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 Rene-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 Rene’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 Cafe, 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 Cafe, which they did.
Though the cafe 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 kn
ow 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.
Archie Butt and Frank Millet, with several other passengers, aided in the loading of women and children onto lifeboats; when all of the lifeboats had been dispatched, the gentlemen returned to their card game in the Smoking Room until the slant of the table no longer allowed. Stories of Major Butt on deck fighting off swarthy steerage “rabble” with a walking stick or even a firearm appear to be one of the many yellow-journalistic inventions that pervaded early coverage of the disaster.
Archie Butt was last seen standing solemnly to one side on the boat deck, stoically awaiting his fate like the good soldier he was. He was apparently in the company of his friend Francis Millet; both men died in the sinking, Millet’s body recovered by the crew of the MacKay Bennett, whose grim task it was to salvage as many Titanic corpses as possible from the icy Atlantic.
Captain Smith’s fate remains clouded, as do conflicting reports of his demeanor on deck. The press of the day made him out a hero, but considering the source, the reports that he fell into a dazed, near-catatonic state are more credible; still, witnesses recalled seeing him with a megaphone, directing lifeboats to return to pick up more passengers (an order ignored). One story has him committing suicide with a pistol, but more credible is the eyewitness account of a steward who saw his captain walk onto the bridge, shortly before the forward superstructure went under, presumably to be washed away-a suicide of sorts, at that.
Another crew member reported seeing Captain Smith in the freezing water, holding a baby in his arms, moments before his ship made her final slide into the sea. Legend has it that the captain swam to a lifeboat, handed the child over, and swam off to go down after, if not with, his ship. The last reliable reports of Smith have him, in the water, cheering the attempts of crew members to struggle onto the top of an overturned lifeboat, calling, “Good lads! Good lads!” An oar offered to Smith was out of the captain’s reach, as a swell carried him away.
Some of the most famous stories of that night-the ones sounding
most like legend-are true.
Isidor Straus, offered a seat on lifeboat number eight in consideration of his age, refused to go when other, younger men were staying; and Ida Straus refused to leave her husband’s side.
“I will not be separated from my husband,” she said. “As we have lived, so will we die together.”
And they did; in one final indignity, however, the ocean took Mrs. Straus’s body, while her husband’s was recovered, to be buried in Beth-El Cemetery, Brooklyn. Forty thousand attended the memorial service for the couple, with a eulogy read by Andrew Carnegie.
Benjamin Guggenheim, at first protesting the discomfort of a life belt, later abandoned it for his finest evening wear. With his valet, he awaited death in style, announcing, “We’ve dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.” Oddly, his final thoughts-or at least his final thoughts of how he might like to be remembered-had to do with his long-suffering wife, writing the following note: If anything should happen to me, tell my wife I’ve done my best in doing my duty.
This may have been small solace to Mrs. Guggenheim, after Madame Aubert-rescued with the others in lifeboats by the ship Carpathia-came ashore announced as “Mrs. Benjamin Guggenheim.” As a further indignity, Guggenheim’s business affairs were in disorder, his steampump company doing poorly at the time of his death, leaving his children to make do with trust funds of only half a million or so, each.
Thomas Andrews, one of the first to understand that his ship was doomed, circulated through the Titanic dispensing various stories to various passengers, depending on how well he felt they might bear up under the truth. He worked manfully to see to it that as many women and children as possible were gotten into the lifeboats; but despair, finally, overtook him.
Andrews was last seen in the Smoking Room, staring at a serene nautical painting, his life belt nearby, flung carelessly across a green-topped table. His arms were folded, his shoulders slumped. When a steward, moving quickly through the room, asked him, “Aren’t you even going to have a try for it, Mr. Andrews?”, the shipbuilder did not even acknowledge the question.
The Titanic Murders d-1 Page 21