Futrelle didn’t bother pointing out that the embarrassment Ismay was concerned about was his own, and his company’s.
Instead, he said, “Where are the documents now?”
“In the purser’s safe,” the captain said. “Mr. Futrelle, as bizarre as the proposition might sound, could we have two murderers aboard? If Mr. Rood had obtained the extra key, and used it to enter and slay Mr. Crafton, it would explain the presence in Rood’s room of these sensitive documents.”
Futrelle smiled but he wasn’t happy. “Rood wasn’t Crafton’s blackmail victim, gentlemen-he was his accomplice.”
Captain Smith’s eyes widened and he shook his head, no. “Have you forgotten that Rood assaulted Crafton in the Smoking Room!”
“Conveniently staged by the two of them,” Futrelle said, “to cloak their collaboration.”
The eyes of both men seemed to light up as they grasped the implications.
Futrelle continued: “And Rood was unforthcoming to me, yesterday, because he alone of those I spoke to knew that Crafton was dead, or was at least in a bad way. Rood may have entered his partner’s cabin and seen the body, before that housekeeping stewardess discovered it; or he may have realized that the guard posted on Crafton’s room meant that either his partner was in custody, or dead.”
“So the motive remains the same,” Captain Smith said. “Another blackmailer has been murdered.”
“And probably by one of your First-Class passengers,” Futrelle said.
Ismay thought about that briefly, then said, “Your suspect in Second Class-Mr. Hoffman-might have made his way to the boat deck, in the middle of the night. That is when our crew members would be most susceptible to a bribe from a Second-Class passenger who wanted to see how the other half traveled.”
“What are we going to do, gentlemen?” Futrelle asked.
Ismay’s eyes narrowed and his voice cut like a knife. “You, sir, are going to do nothing. You will cease and desist, where your investigation is concerned, and you will speak to no one of this, including your wife.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”
“I apologize for the harshness of my tone. Perhaps, if you and your delightful wife were moved to Second Class, it would remove the temptation of talking about this matter with the First-Class passengers.”
“Why not put us in steerage? Then I couldn’t even talk to Hoffman.”
Ismay smiled and half bowed. “Very gracious of you. Shall I make the arrangements?”
“Mr. Ismay,” Captain Smith said sharply, “I don’t appreciate any attempt to intimidate Mr. Futrelle. As you damn well know, his investigation was at my request. He’s generously helped us, and I won’t condone your rudeness to him. Must I remind you that I’m still the captain of this ship?”
Ismay nodded. “I apologize, gentlemen. The captain is quite right. Mr. Futrelle, I do thank you for what you’ve done, and request your cooperation.”
Futrelle offered half a smile to the White Star director. “I was just about to say yes to your idea of writing a murder mystery set on the Titanic. I believe we have the right subject matter, now.”
Ismay sighed, his eyes going to half-lidded. “Perhaps I deserve that. Can I count on your cooperation, Jack?”
“Bruce… Captain Smith… I’m at your service. Will you be launching an official inquiry? Perhaps by the master-at-arms?”
The captain shook his head. “No. But we will be heightening ship’s security. These murders both happened after dark. Let’s hope the daylight is safe.”
“I don’t think our passengers are in any danger,” Ismay said. “The only victims have been blackmailers, and unless a third accomplice is aboard, who would be at risk?”
“I tend to agree,” Futrelle said, rising, “but I applaud the captain’s precautions nonetheless.”
“I have suggested,” Ismay said, “that we proceed with all possible speed into port. The sooner we have our passengers safely on shore, the better.”
“With the extra boilers lit, we may be able to reach New York as early as Tuesday evening,” Captain Smith said, rising, adding, “I’ll see you out, Mr. Futrelle.”
The captain walked with Futrelle down the officers’ promenade, Second Officer Lightoller walking behind, keeping a respectful distance.
Staring out at the gray sea under the gray-blue sky, the captain asked, “Do you think there’s anything we’ve overlooked, sir?”
Futrelle considered that for a few seconds, then admitted, “The only thing that comes to mind… and it’s probably nothing… is the Allison family.”
“The Allisons.” Captain Smith nodded. “I’ve spoken to Hudson Allison; nice fellow. What connection could he have to any of this?”
“You wouldn’t think anything… but I know for a fact Crafton sought the Allisons out, was friendly to them. If you were to ask Hudson and Bess Allison about John Bertram Crafton, they would tell you what a friendly, charming fellow he is. Of course, their nanny was giving him the evil eye….”
Captain Smith stopped dead. “Their nanny? A woman named Alice something?”
“Why, yes…”
Why in God’s name would the captain of a ship the size of the Titanic, carrying thousands of passengers, remember or even ever know the name of one family’s nanny?
The captain turned to Lightoller and asked, “Do you have that note, Mr. Lightoller, that came up from Third Class a day or two ago?”
“I believe I know where it is, sir. We didn’t do a thing about that, though, sir.”
“I know. Fetch it, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lightoller clipped off, toward the wheelhouse, and Futrelle said, “I’m afraid, Captain, you’ve got me thoroughly confused.”
“A note came up from Third Class, I don’t remember the name of the fellow, but the gist of it was that he knew something about the Allisons’ nanny and wanted to know what it was worth.”
“Sounds like you have a blackmailer in steerage, too.”
Captain Smith twitched a frown. “We didn’t follow up on it-it seemed just a crank note, and unclear as to its purpose at that. If the Allisons are satisfied with their nanny, why should the opinion of some lout in steerage be of any interest or concern?”
Lightoller was on his way back, a small piece of paper in hand.
The captain said, “Give that to Mr. Futrelle, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” Lightoller said, and did.
“That will be all, Mr. Lightoller. I’ll see Mr. Futrelle to First Class.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then the captain and the mystery writer were alone on the promenade.
“Mr. Futrelle, would you do me the favor of looking into this for me? Mr. Andrews will see that you get down to steerage… and back again, despite Mr. Ismay’s wishes.”
“My pleasure. Does this mean I’m back on the case, Captain?”
A glorious smile appeared in the impeccably trimmed snowy beard. “It’s my last crossing, Mr. Futrelle. What’s Ismay going to do-fire me?”
The captain said he had alerted Mr. Andrews that Futrelle would be stopping by, and the writer made his way to the shipbuilder’s suite on A deck, on the port side of the ship just off the First-Class aft reception area. Along the way Futrelle read the note, written in pencil, in a legible cursive hand and, despite a few misspellings, fairly literate, seeming to speak less of blackmail than Captain Smith had implied:
To the captain
I have notice on your fine shipp Miss Alice Cleaver nurse to young children of man and wife in first class who’s name I don’t know. Details on Miss Cleavers past history is of value to parents.
Untill I hear from you sir I remain your servant
Alfred Davies
Futrelle folded the note and dropped it in his pocket, then knocked on the door of A36. He was just ready to knock again when Andrews appeared, wearing coveralls, a distracted expression and the baggy-eyed look of a man who wasn’t getting enough sleep.<
br />
“Good morning, Tom,” Futrelle said. “Are those the required togs for Third Class?”
“Pardon?” Then he looked at himself. “Oh, this boiler suit… no, after I’ve put you and your Mr. Davies together, I have to go down to the stokehold, to speak to the chief engineer.”
Beyond the gentle-faced man with the rugged build in the doorway, a glimpse of the sitting room of A36 showed it had been given over to an office: blueprints were pinned to a drafting table near a desk arrayed with charts rolled up like treasure maps, piles of paper bearing calculations and sketches, and a half-eaten breakfast roll.
As they went down the stairway to C deck, Futrelle said, “You must be the only man in First Class not having a good time, Tom.”
He gave Futrelle half a smile. “Perhaps this is my idea of a good time.”
“Glutton for punishment, are you?”
The oak and marble of the stairway was all around him. “I’ve seen this vessel grow, from a design on a cocktail napkin to construction in the shipyard, frame by frame, plate after plate, day upon day, for two long years.”
“And you’re a proud father.”
“Oh yes-but a typically fussy one. Have you noticed that the pebble dashing on the promenade decks is simply too damned dark?”
“No.”
“I have.” Andrews grinned as the staircase emptied them into the aft reception area on C deck. “It’s my curse, and blessing. An argument between stewardesses, a defective electric fan… no concern too trivial, no job too small.”
“Including ushering me into Third Class.”
“Are you free yet to tell me what this is about, Jack?”
“You’ll have to get that from the captain, Tom. You may be this baby’s parent, but Captain Smith is her headmaster.”
Andrews used one of his many keys to unlock a door between the First-Class C-deck corridor, leading into the Second-Class enclosed promenade, where protected from the wind and cold, a number of passengers were seated on benches, enjoying the glassy gray view. A few were on deck chairs, bundled only lightly in a blanket, reading books or writing letters.
“I’ve called ahead and Davies should be waiting for us,” Andrews said, as they stepped outside, onto the deck and into the chill air. They moved down the metal stairs, into and through the open well that was the Third-Class promenade, where the benches were empty, and only a few children of ten or eleven were braving the brisk weather, chasing each other, squealing with delight. Futrelle had a flash of his own son and daughter at that age, and felt a bittersweet pang of loss.
Under the poop-deck roof and through a door to the left of the wide, five-banistered flight of metal stairs down into the Third-Class aft cabins, Andrews led Futrelle into the General Room, the steerage equivalent of a lounge.
About forty by forty, the sterile white-enameled walls were dressed up with framed White Star Line posters promising pleasure cruises these passengers were unlikely ever to take; the sturdy yellowish-brown teakwood double-sided benches, built around pillars, were brimming with a shipboard melting pot, though not much melting was going on. Various languages being spoken by isolated groups within the room floated like clouds of words, English and German mostly, but Finnish, Italian and Swedish too, and Far Eastern languages that Futrelle could not identity.
But these were not pitiful huddling masses. They were men and women, from their late teens to old age, many gathered in family groupings, not even shabbily dressed, simply working people heading to a new land for new work. The undeniable smell-not quite a stench-of body odor had to do with steerage’s limited bathing facilities, not the emigrants’ lack of grooming. A piano seemed to be the only possible source of entertainment, though it stood silent at the moment.
A steward in a gold-buttoned white uniform approached Andrews and said something to him that Futrelle could not hear, over the babble.
Andrews turned to Futrelle. “We’ve found Davies. They have him waiting next door, in the Smoking Room.”
As Futrelle followed Andrews across the room, it was as if he were crossing border upon border, so rapidly and frequently did the language shift. Then through a doorway into the Third-Class Smoking Room, the atmosphere changed.
It was quiet in here-men were smoking, playing cards, in an agreeably masculine room with dark-stained oak-paneled walls and long, room-spanning back-to-back teak benches, and, scattered about, tables-for-four with chairs. If the inlaid-pearl mahogany world of the First-Class Smoking Room was an exclusive men’s club, this was a lodge hall.
The room was only sparsely attended, but that was natural: the small adjacent bar hadn’t opened yet; too early in the day. The only languages Futrelle caught were English and German.
A strapping young man in a well-worn but not threadbare black sack coat over a green woolen sweater sat alone at one of the tables, turning his black cap in his hands like a wheel. Clean-shaven, with a round, almost babyish countenance, his brown hair was already thinning, though he couldn’t be more than twenty-four or — five years of age.
“I believe that’s your man,” Andrews said, nodding toward the lad. “I suppose I should keep my distance while you talk to him.”
“It embarrasses me to ask that of you,” Futrelle admitted, “but yes.”
“I’ll take a seat in the General Room.”
Andrews headed out as Futrelle approached the table and the burly young man rose.
The mystery writer asked, “Son, are you Alfred Davies?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. His voice was a pleasant tenor. He smiled shyly, displaying the crooked yellowed teeth so common to his class and country. “Did the captain send you, sir?”
“Yes, he did.”
“About the nurse them people is usin’?”
“That’s right.”
Davies let out an enormous sigh, shaking his head. “ ’Tis a relief, sir. I was afraid me message didn’t get to ’im… or that them above thought I was some lyin’ or some such.”
“My name is Jack Futrelle.” He extended his hand and the boy took and shook it; though Davies didn’t make a show of it, power lay in those hands and the arms and shoulders that went with them. “Let’s sit, shall we, son, and talk?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, and sat. “If you don’t mind my askin’, sir, what’s your job with the ship?”
“I’m working for Captain Smith on a matter of ship’s security.”
He nodded; the soft, childlike features seemed incongruous next to that massive frame. “I see, sir. Well, then, you’d be the man to talk to, then, sir.”
“You have information about the Allisons’ nanny-Alice Cleaver?”
“I don’t know the family’s name, sir, but if it’s the hatchet-faced wench I saw up on the boat deck, yes, sir, Alice Cleaver, sir.”
“You were up on the boat deck?”
“No! We stay on our side of the chain, sir. But from the well deck y’kin see up top. And it’s hard to mistake her, with that puss of hers, sir. Stop a clock, it would.”
Futrelle grinned. “Maybe so. But the rest of her could start a dead man’s heart beating again.”
Davies returned the grin. “I guess that’s why God made the dark, sir.”
From his inside suit coat pocket, Futrelle removed his gold-plated cigarette case, offered a Fatima to the boy, who refused, then lighted one up for himself. “Where do you hail from, son?”
“West Bromwich, sir-Harwood Street.”
“You boarded at Southampton, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you bound for New York, or points west?”
“Points west, sir. Place called Michigan-Pontiac, Michigan.”
“What takes you there?”
“Me two brothers are working there, in the motorcar works. They say we can get jobs, too, good ones. Y’see, sir, we lost our jobs at the smelting works.”
Smelting again-Guggenheim’s business in First Class, Davies’s business in Third.
Davies went o
n: “Me old dad’s been a galvanizer since the Lord was in the manger. All us Davieses are ironworks men-puddlers, copula workers, the like. But times at home is gettin’ hard, sir-you’re American, sir?”
“Born and raised.”
“Is it the promised land, sir?”
Futrelle blew out a stream of smoke, laughing gently. “As close as anything on this earth might come, son.”
“I’m travelin’ with my other two brothers-John and Joseph-and we’ll send for our families, soon as we get settled.”
They were hitting it off well-young Davies treating Futrelle respectfully, but feeling comfortable enough to say whatever was on his mind. So Futrelle stepped forward gingerly into the next topic…
“Alfred-may I call you Alfred?”
“Me mates call me Fred.”
“All right, Fred.” But Futrelle didn’t give the boy leave to call him “Jack”: the writer liked the deference he was being paid; it gave him the upper hand.
“Fred, this information you have about Alice Cleaver.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The captain took your note to mean you expected to be paid for sharing what you know.”
“No, sir! This isn’t about money a’tall, sir. It’s about babbies.”
Futrelle suppressed a smile at the pronunciation, but the sincerity in the lad’s eyes was unmistakable.
“Well, then, tell me, son. What is it you know?”
He leaned forward, the cap on the table, his hands folded almost as if he were praying. “Dad and Mum raised me to read and write, sir. I may work with me hands, but I like to read a book now and again, and of course the newspaper.”
Encouraging words to the ears of a journalist like Futrelle, but he wasn’t sure what it had to do with anything.
“’Twas in January, must’ve been 1910, no-aught nine-such a terrible thing.” He was shaking his head; his eyes were wide and staring into bad memories. “Plate layers, workin’ the North London Railway, they found something terrible sad.”
“What did they find, son?”
“A babby. A dead babby… a poor pitiful dead boy, who they say was tossed from a movin’ train, the night afore. They arrested a Tottenham woman for the crime-it was her babby boy, y’see, her own son-and she wailed to the sky she was innocent, said she gived up the child weeks afore to a orphanage run by a ‘Mrs. Gray,’ I think the papers said… you’d have to check that… but there was no orphanage and there was no ‘Mrs. Gray.’ They convicted her, and only then she copped, ’cause it come out that her boyfriend, who’d put her in the family way, had run off and left her and the little one to fend for themselves.”
The Titanic Murders d-1 Page 16