The bugler announced dinner.
“There’s nothing to do on these damned ships but eat,” René said. “So—shall we?”
Everyone agreed with her on both counts, but as they were going down the stairs, René’s high heel caught her dress and she went tumbling down half a flight of stairs. Futrelle’s first thought was that Crafton’s ghost had tried to shove him and caught René instead.
Everyone rushed to her side, and found her laughing and crying and swearing, all at once.
“First critical thing I’ve said about this ship,” she said, “and the damned thing decides to break my arm.”
Her arm indeed was broken, her self-diagnosis confirmed by Dr. O’Loughlin, and a Dr. Frauenthal—a joint specialist who was traveling First Class—agreed to set it in plaster. Dorothy Gibson went off to join her mother in the First-Class Dining Saloon, but the rest of the group decided to wait to eat until René could join them, agreeing to meet for a late dinner in the à la carte restaurant, the so-called Ritz.
Just before nine P.M., the Futrelles were the first to take their seats at the table in the luxurious restaurant, which—with its Louis Seize decor, from its floral-pattern plaster ceiling to the gilded, finely figured French walnut paneling, from its crystal chandeliers to the rose-hued Axminster carpet—might have been the dining room of some fine hotel in Paris.
The passengers dining at the spacious Ritz were dressed to the nines, as traditionally the second-to-last night out was the final opportunity to dress up (last night out was for packing and formal dining attire was set aside). The men in their white tie and tails, the women in the latest Parisian gowns, pale satins and clingy gauze, arrayed in glittering jewelry, were in high spirits, the air ringing with giddy laughter and wafting with the sweet aroma of flowers.
“You know, Jack,” May said, admiring the vase of American Beauty roses that was their table’s centerpiece, “something has been troubling me.”
None of the rich, fashionable women around them had anything over May: she was ravishing in her gold silk-satin gown, its short sleeves decorated with strands of glass beads, her hair up and adorned with bird-of-paradise plumes.
His wife’s beauty made him light-headed; or was it the wine he was sipping? “What, darling?”
“It’s about the Cleaver girl.”
Futrelle smirked. “Whatever could you find troubling about a nice girl like Alice?”
“That fellow—Rood? He was a big man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, well, tall, anyway. Not heavyset.”
“But, still… how could she have lifted him into that lifeboat?”
“She’s got considerable strength, dear.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Here are the Harrises.”
René was making a rather dramatic entrance, in a short-sleeved gown showing off her new cast, Henry following dutifully after. Word of her accident had traveled around the ship, and the passengers in the restaurant applauded her.
As Henry pulled out a chair for his wife, Futrelle said, “I thought the show-business expression was ‘break a leg’?”
“I believe in setting trends,” she said, though she was obviously suffering.
A private party in honor of Captain Smith’s approaching retirement was under way, and both the captain and Tom Andrews stopped by to compliment René on her “spirit” and “spunk,” respectively.
Futrelle chatted briefly with Andrews, who looked surprisingly fresh.
“Tom, what’s wrong?” Futrelle asked. “You actually look like you’ve had some sleep!”
Andrews grinned, leaning a hand on the writer’s chair. “Well, it’s just that I’ve finally caught up with all the problems on this little rowboat. I believe she’s as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.”
“Judging by the human brains I’ve encountered,” Futrelle kidded him, “that’s not much of a testimonial.”
Andrews laughed at that, graciously, and went back to the party honoring his captain.
The dinner was eight amazing courses, trundled over by the usual succession of white-jacketed waiters, bearing exotic dishes with French appellations that translated to quail eggs with caviar, spring pea soup, lobster thermidor with duchess potatoes, filet mignon with wild mushrooms, mint sorbet, quails with cherries, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and fresh fruit salad.
Familiar faces were dotted around the elegant restaurant: Archie Butt and Frank Millet were among the jovial guests at the Widener family’s party for Captain Smith, who had long since retired to the bridge; John and Madeline Astor, at a table for two, the expecting couple huddling romantically; and Ismay and Dr. O’Loughlin, in a side alcove, huddling in a different manner, a serious, businesslike fashion at odds with the gaeity all around. Futrelle could only wonder if the good doctor was being enlisted to carry out the mystery writer’s suggested course of action, i.e., the signing of certain documents, specifically death certificates for the late Crafton and Rood.
The Futrelles and the Harrises took their time with the endless meal, sipped their wine, told stories on each other, filling the air with laughter and forgoing the evening concert for each other’s company. By the time the night was over, Futrelle had agreed to write both a Broadway play and a cinema script for the producer, and René—who had been holding court throughout the evening, as virtually every passenger dining in the Ritz stopped by to celebrate her pluck—grandly announced that having a broken arm was a definite social asset.
Despite the now bitter cold, Futrelle and May took one last stroll on the boat deck, in their elegant evening wear, without their coats; it was now eleven o’clock, but they were warmed by wine and each other.
“It’s been a wonderful second honeymoon,” he told her, as they paused at the rail, the sky was again flung with stars, the preternaturally calm ocean stretching out like the skin of a vast black pudding.
“You were wonderful, Jack,” she said, not very drunk. “Brilliant as Professor Van Dusen himself—and braver than Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, you’re a much prettier Watson, my darling. Also, smarter.”
Her laughter was brittle yet musical, like a wind chime echoing in the sea air.
“The only thing missing is the children,” he said.
“We’ll be with them soon enough. Maybe next crossing, we’ll bring them along.”
“Capital idea, my love. Are you freezing? I’m freezing.”
“Walk me home.”
They entered the Grand Staircase balcony, being careful to watch their step, avoiding René’s fate (and Crafton’s ghost), and the sounds of the orchestra playing their medley from Tales of Hoffmann, with its romantic echoes of Venetian gondolas and lantern-lighted balconies, floated up the stairwell from several decks below. On the next landing, they waltzed briefly, laughing like young lovers, then stopped and embraced and kissed the same way.
He walked her to their stateroom door, and said, “Do you mind if I go to the Smoking Room, for a cigarette before bed?”
“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to be awake when you get back… that wine went straight to my head.”
“I love you, darling,” he said lightly, and they shared a peck of a kiss.
The Smoking Room was lightly attended, the concert tonight going a bit long, apparently; the usual card games were under way, and smoke floated like blue fog. Archie and Millet were playing bridge with young Widener and Hays. Nearby, in a leather armchair, in the glow of a table lamp, reading a book, sat a bewhiskered oversize gnome in yellow brown, rumpled tweed: W. T. Stead.
Futrelle pulled a chair around. “May I join you for a moment, Mr. Stead?”
Stead looked up, pleasantly. “Certainly, sir. I’m rereading Angell’s The Great Illusion, that magnificent antiwar tract; it may provide inspiration for my speech at Carnegie Hall.”
“I didn’t see you about the ship, this afternoon, Mr. Stead. You were even missing from morning services.”
“No, I’ve been indisposed.
”
“Indigestion?”
“Conscience… I ill used my powers of mediumship last night, Mr. Futrelle.”
“Toward a good end.”
“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “But the ends do not justify the means.”
“I apologize if I coerced you into corrupting your sense of ethics.”
Stead managed a small grin, patting his belly. “I’m a big boy, Mr. Futrelle. No one forces me to do anything I don’t care to do.”
“Mr. Stead, what was that business last night with the message from ‘Julia’? You were padding your part, a bit, weren’t you?”
His response was matter of fact: “That was a real message from the other side, Mr. Futrelle—perhaps scolding me for my actions.”
“Ah.”
“ ‘Ah’ indeed.”
“Well, you should know soon enough, if helping me was right or wrong.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
Futrelle shrugged. “Your friend Julia said you’d be hearing a ‘clarion call,’ soon—and get all the answers you’ve been seeking. Doesn’t sound like a scolding to me.”
“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I hope you are.”
A steward leaned in and said, “Can I get you anything, sir? A brandy, perhaps?”
Futrelle glanced up; it was the boy from the Verandah Café, with the bruised jaw and the tow head.
“You know,” Futrelle said, rising, “you can. Would you mind stepping out on deck with me for a moment?”
“Sir?”
“Won’t take but a few seconds. The privacy will benefit both of us.”
The steward, smiling nervously, backed up. “Sir, I’m working….”
“And I’m a First-Class passenger, and I’d like some help out on deck.”
“… All right, sir.”
Futrelle smiled down at Stead. “Thanks for your assistance, last night; that was a service only you could have provided. Now, get back to your book, and see if you can’t come up with a formula for world peace.”
Half a smile blossomed in the white-thicket beard. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Futrelle.”
Futrelle motioned to the young steward to go through the revolving doors, into the Verandah Café, which they did.
Though the café was empty, the writer said, “Out on the boat deck, if you please.”
“Isn’t this private enough, sir?”
“The boat deck, if you please.”
The boy lowered his head, his eyes peering up like a beaten dog’s. “All right, sir. If you insist, sir.”
Out in the bitter cold of the still night, under a thousand stars but no moon, Futrelle lighted up a Fatima, smiled meaninglessly at the lad, who stood before him, with the blankly apprehensive expression of a teenager guilty of numerous infractions, wondering which one his parent knows about.
Smart in his white jacket with gold buttons, he was a handsome boy, with wide-set dark brown eyes, a strong nose and full, nearly feminine lips. He was shaking. It might have been the bitter cold. Futrelle doubted that.
“What’s your name, son?”
“William, sir. William Stephen Faulkner.”
“Do they call you Bill?”
“They call me William.”
“Where are you from, William?”
“Romsey Road, sir. Southampton.”
Futrelle exhaled a stream of Fatima smoke. “William, has Alice told you what I’m trying to do?”
The boy frowned. “What? Who?”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence. Your girlfriend—Alice. I’m trying to help her. Like you tried to help her.”
A nervous smile formed. “Sir, you… you must have me confused with someone else. If you’ll excuse me.”
The boy began to go, but Futrelle gripped his arm. “For God’s sake, son, don’t make me turn you in. Give me a reason not to.”
Their faces were an inch apart; the brown eyes were wide with alarm. “Sir! What… what do you want from me?”
Futrelle let loose of him, took a step back. “The truth, William. What happened on the boat deck, with Alice and Rood, that night? You were there, weren’t you? In the shadows, waiting to protect her. Surely you wouldn’t have allowed her to meet such a dangerous individual by herself, not after what she’d been through with Crafton.”
His mouth hung open in amazement. “How can you know this?”
“Alice told me,” Futrelle lied. “But I want to hear it from you, son.”
The young man stumbled toward the rail, held on. The boat well yawned below; beyond that, the poop deck. No one was out on such a chill night as this—just this boy and the mystery writer.
“He grabbed her arms,” the boy said numbly. “He was shakin’ her, shakin’ her…”
The boy demonstrated, grabbing the air.
“That’s when you stepped in?”
He nodded, swallowing. “I… I grabbed him, pulled him away from her—and he swung at me, got me here… that’s how I got this jaw, sir… and as I was gettin’ up, he pushed me down. I came up hard, rammin’ into him, shovin’ him back, and…”
“He hit his head.”
The boy sighed heavily and nodded. “There was a lot of blood; I sneaked back, later, with a bucket, and cleaned that up. Alice didn’t scream or nothin’. She was calm, almost like she was in a trance. She helped me hide ’im in the boat… it took the both of us to do it….”
“I know.”
“You know that?”
“That’s how I knew she had help, son. She couldn’t have lifted that body up into that hanging boat, not by herself. And you were her only friend on the ship, weren’t you?”
He shrugged, then nodded; hung his head. “She’s not a bad girl, sir. ’Tweren’t her fault, none of it.”
“Did you unlock Crafton’s door so she could go and smother him, and rob him?”
His eyes popped in horror. “No! Oh my God, no, sir—she come to me… my quarters is right in First Class, y’know—and she took me to that room and showed me what she’d done. Him all dead in bed…. She was cryin’….”
“Did you know she’d taken the money off that dresser?”
His gaze dropped. “Well… yes, sir, I did, sir… I figured she had it comin’, what hell he put her through.”
“What did you do, William?”
“Nothin’, sir. Just grabbed Alice and used my key to lock the door behind us.”
So much for the locked-door mystery.
Another swallow; then Faulkner looked up, pitifully. “Do we… do we go talk to the captain now, sir?”
“I don’t think so.”
He seemed on the verge of crying. “What do you want me to do, sir?”
“The story you just told me?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Never tell it again.”
The boy’s eyes tightened, then they widened, and his face exploded into a winning smile. “Yes, sir. You’re a hell of a bloke, sir.”
“One other thing…”
“Sir?”
Futrelle pitched his Fatima into the sea; it arched and spit sparks, like a tiny flare. “I’m going back into the Smoking Room. I’ll have a brandy.”
So, nestled into a comfortable armchair, Futrelle sat and smoked a Havana cigar Archie Butt offered him, and sucked the rich smoke into his lungs, and enjoyed the snifter of brandy the attentive young steward brought him. He had nearly nodded off when something jarred him awake—an unexpected jostle that was the first sign since he’d boarded that he was on a ship, not in a hotel. The muffled sound of agitated voices, like distant cannon fire, drifted in from outside.
Wondering idly what that had been, Futrelle rose, stretched, took one last sip of brandy, crushed out the remainder of his cigar in a White Star ashtray. Perhaps he’d go out on the cold deck, before going back to his warm wife in their warm bed, and see what the fuss was about.
He certainly couldn’t have felt more at ease, or frankly more self-satisfied. A pair of damned blackmailers were
dead, a mystery or two solved; the young lovers responsible would likely meet a merciful fate at the hands of Captain Smith. All was right with the world, the little city on the big ship safe once again, with naught but the promise of calm seas and smooth sailing ahead.
EPILOGUE
THAT NIGHT REMEMBERED
MY ANONYMOUS PHONE CALLER NEVER contacted me again, and my attempts to contact the various official expeditions to the Titanic’s wreckage on the ocean’s floor, two and a half miles under the Grand Banks, have been fruitless. My letters about murders on the ship, and the possible existence (and discovery) of two canvas-body-bagged corpses in the cold cargo hold, apparently have been viewed much as I originally did my midnight caller: the work of a crank. (My phone calls have resulted in hang-ups, bum’s rushes and being put on hold until a dial tone clicks back in.)
Of course, I have no way of contacting any unofficial expedition—doubtful as the existence of such an effort might be, considering the shortage of deep-diving submersibles like Robert Ballard’s Alvin and IFREMER’s Nautile—and confirming my caller’s story now seems unlikely or even hopeless.
Researching the story told me by May and Jack Futrelle’s daughter, Virginia, that April afternoon in Scituate, has been considerably more successful, as the narrative you’ve just concluded I hope indicates. Virtually everything Mrs. Raymond told me about the murders fit neatly into known history, and answered a number of questions that have baffled researchers (why Captain Smith canceled the Sunday lifeboat drill, for instance, and the seemingly needless rush to port).
Unfortunately, I had only that one long afternoon’s meeting with Mrs. Raymond, who passed away later that same year.
What we do know is: who survived, and who did not, and—despite the tumult of that terrible night—we have at least some idea of the circumstances surrounding those who lost their lives so tragically and, almost invariably, heroically.
For the record, at approximately 11:40 P.M., the Titanic—at a speed approaching twenty-three knots—side-swiped an iceberg, despite the ship’s captain and crew having received numerous warnings of ice in the area. With too few lifeboats aboard and a slowly dawning realization by crew and passengers of the extent of the damage to the ship, a disaster worsened into tragedy. By 2:20 A.M., the Titanic was gone, taking many of her passengers and crew with her, putting more than fifteen hundred people either in or under the icy waters.
The Titanic Murders Page 21