“That’s just wishful thinking,” Guggenheim said, but he didn’t sound so sure.
“Quiet,” Straus said, fascinated by the bizarre tableau.
Ismay’s eyes were narrowing in mistrust; then he glared across the table at the mystery writer. “Futrelle…”
And Alice Cleaver’s grip on Futrelle’s hand was evincing the strength he’d suspected she had….
“I can’t breathe!” the male voice screamed, and everyone at the table jumped in their seats, as Dorothy Gibson’s face reddened, the pretty features twisting into a mask of anguish. The deep voice flowed out of her: “Stop! Please stop…. Can’t breathe! I can’t breathe… you… are… killing… me!”
Alice Cleaver screamed.
Releasing Futrelle’s hand as if it were a stove’s hot burner she’d touched, the young woman sprang to her feet and ran into the darkness.
“Please keep your seats,” Stead said gently, just loud enough to rise over the murmured confusion of his guests. “May-the lights… this sitting is over.”
Ismay was rising, but Stead stood and reached across the exhausted Miss Gibson and clutched Ismay’s arm. “Be seated, sir! Do not follow them… I beseech all of you.”
In the meantime, Futrelle had pursued the young woman into the darkness, her sobbing leading the way; even in the dark, Futrelle had enough sense of his bearings to know she wasn’t heading for the double doors into the lounge, but to the side door, the corridor door.
Then a momentary slash of light cutting through the blackness-as that door opened and closed-confirmed his suspicion.
The nanny was running down the corridor, forward of the Reading and Writing Room, and Futrelle was after her, following her into the reception area-empty of passengers, not even a steward in sight-as the Grand Staircase yawned before them. His glasses had fallen off his face, and her hat had tumbled to the floor, like a big bread crumb marking her path.
She all but flew up the stairs, her ruffled skirt rustling, hard soles of flat shoes echoing like gunshots, running up onto that very balcony where, not so long ago, he had dangled the blackmailer down over.
Then she was through the door onto the boat deck, and he was only seconds behind her, and when he burst through the door, onto the deserted deck, the cold night air was little brittle icy daggers stabbing at him, and the girl…
… the girl stood at the rail, between two lifeboats, her leg slung over the side, propped there, as she was trying to decide.
“That would end it, Alice,” Futrelle admitted quietly.
“Stay back, sir! Stay away.”
“I can’t obey that request, Alice.” He shrugged. “If you’re going to jump, you’re going to jump… but do it knowing I stand here not as your judge, or as any threat to you.”
“My life is over,” she said, and her eyes were tormented, her face streaked with tears, her lips trembling. “I got to go join my baby.”
But she didn’t jump. He knew she might, but didn’t really think she would: everything he knew about this young woman indicated, however sad and sick and even twisted she might be, that she was, first and foremost, a survivor.
So Futrelle moved gingerly forward until he was standing at the rail next to her. He glanced over its edge. “The water’s so black it doesn’t even reflect the stars. They say it’s cold-near freezing.”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t try to stop me.”
The sky was a dark blue, cobalt not unlike this poor girl’s eyes; no moon, but the stars were so vivid, so limitless, it was if the night had countless tiny holes punched in it and tomorrow was streaming through.
Futrelle leaned casually against the rail, as if he were just taking the air and not talking to a woman perched between the deck and the depthless ocean as if astride a mechanical horse in the nearby gym.
Gently, unthreateningly, he said, “John Crafton tried to blackmail me, too, Alice.”
“… Pardon, sir?”
“Just about everyone in that room downstairs, at the seance, was one of his victims. I had a mental breakdown, Alice-I was hospitalized-and John Crafton was going to defame me with that knowledge, in front of the world.”
Her lower lip quivered, shivered, whether from cold or emotion, he couldn’t hazard a guess; the eyes welled with fresh tears. “He was a beast.”
“Everyone has secrets, Alice-many of us have terrible secrets. Things we’ve put behind us; things for which we pray God has forgiven us.”
She nodded, haltingly. That flat-nosed face could have been pretty if someone, perhaps as long ago as her childhood, hadn’t struck her some dreadful blow.
He kept his voice casual. “Even Mr. Guggenheim, Mr. Astor, the richest men on this ship, richest in America herself, have secrets… same as simple people like you and me, Alice. They were Crafton’s prey, as well.”
Her chin was quivering now, too. “He… he didn’t want my money.”
“He wanted something else, didn’t he, Alice?”
She nodded pathetically. “I had twenty dollars Canadian the Allisons give me. I sneaked out, late at night, went to his room like he asked… he opened the door, and yanked me inside, and…”
Tears streamed down her face and her body was racking with sobs, and Futrelle lifted her off the railing and into his arms and patted her back, comforted her, holding her gently.
“He was naked, wasn’t he?” Futrelle whispered.
“Yes, sir.”
“You tried to give him that money, Alice?”
“Yes… He stood there, naked as a jaybird, pale as a frog’s belly, and he laughed at me. Laughed!”
She drew away so that she could look at him; her expression said that she was telling the truth.
“Like I said, sir-he didn’t want money. He… he told me to get undressed; said he wanted to watch. Said if I didn’t give him my favors… every night of this voyage… he’d tell the Allisons about my baby.”
“I understand.”
“He… he climbed in bed. He kept saying, take them off, take them clothes off… and I say, ‘Let me give you a kiss first,’ and he said somethin’ like, ‘Now that’s a girl,’ or ‘That’s more like it,’ and I leaned over and I put the pillow on him.”
Her voice and her face had a blankness now, an emptiness; her eyes were half-lidded, staring dully into the awful memory of it.
“He was a scrawny thing… not strong. Weak as a kitten, or a cat, anyways. And I was never stronger. I held them feathers on him, and he fought, he did thrash, but I pushed down, I held him down, and… and finally he didn’t struggle no more.”
She began to sob again and he gathered her to him, and patted her back, and said, “He was an evil man, Alice. You were protecting yourself.”
Nodding desperately, she said, “I was protectin’ my honor! I ain’t the best girl in the world, I guess I know that better than anybody, sir… but I ain’t no man’s white slave! So I smothered the son of Satan, and I’d do it again, gladly.”
“You did do it again, didn’t you?”
Her eyes flared. “Pardon?”
“Crafton’s partner-in-crime: Mr. Rood.”
She swallowed. “Don’t know ’im, sir.”
“Alice… I’m your only hope. Either you trust that I have your best interests at heart, or you’d best go back to that rail and jump.”
“I don’t… don’t really wanna die, sir. Will they hang me?”
“I’ve told you: I’m not your judge. I’m your friend-and another victim of that vile pair. What happened with Rood?”
“He told me to meet him on the deck, middle of the night-two A.M., when the ship was asleep. He said if I didn’t meet ’im, he’d tell on me to the Allisons. He knew all about my baby, too. He said he even had the pictures from the papers to show the Allisons. I need that job, sir! I need the chance the Americas give.”
“You’re getting off the subject, Alice. Tell me about that night on deck with Mr. Rood.”
“He… he knew his partner was dead. He said h
e seen the stewardess come tearin’ out of his friend’s cabin, white as a ghost, and he quicklike slipped in and seen the body. And he knew I done it-or anyways, he figured I done it, ’cause his friend told him what he was goin’ to do to me. I think… I think I was to be both their white slaves, by crossing’s end.”
“Is that what he wanted from you up here, Alice? Your ‘favors’?”
She was staring at the deck. “No. No, he… he wanted the money.”
“What money, Alice?”
“I did somethin’ bad in that room, somethin’ I shouldn’t-and I ain’t talkin’ about riddin’ the world of that blackhearted bastard. But there was this money on his dresser, just sitting there, this great wad of paper money. When Mr. Crafton was dead, when I just stood there catchin’ my breath, I seen it there, sir, that money… and I snatched it up. Took it with me. Figured… I earned it.”
“And Rood wanted that money.”
She nodded. “He started in to get rough with me, sir… he begun to shake me like a doll, till my head was rattlin’… it was right there, it happened.”
She pointed, like a child picking out a toy in a store window; but she was singling out one of the davit-slung lifeboats.
“That’s where it happened, sir… I grabbed him and I shoved him, shoved him hard… didn’t mean to do it so hard, I was just… tryin’ to get loose of him.”
“You’re saying that’s what killed him?”
She nodded. “Caved the back of his head in, it did, sir.”
“There must have been blood.”
“There was, sir. He didn’t have no pulse, sir. So I hid him in the boat.”
“You did that yourself? Slung him up in there?”
“Yes, sir. You said it yourself, sir… I’m a strong girl.”
Something didn’t sit right with the second half of her story; but Futrelle had a feeling this was the only story he’d get out of her. She had calmed down-the hysteria was over, the tears too, and she had gone from the girl unhinged by his manipulated seance to the battle-scarred survivor she innately was.
Still, she was beaten down, a flat-nosed girl in her blue Sunday dress. “What now, sir? See the captain? I’ll turn myself in, if you like. Will they hang me, sir?”
“Let’s find a bench and sit, Alice.”
They did. The deck remained theirs alone; theirs, and the cold night and the glittering stars.
“I’m going to try to help you,” he said.
She gazed at him, puzzled. “Why, sir?”
“Because men like Astor and Guggenheim and the rest… even men like me… can fight the likes of a John Crafton in all sorts of ways, including just throwing money at him. But a girl of your station, you don’t have the same choices. It troubles me that violence follows you, Alice… but I told you I was not your judge.”
“But the captain…?”
“The captain and Mr. Ismay, well… I’m going to try to keep this from coming out. I can’t promise you I can manage it. But I promise I will try.”
“Why?”
“You were wronged, Alice. To see you spend a day in jail for removing a cancer on society like Crafton or Rood, I simply cannot countenance.”
She beamed at him, happiness seeming out of place on the battered face. “Oh, sir… what do you want from me?”
“Nothing!” Futrelle backed away, held his palms out. “Not a thing! Not your money, not your favors…”
She frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand. From where you sit, sir, I must be a murderess and a thief.”
“I see only a blackmailer’s victim, who fought back. If I’m successful in shielding you, I only want one thing, one promise…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Upon arriving in Canada, you will leave the Allisons’ employ, immediately… and use that bankroll of Crafton’s to begin a new life, with a new name.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And find some profession other than nanny. I don’t want you around children… understood?”
“Sir, oh sir… you are my judge, my kind and generous judge…”
“Do you promise?”
Tears were welling in those pretty eyes again. “I promise, sir.”
“Then let’s get down off this deck,” he said, “before we catch our death.”
DAY FIVE
APRIL 14, 1912
ELEVEN
SMOOTH SAILING
The wind came from the southwest, moderate but with a bite in it. The Futrelles were on the boat deck walking off an enormous First-Class Dining Saloon breakfast (Jack had perhaps ill advisedly taken two servings of the grilled mutton chops and bacon). The couple could not have found the clear, cool morning more delightful: to the horizon stretched a smooth shimmer of blue-gray sea under a faded blue sky blessed only with fluffy white unthreatening clouds.
“I hope I did the right thing,” Futrelle said, his breath pluming. He was in his topcoat.
May, wrapped up in her black beaver coat, was holding on to her husband’s right arm with both of hers. “I know you did, darling. And even if you didn’t-you erred on the side of compassion… and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Well, it remains to be seen if the captain will go along with my suggestions.”
“Surely he will,” she said.
And as they walked, they caught a glimpse of the man himself, Captain Smith undertaking his full inspection of the ship, that sacrosanct ritual of all passenger ships at sea. In his white uniform with its medals and gold-ribboned cuffs, the captain led a parade of his department heads-chief officer, chief engineer, chief steward, the purser, even old Dr. O’Loughlin, all in dress uniform. From boat deck to boiler room, bow to stern, every accessible nook and cranny was to be inspected.
What Futrelle knew, that no one else did, was that the inspection team was running half an hour late; the captain would have to shake a leg to finish before the church service at eleven A.M. that he was set to lead.
The captain’s usual meeting of department heads, at ten A.M., had been canceled so that the captain could attend a meeting with Futrelle and Ismay, which the latter had called.
“I’ve informed Captain Smith of the doings in the Reading and Writing Room last night,” Ismay said, the irritated contortions of his mouth making his mustache do a funny little dance.
The three men were again seated at the round table in the parlor of Captain Smith’s suite near the wheelhouse. A steward, who had long since disappeared, had served coffee and tea-Futrelle took the former, and was stirring cream and sugar in-while Ismay and the captain had taken the latter, though neither had touched theirs.
“Really?” Futrelle said with a facial shrug. “It was just an evening’s entertainment.”
“I don’t think so,” Ismay said.
The captain said, “From what Mr. Ismay tells me, I gather you may have flushed out our murderer.”
And here Futrelle and the captain shared a secret: Smith had been aware of Futrelle’s scheme and had agreed to it, arranging the use of the Reading and Writing Room for the seance. But Ismay wasn’t aware of that, and Futrelle was happy to cover for the captain.
Who was saying, “Yet Mr. Ismay says you refused to confirm your discovery, last night, when he confronted you, afterward.”
“That’s right.”
The captain frowned. “You mean you did flush out the killer?”
“I mean, that’s right, I did refuse to confirm Bruce’s suspicions.”
Ismay slapped the table and cups of coffee and tea jumped, spilling a little. “If we do have a murderer on this ship, we must act, and act at once!”
Futrelle sipped his coffee and smiled above the rim of the china cup. “Why? Because now that Astor, Guggenheim and the other nobs are in the clear-and it’s just a servant girl in question-this won’t be so embarrassing?”
Ismay scowled, folding his arms in disgust. “I won’t stand for your insults, Futrelle.”
“Well, then,” Futrelle said, setting down the
cup, starting to rise, “why don’t I just leave and go on about my business?”
“Sir,” the captain said, reaching out to touch Futrelle’s arm. “Please. Sit down, sir. Let’s dispense with personalities and concentrate on facts.”
“All right.” Futrelle sighed, shrugged, sat back down. “The fact is, if there’s been any murder on this ship-even if the culprit isn’t part of the Smart Set-it’s going to blacken your great ship’s maiden voyage, Bruce… and your final crossing, Captain.”
“Be that as it may,” the captain sighed, “we have two murders, and there’s no sweeping them under the carpet.”
Futrelle leaned forward, dropping his casual, offhand tone, suddenly forceful. “This girl, Alice Cleaver, acted in self-defense. Crafton tried to rape her…”
“What?” Ismay cried, eyes widening.
“… and, later his partner Rood began to manhandle her in a similar fashion.”
Furrows carved into the captain’s brow. “Details, man,” he said.
Futrelle provided them, leaving out only that Alice Cleaver had helped herself to the cash on Crafton’s dresser, some of which may have been payoff money Ismay gave the blackmailer, Futrelle surmised.
“I sympathize with this woman,” Ismay said, and his concern seemed genuine enough. “But it’s not our place to judge. In any case, with these mitigating circumstances, she’ll probably get off.”
“I don’t think so,” Futrelle said. “Not with her past. Can you imagine the sensationalist press having at this? ‘Baby Killer Kills Again-on the Titanic!’ There’s some nice publicity for you.”
“Good Lord, man,” Ismay said, “there are children entrusted to her care, even as we speak!”
“She’s pledged to leave the Allisons’ service, upon reaching port.”
“Mr. Futrelle-why do you want to see this woman go free?” the captain asked.
“Because it’s the Christian thing to do. I realize this is a British vessel, but we’re in the middle of the North Atlantic, gentlemen. We’re a jurisdiction unto ourselves, out here. Let’s serve justice, not serve this girl up to corrupt New York coppers and hungry yellow journalists. Let’s give this unfortunate girl the opportunity my country gives anyone: a second chance.”
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