The Lusitania Murders d-4

by Max Allan Collins

  Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt was, after all, the richest man on the ship, probably the Lucy’s most important passenger, with the possible exception of Elbert Hubbard. We were fortunate that Vanderbilt consented to see us at all, as he had no love for the press, which had been rough on him from time to time.

  But Staff Captain Anderson was able to convince the millionaire to receive us-Vanderbilt was a frequent Cunard guest, crossing two or three times a year-and the interview (with Vanderbilt and his friend Williamson) was scheduled for Monday afternoon.

  The remaining interviews, of course, were with crew members Williams and Leach, but Miss Vance wanted to wait for the reports from Pinkerton on the pair. She knew questioning them at all would be delicate, considering the defensiveness of the two captains; better to limit it to one round of informed interrogation.

  So on Monday afternoon, a few minutes before the appointed time of three o’clock, Miss Vance and I made our way to the starboard side of the promendade deck. There, Vanderbilt occupied the second of the two so-called Regal Suites, the other on the portside of the ship-our side of the ship-being filled by Madame DePage and Miss Vance herself.

  We were approaching the door to the suite when a figure emerged from within, and seized our attention, to say the least. Suddenly we were face-to-face with a brown-haired, blue-eyed young man whose complexion rivaled a fish’s belly for paleness-none other than Steward Neil Leach.

  “Mr. Leach,” I said. “Good afternoon.”

  “Mr. Van Dine,” he said, with a nervous nod. Then he smiled a small, polite, canary-color crooked-toothed smile to my companion, saying, “Good afternoon, Miss Vance.”

  My tone pleasant, conversational, I said, “We haven’t seen you since the unfortunate events of Saturday night.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Terrible. Just awful.”

  Miss Vance said, “Having all of that happen on your watch. . must have been distressing.”

  “Oh, it was. It was.”

  With a sweet smile, as if commenting on the nice day, she said to him, “You may have been the last to see them alive.”

  His eyes widened. “How is that, ma’am?”

  “Well, you must have delivered their supper. I would think that would, at least, make you the last crew member to see them before. . the unpleasantness.”

  “I did serve them, yes.”

  Now, that was an interesting offhand admission, considering the likelihood of the cyanide having been introduced into the dead men’s systems, in that manner.

  “But,” he was saying, “I’m fairly sure Mr. Williams looked in on them, later. . if you’ll excuse me, ma’am. . sir.”

  He began to move off but I touched his arm. Gently. “Mr. Leach, may I ask why you were in Mr. Vanderbilt’s suite?”

  “Delivering a Marconigram, sir.”

  “I see.” I nodded in dismissal, and moved toward the door of the suite, poised to knock.

  “Sir!” Leach said.

  Miss Vance and I looked back at him-he appeared even whiter than usual.

  “I’m not sure you should be bothering Mr. Vanderbilt,” Leach said, “if I’m not overstepping saying so. . He’s had some bad news.”

  I frowned. “The Marconigram?”

  Leach nodded. “It’s the second he’s received today, sir-the other came this morning, and I delivered that one, too. This new ’gram was confirmation of the earlier one.”

  “Well?” Miss Vance asked, with an edge in her voice.

  “I believe a friend of Mr. Vanderbilt’s has died. . a close friend. . If you’ll excuse me.”

  And Leach hurried off, apparently having had enough of this awkward encounter.

  I glanced at Miss Vance, as we stood in front of the white door, and my eyes asked her what we should do.

  “We have an appointment,” she said. “We received no word of it having been cancelled or postponed. . It would be rude not to keep it.”

  She was right, of course-she so often was-and I knocked.

  A valet in full butler’s livery answered, a tall, distinguished-looking character whose expression conveyed instantly how troubling it was to him, having to share the planet with the likes of me.

  I announced myself and Miss Vance and told the imperious valet that we were expected-we had an appointment. We waited in the hallway while he checked; then, less than a minute later, we were shown in.

  This was the drawing room of the suite, panelled in sycamore, decorated in the Colonial Adam style with inlaid satinwood furniture, the walls draped with tapestries, the windows shaped and curtained as in a private residence, or perhaps in the private apartment atop the Vanderbilt Hotel on Park Avenue. We were shown to a brocaded settee where we sat, and waited.

  I knew something about Vanderbilt, though unlike Hubbard, he had not served as the subject of my writing; but my employer Rumely had provided a file on several of the prominent potential interviewees, and Vanderbilt had been among them. Like anyone in America who occasionally read a newspaper, however, to me Vanderbilt’s story was well-known.

  Alfred Vanderbilt was heir to the world’s greatest fortune-estimated at one hundred million dollars-and head of that fabulous empire of shipping interests and railroads forged by the notorious tycoon Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, Alfred’s great-great-grandfather. Though he’d long been a familiar figure at resorts and spas frequented by the wealthy of the world-and especially a habitue of sporting events-Vanderbilt had in recent years developed the reputation of a near recluse.

  As a younger man, he had been the typical playboy, whose love of fast cars and faster women was legendary-a dashing young man with assorted polo ponies and countless memberships in exclusive clubs, but no interest at all in the fantastic enterprise his forefathers had built and his father had passed along to him. He preferred instead to race his thirty-thousand-dollar sports car over Florida beaches like a man demented; or to join with cronies to flee the family’s country home at Oakland Farm in taking wild trips in mixed company.

  Yet Vanderbilt had not grown up into the standard-issue extroverted, partygoing, cigar-in-one-hand-drink-in-the-other lout of his privileged class. He was said to be shy, painfully so, avoiding crowds and reporters, hating being pointed out. He was by all accounts happily married to his second wife, Margaret Smith Hollins McKim-the Bromo-Seltzer heiress-and devoted to their two sons. Many said the breezy young millionaire had matured into a responsible adult.

  Others said that he was suffering from the pall cast over his life by the tragedy that followed the dissolution of his first marriage. In 1901, when he married tall, titian-haired society beauty Elsie French, the wedding cake had been baked in the shape of a trolley, each slice of which contained a precious item of jewelry, so guests would have keepsakes. But within seven years, the trolley of wedded bliss was off its tracks-Elsie had divorced him on grounds of misconduct with one Mary Agnes O’Brien Ruiz, wife of the Cuban attache in Washington, D.C.

  Vanderbilt had gone on with his life, and he and the Bromo-Seltzer heiress began a courtship which led to marriage only a few years after the expensive divorce. But Mary Ruiz made a nuisance of herself, in the press, in the courts, a spurned mistress who was embarrassingly persistent in her refusal to just go away.

  Then, one day, finally she did-by committing suicide in London. The details of the inquest into Mary Ruiz’s death “by her own hands, while of unsound mind” (off her trolley?) were never revealed to the public; attempts by the press to secure the records of the proceedings were blocked, and hush money had reportedly been lavished on both friends of Mrs. Ruiz and certain officials.

  This was why Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt shunned the press, and the spotlight; the Ruiz suicide was a matter he had never publicly discussed.

  A man entered from the bedroom, but it was not Vanderbilt, or the valet, either (who had politely disappeared): This was Charles Williamson, slender as a knife in his dark suit with a dark red bow tie, a dark-haired fellow whose keenly intelligent blue eyes were
the most distinct of his otherwise blandly regular features.

  I knew little of Williamson, though Miss Vance said he was an art dealer who advised Vanderbilt and other prominent moneybags in the purchase of paintings, sculptures and assorted objets d’art.

  He introduced himself, making clear that he knew who we were, and we stood, and I shook his hand. We sat again, but he remained standing before us, his hands behind him, and he frowned, rather like a displeased schoolmaster.

  “You had no way of knowing,” he said, and his voice was a hoarse tenor, “but Alfred has received tragic news. A Marconigram this morning from Mrs. Vanderbilt arrived, saying Alfred’s closest friend, Frederick Davies, has died, suddenly.”

  We made the proper murmurs of sympathy and shock, though I knew only vaguely of the man-he’d been a prominent New York builder.

  Rocking on his heels, Williamson said, “A second ’gram just arrived, from a business associate, confirming the sad fact of Freddy’s passing.”

  I rose. “Well, we certainly won’t impose on-”

  A hand raised in stop fashion. “No. Alfred seems intent on fulfilling this obligation. He promised Staff Captain Anderson he would help you out, on this article of yours.”

  “We could reschedule for another time, another day. .”

  “No, he would like to receive you. I think he feels the activity might take his mind off the tragedy. But I would ask you to make your stay a brief one, and to avoid any subjects that might be. . bothersome.”

  “Anything in particular,” I asked, “that should be avoided?”

  Williamson twitched a humorless smile. “You certainly know, even in more unclouded circumstances, that the Ruiz affair is off-limits. . strictly.”

  I shrugged. “I had no plans to make any such inquiries.”

  Williamson smiled again-this one of a patronizing variety. “Good. . I’ll see if Alfred is ready.”

  “Mr. Williamson,” Miss Vance said, good-naturedly, “are you normally Mr. Vanderbilt’s social secretary?”

  His frown seemed an overreaction. “No. I’m his friend, his close friend.”

  “And a business associate?”

  The frown deepened. “Out of our friendship, a certain amount of business has arisen.”

  “You’re an art dealer?”

  “Miss. . Vance, is it? Do you make a habit of asking questions to which you already know the answer?”

  She smiled beautifully. “No-sometimes I seek confirmation of what I have heard. . I seldom accept hearsay as fact. To do so can often be destructive, even in seemingly innocent instances.”

  His expression was blank, as he processed this; then he half-bowed, and said, “Yours is a most wise and gracious approach, Miss Vance. . I am an art dealer, adviser, commissionaire and connoisseur.”

  “Most impressive,” she said.

  “I merely share my views, my tastes, with my wealthy friends who wish to invest in art. And then I share my connections, so that these properties can be purchased.”

  I said, “I always considered art something more emotional and instinctive than ‘properties’ in which to invest.”

  He seemed both interested and amused. “You know something of art, Mr. Van Dine?”

  “Yes. . I’m somewhat of a. . connoissuer, myself.”

  Williamson cocked his head, folded his arms. “Have you written anything on the subject I might have read?”

  I retreated behind my pseudonym: My extensive body of criticism had been published under my real name, of course. “No-my interest in art is strictly as one who loves it. My writing for the News is rather more prosaic, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad. Perhaps some day you’ll honor us with your views on the subject. What is your chief area of interest?”

  “Modern art, I would say.”

  “Fauvism, perhaps? Or Cubist works? Picasso? Braque?”

  “Actually, I prefer the Syncromists.”

  He frowned, almost if I’d said something distasteful. “Really? Well, to each his own. . I much prefer the Orphist color abstractions of the Delaunays, if such things are to be taken seriously at all.”

  “I prefer Synchromism,” I said rather stiffly.

  “Well, perhaps the work of that fellow Morgan Russell could be said to have merit. But that hack Stanton MacDonald-Wright. .” And he shuddered.

  The artist he had just insulted, of course, was my own brother. . but what could I-that is, S.S. Van Dine-say?

  So I echoed his own statement: “To each his own.” And hoped my irritation didn’t show, though I could a feel a flush in my cheeks.

  “At any rate,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to have even a brief discussion of art with another devotee. . Now, if you’ll excuse me. .”

  He had turned back toward the bedroom, when I called out gently, “Oh, Mr. Williamson. .”

  He turned, his patience clearly tried. “Yes, Mr. Van Dine?”

  “Would you mind sitting in on the interview? I would appreciate your presence, both as a calming one for your friend, and to ask you the occasional question about your views on this ship, and the voyage.”

  He nodded another sort of bow. “Certainly. That would be my pleasure.”

  When he had disappeared into the bedroom, Miss Vance turned to me with a grin and glittering eyes. “Nicely done.”

  “How so?”

  “Getting Williamson to stay. We need him just as much as we need Vanderbilt.”

  And this was true, of course-Williamson had also been on the late stowaway’s list.

  When Vanderbilt entered, followed by his art dealer friend, he was obviously not at his best. His complexion seemed gray, his eyes laced with red, and the expression he wore when introductions were made-and I stood to shake his hand-seemed fraught with melancholy, despite his polite smile.

  “Forgive my informal attire,” he said, referring to his brown silk dressing gown.

  He and Williamson were in chairs facing us as we sat on the comfortable settee.

  “We understand you’ve received sad news,” I said, “and we would like to express our condolences.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Vance said, sitting forward, hands clasped. “We would certainly understand if you wished to put this interview off-”

  “No,” the millionaire said, raising a hand in gentle interruption. “The distraction is a welcome one-and I’m sure you’ll make pleasant company. . more pleasant than I, I’m afraid. I beg your patience.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Would you like to say anything about Mr. Davies, for the readers of the News?”

  “You may quote me that I have known no finer, kinder man.” His eyes looked into memory. “We were classmates at Yale. . travelled extensively together. He and my sister Gertrude were almost married. . but that’s not why you came.”

  “Nor do we mean to pry,” I said, and I began with unoffending queries about the Lusitania, and what it was about the ship that made it a favorite of his. I scribbled this pap down into my notebook, dutifully, for perhaps five minutes, before venturing into more significant waters.

  “I take it you’re making a point of it,” I said, “travelling to attend the International Horse Show Association meeting in London. . despite the war, I mean.”

  “You may be misinterpreting my actions,” he said patiently. “This war is a very real thing-we can’t pretend that our lives can go on, unaffected.”

  “I understand last year’s annual meeting was cancelled, due to war concerns.”

  “Yes. Last year’s show was cancelled, also, as you may know. But the general feeling over there, now, is that the war is going well enough to resume the fall event.”

  “You must agree with that view, if you’re attending, sir.”

  “I respect it.” He paused, and seemed to be mulling something over; then he glanced at Williamson, who shrugged. “As a favor to my friends at Cunard, I could give you a small piece of news. . if you would agree not to wire it home, until after the association’s meeting next Tuesday
.”

  “Certainly.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “I will be announcing, at the annual meeting, that I will not be racing this season. There’s a war on, after all-and while perhaps giving up four-in-hand racing doesn’t compare to the sacrifices of some, it is a symbolic gesture I can make.”

  I nodded, and put on an expression of admiring seriousness; but in truth, I felt him a silly ass-how typical of the rich to take their petty passions so seriously as to think giving up horse racing had any significance to either the average man or the war effort itself.*

  “This of course hardly compares to my sister Gertrude’s contribution,” he admitted. “She’s really a tireless philanthropist, Gertrude is. At her urging, we’ve established a hospital unit in France, to care for wounded soldiers. . Miss Vance, I believe you’re travelling with Madame DePage-she can confirm my sister’s contribution to the Allied cause.”

  Miss Vance nodded, indicating she already knew of this.

  But I said, “Doesn’t that put you at risk, Mr. Vanderbilt, travelling to Europe through the war zone?”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “If the Vanderbilts are aiding the Allies, mightn’t the German side wish to make an example of you?”

  Vanderbilt snorted a laugh. “I could not care less. Let that bunch of damned Huns try.”

  Glancing first at Miss Vance, and then back at him, I said, “Mr. Vanderbilt, we are here for two reasons.”

  Another frown. “Really?”

  I explained Miss Vance’s role as ship’s detective, and our concern for the prominent passengers who had received warning threats via telegram at the dock.

  “That would include you as well, Mr. Williamson,” I said to the art dealer.

  Williamson said, “My reaction is the same as Alfred’s-those telegrams were the work of a jokester.”

  “A jokester with damned poor taste,” Vanderbilt put in. Then to the lovely Pinkerton agent he said, “You’ll forgive my deplorable language, Miss Vance.”