, I’ll have logged two million miles aboard White Star ships… and I think I’ve earned some time ashore.”
The captain thanked the group for its “splendid company,” and invited the men to join him in the smoking room for a cigar and brandy, while the women stayed at the table for conversation and aperitifs.
The First-Class Smoking Room, on A deck, was a bastion of male supremacy, an exclusive men’s club at sea where shipping magnates, rail and oil barons and millionaire industrialists could mingle in an atmosphere of free-flowing liquor, high-stakes card playing, and of course cigar smoke that was almost as rich as they were. The Georgian-style mahogany paneling, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, inset with stained-glass windows and etched mirrors, had the feel of a stately, prosperous Protestant church, an impression undercut by the green leather-upholstered armchairs and marble-topped tables, each with a raised edge around it to catch a sliding drink in rough weather.
The little group of men from the captain’s table—Smith, Astor, Andrews, Ismay and Futrelle—stood near the jutting corner whose walls with backlighted stained-glass images of Art Nouveau nymphs and sailing ships gracefully disguised and enclosed the casing of the ship’s immense rear funnel.
Again, the captain declined to drink, but he clearly relished a Cuban cigar so seductively fragrant that confirmed cigarette smoker Futrelle began to question his own tastes.
“With the exception of the sea, and Mrs. Smith,” Ismay said, “the captain’s greatest love is a good cigar.”
Smith raised an eyebrow, nodding his agreement as he held the Cuban before him, regarding it as if it were a treasure map. “Once I’ve retired, gentlemen, should you enter a room where I’m indulging in a fine Cuban such as this, I beg you keep still, so the blue cloud around my head not be disturbed.”
That prompted some gentle laughter, and as Astor began a discussion of yachting with the captain, Futrelle turned away to take in the room.
Seated about the smoke-draped chamber were such luminaries as publisher Henry Harper, railroad magnate Charles M. Hays, Senator William B. Allison of Iowa, and military historian Colonel Archibald Gracie.
And so was at least one considerably less illustrious individual, a certain John Bertram Crafton.
Crafton was seated at a table for four, but only one other seat was taken, by a slender, respectable-looking clean-shaven reddish-haired man, perhaps forty years of age, in formal evening attire, indicating he—like the captain’s party—had earlier supped in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Crafton still wore this afternoon’s brown suit.
The blackmailer was leaning forward conspiratorially and his distinguished-looking companion was frowning in the manner so common to prospective Crafton “clients.”
Noticing Major Butt and his friend Francis Millet seated near the fireplace, Futrelle excused himself and wandered over and sat between them.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I notice our old friend is spreading his typical good cheer.”
Broad-shouldered Archie had a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other; his sneer sent his mustache askew. Gray-haired Millet sat across from the major, hands folded, his own brandy untouched.
“Somebody should toss that bastard overboard,” Archie snorted. “Do I take it you’ve had the pleasure of Mr. Crafton’s company, Jack? Are you now a fellow ‘client’?”
“Oh yes—he dredged up my ‘nervous breakdown’ and I told him to stuff himself.”
“Is that right?” Archie shook his head. “He’s come after me with the same sort of rubbish… only there wasn’t much dredging that needed doing. This, uh… papal visit is something of a camouflage. I’ve been recently hospitalized.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Archie—but you look well, now.”
“Jack, I’m sure you can imagine the personal and professional pressure I’ve been under, with my loyalties divided between Teddy and Bill.”
The major meant by that Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft, two presidents whose loyalty he’d pledged who were now facing off against each other politically. Being pulled between two such powerful individuals could strain a
nyone, even someone as strong as Major Archie Butt.
Millet said, “Archie was briefly in an English sanitarium… just to get away, to calm his jangled nerves, his… depression.”
Futrelle nodded toward Crafton, who was still quietly speaking to the distinguished stranger. “And he threatened to go to the yellow press with the story, I suppose.”
Archie nodded. His eyes betrayed the depressed state in which he was still, to some degree, caught up.
“Did you pay him off, Archie?”
“Certainly not!”
“Forgive me for asking… Who is that Crafton’s sitting with?”
“That’s Hugh Rood,” Archie said. “I’m told he’s a London merchant of some kind; import, export. Very well-off.”
And barely had Archie’s description of the man ended when Rood sprang to his feet and grasped Crafton by the lapels of his suit and dragged him halfway across the marble-topped table, spilling drinks, glass shattering on the fancy linoleum, every eye in the room turning toward the two men.
“Approach me again at your own risk,” Rood shouted, his voice low-pitched, harsh.
And he backhanded the little blackmailer, viciously, the slap ringing in the room like a gunshot.
Crafton tumbled from his chair onto the floor, and the sound was like somebody dropping a bundle of kindling.
Captain Smith stepped forward, Ismay took a step back, but before anyone could do or say anything else, Rood strode from the room, his face burning.
Crafton, ever resilient, rose from the linoleum, shrugged, licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled feebly, straightening his clothing. With surprising dignity, he said, “Mr. Rood has an unfortunate temper… Captain, as a good Christian, I prefer not to press charges.”
Then the ferrety little man took a halfhearted bow, and made a hasty exit, as conversation in the Smoking Room rose to a boisterous din of amazement, confusion and amusement.
DAY THREE
APRIL 12, 1912
FIVE
THE PROBLEM OF C13
AT TEN O’CLOCK, THE FUTRELLES were still in bed—actually, they were back in bed, having enjoyed a room-service breakfast—and, following some second-honeymoon calisthenics, they were still in their nightclothes, propped up with feather pillows, each lost in a novel.
They had decided the boat deck might be a bit chilly for deck-chair reading, and there would be time aplenty this afternoon for socializing. For all its amenities, the Titanic had no organized activities for passengers, who spent most of their time reading books, writing letters and playing cards.
Pools on the speed of the ship were another pastime, and each day in the Smoking Room, the prior day’s run was posted; the ship had made 386 miles, from Thursday to Friday, despite her two stops for passengers and mail—yesterday’s run would probably top five hundred. There was talk that Captain Smith and Ismay were trying to beat sister ship Olympic’s maiden-voyage performance.
May was reading the popular The Virginian by Owen Wister, which she’d bought in London; there had been something perversely satisfying about purchasing a novel of the American West from a West End bookseller. Futrelle was absorbed in a book he’d discovered in the ship’s library, contributed by some scamp as a grim joke: Futility, a science-fiction-tinged tale about the shipwreck of a luxury liner not unlike this one; in fact, the author—one Morgan Robertson, whose style was little better than the penny dreadfuls, but whose fertile imagination (like John Jacob Astor) made up for it—had even named his great ship the Titan.
The shrill ring of the nightstand phone drew Futrelle away from his novel—an iceberg had just struck the fictional wonder ship—and Futrelle answered it with a distracted, “Yes?”
“Oh, good! You’re there…. This is Bruce… Bruce Ismay.”
As if there were any doubt which Bruce it might be.
Ismay was saying, “I had hoped we’d find you in your stateroom.”
“Well, Bruce, you have,” Futrelle said, hoping Ismay wasn’t calling to say a full ship’s tour with Andrews had been arranged; Futrelle had in mind a lazy day. “How can I help you?”
“Could you come to my suite, straightaway? And do please come alone. The captain and I would like to speak with you… privately.”
The captain? That fact, and something in Ismay’s voice—a distressed edge—finally pulled Futrelle’s attention away from the novel, which he laid folded open on the nightstand.
“I’ll be there shortly,” Futrelle said, and hung up.
May peeked over the colorful dust jacket of The Virginian. “I take it that was Mr. Ismay. What does he want now?”
“Possibly something to do with the book project,” Futrelle said, reluctantly climbing from the comfortable bed.
“You don’t sound convinced of that.”
“I’m not.” Futrelle was at the closet, choosing his clothing for the day. The brown houndstooth-check suit seemed appropriate, somehow. “I suspect something’s wrong.”
“Whatever could it be?”
He smirked to himself. “Let’s hope it’s not an iceberg.”
“What, dear?”
“Nothing… just, when you’ve finished The Virginian, for your own peace of mind, I’d avoid this little novel I’m reading.”
She gave him a puzzled look, shrugged and returned to her reading.
Within minutes, Futrelle was again knocking at the door to suite B52. This time a servant answered—a cadaverous liveried butler in his late fifties—who ushered Futrelle through the parlor of the grandiose stateroom. Soon the author had left Napoleon’s Empire stylings behind for the mock-Tudor world of Ismay’s private enclosed promenade, with its white walls with dark half-timbering.
Blond wicker chairs, mostly deck-style, mingled with the potted plants, so the sunny space provided plenty of places to sit; but both Captain Smith and J. Bruce Ismay were pacing, with all the anxiety of expectant fathers but none of the hope.
“Jack!” Ismay said. He wore a businesslike dark brown tweed; no knickers today. “Thank you for coming, old man. Sit down, won’t you?”
Ismay pulled a wicker chair out into the walking area, and Futrelle sat; the White Star director drew up his own chair, while Smith—regal in a uniform as white and well pressed as that of a prosperous ice-cream salesman—stood with his hands locked behind him, staring absently out at the endless gunmetal sea.
Ismay was fussing. “Would you like coffee or tea, sir? Anything at all?”
“No. We had a late breakfast. Your room service is superb, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” Ismay said.
The captain said nothing.
Awkwardness settled over the promenade like fog. Ismay looked toward Smith for help, but Smith’s eyes were on the boundless waters.
“Something extremely unfortunate has occurred,” Ismay said, finally. “One of our passengers has… passed on to his final reward.”
“Who died?”
Ismay twitched a wholly inappropriate smile. “Mr. John Bertram Crafton of London.”
A humorless laugh that started in his chest rumbled out of Futrelle like a cannonball. Then he asked, “Murdered?”
Captain Smith glanced sharply over his shoulder, then stared back out at sea.
Ismay’s eyes and nostrils were flaring like those of a rearing horse. “Why do you assume he’s been murdered?”
“Oh, I don’t know—perhaps because he appears to have been trying to blackmail the entire First-Class passenger list… yourself included, Bruce.”
Ismay swallowed thickly. “Our ship’s surgeon indicates natural causes. Though a relatively young man, Mr. Crafton appears to have died in his sleep… peacefully. Who knows—perhaps he had a heart condition.”
Futrelle was cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief. “For that to be true, he’d’ve had to have a heart.”
Ismay sighed, shifted in the wicker chair, crackingly. “If this were a case of murder… and believe me, it isn’t… you would be in a particularly
awkward position, Jack. After all, witnesses saw you suspending Mr. Crafton by his ankles over the Grand Staircase balcony.”
“That was just a prank to make a point.”
Futrelle thought he saw a faint smile cross the captain’s lips, but—in his side view of the man—wasn’t positive.
“In any case,” Futrelle said, “I was hardly alone in my distaste for Mr. Crafton. I don’t believe he was your choice for most favorite passenger, either, Bruce—and of course, Mr. Rood slapped him rather publicly, last night.”
“Very true,” Ismay said, nodding. “But, again, our ship’s surgeon says this is definitely not murder.”
“Well, that’s a relief, because you’d certainly have a blue-chip list of suspects on your hands… not to mention have a damper thrown over your highly publicized maiden voyage.”
Fires lighted in the White Star’s director’s eyes, and his spine stiffened. “That will not be allowed to happen.”
Futrelle shrugged. “If it’s not murder, why should it? As I believe I pointed out, we are a little town, floating in this palace of the sea. People die in little towns every day, every night. A natural enough occurrence… sad though it might be.”
“Yes.” Ismay lowered his head, his expression somber. “The loss of any one of our fellowmen is not to be taken lightly. As it is said in the Bible, ‘His eye is on the sparrow.’”
“And, it would seem, the vulture… So what does this have to do with me, gentlemen?”
The two men exchanged enigmatic expressions.
Then Ismay withdrew from the inside pocket of his suit coat a sheet of paper—White Star rounded-corner letterhead (found in every cabin on this ship) with its familiar wind-caught white-starred red flag at left of the legend: On Board R.M.S. Titanic. Oddly, the bottom of the sheet was torn away, leaving only three-quarters of the otherwise perfect specimen of Titanic stationery intact.
On the page, in a cramped, masculine cursive, had been penned the following list of names:
Astor
Brown
Butt/Millet
The Titanic Murders Page 9