The Lusitania Murders d-4

by Max Allan Collins

  “Understandable in these times,” she said, “and in your personal situation.”

  Vanderbilt thanked her for this consideration, and asked me, “You don’t think the Germans would target this ship for destruction simply because I’m on it? To make an example out of me?”

  Well, it seemed to me to make more sense, as symbolic gestures went, than a millionaire quitting horse-racing; but I kept this thought to myself, saying, “Perhaps not you alone, Mr. Vanderbilt. But we also have Elbert Hubbard aboard. . you’re familiar with his widely published anti-Kaiser article?”

  “Oh yes,” Vanderbilt said. “And I suppose Madame DePage, as well, could be viewed as a personality associated in the public’s mind with the Allied cause.”

  “Yes. And the Lusitania herself has potential military applications-has even been rumored to carry munitions-and certainly could be viewed as a symbol of Britain’s supposed mastery of the seas.”

  Vanderbilt was smiling, a little, nodding, too. “You have a sharp mind, Mr. Van Dine. I must say I admire your intellect.”

  “Thank you, sir. . You should also be aware that Miss Vance and I have reason to believe a band of thieves may have boarded the ship, as well.”

  Williamson sat forward. “Thieves? Does that even make sense? Where could they run, how could they hide, in such an enclosed space as this? How could they hope to take their booty off the ship with them?”

  “They might go over the side,” I said, “in a lifeboat.”

  Vanderbilt said, “Well, these potential robbers will find precious little in these quarters to make their efforts worthwhile.”

  Miss Vance’s brow was knit as she asked, “You’re not travelling with valuables of any kind?”

  “Not in particular, no.”

  “What about money? Understand, sir, I ask this in strictest confidence as a representative of the line.”

  The millionaire shrugged. “A few hundred pounds. No need for more-I maintain a residence in Park Lane, an apartment, and a furnished houseboat at Henley. So I have bank accounts to draw upon, for time I spend there.”

  Williamson offered, “I’m not travelling with valuables, either.”

  I asked him, “How about paintings or art objects for clients?”

  “No-and I, too, maintain a London residence. I’m travelling with less than a hundred pounds.”

  Miss Vance was clearly trying to reckon with this shift from pattern, but I felt I knew the answer. “Mr. Vanderbilt, the thieves would assume you have money. . Mr. Williamson, they may well assume you have art objects.”

  The art dealer’s air of superiority was nowhere to be seen now. “Should we be concerned?”

  We asked them if they had observed anything suspicious-either a steward who didn’t seem to be where he belonged, or overly friendly strangers among the passengers, seeking to create an “in” with them.

  Neither man could recall anything of that nature.

  “I appreciate your interest,” Vanderbilt said, “and we will stay alert, and report to you anything suspicious we might observe. . but as to this German threat-why worry about submarines? The Lucy can outdistance any submarine afloat.”

  Shortly after that, we took our leave, and Vanderbilt walked us to the door, a gracious and friendly host whose melancholia had diminished as we had been drawn into our conversation and these other matters of import.

  Before we left, Williamson said to me, “We must have a drink, and talk art at more length.”

  In the corridor, as we walked back to our side of the ship, I asked Miss Vance what she had made of all that. She said she was still troubled by the fact that Vanderbilt and Williamson did not fit the motif of the others on our list.

  “Unless they’re lying,” she said, “and are carrying cash and, perhaps, valuables from the world of art.”

  “I don’t know, Vance,” I said, as we strolled into the Promenade Deck’s Grand Entrance area. “Vanderbilt seems straightforward enough.”

  “What about Williamson?”

  “He’s a patronizing bastard, but otherwise. .”

  “There’s something you don’t know about him.” She glanced about, and several other passengers were waiting in the wicker-dominated entry area, for the elevators. “Let’s go to my room, Van. .”

  That was an invitation I hadn’t yet turned down, on this voyage; but as we sat on the bed, making love was not on the beautiful detective’s mind.

  “I trust you are aware of the Ruiz incident,” she said, “which Williamson referred to-saying it was off limits for questions?”

  “Of course. Vanderbilt’s mistress who committed suicide in London.”

  “That’s open for debate. The Pinkertons were investigating that matter, for one of the late Mrs. Ruiz’s relatives. . but the case was dropped, when client funds ran out.”

  “It was not a suicide?”

  “That may never be known. What we do know is that Charles Williamson was also a friend of Mrs. Ruiz-had apparently been something of a go-between in the years of the affair. It was Williamson who closed up her house on Grosvenor Square, after her death; it was he who took charge of her belongings and dismissed the servants. It was he who paid fifteen thousand dollars to a pair of reporters to spike their copy about the night of her death. . the night Williamson discovered the body of Mary Ruiz.”

  THIRTEEN

  A Tinge of Blue

  Mid-morning Tuesday, Philomina Vance and I requested a meeting with Captain Turner and Staff Captain Anderson. This elicited little enthusiasm from Anderson-apparently anticipating even less enthusiasm for the idea from Turner-but Miss Vance was insistent.

  “We have important new information to report,” she told Anderson, when after breakfast we had caught up with him on the starboard side of the Promendade Deck, where he’d just concluded another of his ineffectual crew-members-only lifeboat drills.

  The morning was warm and bright, the sea smooth and free of whitecaps. The throb of the engine, the swish of water, the ship-sea smells, were lulling; but we would not be lulled.

  “I know he’ll be available in his dayroom at ten-thirty,” Anderson said, mildly frowning. “But I must warn you, Miss Vance, to Captain Turner, this affair is over.”

  “Then I must warn you, Mr. Anderson,” Miss Vance said crisply, “that your captain is misinformed.”

  And she was not bluffing or even boasting-Miss Vance had received significant new information by cable from her home office. The Pinkerton agents in New York had come through for us splendidly.

  So it was, at just after ten-thirty, that we had reconvened in the captain’s white-walled, oak-wainscotted dayroom. We sat again at the round maple table, Turner and Anderson, in their blue gold-braided uniform jackets, seated opposite each other, with Miss Vance-typically fetching in pale blue linen with white Bulgarian-embroidered trim and, as was frequently her wont, no hat-seated across from me. I must have been wearing some suit or other.

  “I suppose you have that fingerprint information for us,” Turner said gruffly, and incorrectly. He had a pipe in his right hand, and the fragrance of its smoke seemed to me singularly unappealing.

  “Actually, no,” Miss Vance said, with the sweetest smile. “That knife-our murder weapon-was stolen from my room.”

  Anderson sat sharply up. “What?”

  Jaw jutting, eyes hard, Turner demanded, “When was this?”

  “That first night-or I should say, Sunday morning, in the wee hours, after we first met here in your quarters, Captain Turner.”

  Through his teeth, Turner asked, “And why have you not reported this before?”

  “The only person who could have taken it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “was a crew member. For that reason, I felt it only judicious to keep the information to myself, for the time being.”

  Anderson seemed less irritated than Turner, but he too was unhappy with her. “Your implication is insulting, Miss Vance-we have said before that we stand behind the integrity of our crew.”
/>   I said, “You’ve also said before that you scraped the bottom of the barrel to find them.”

  The staff captain’s eyes flared at me. “I won’t put up with that, Mr. Van Dine! You are here at our discretion and under our sanction, I must remind you.”

  Straightening, Turner said, “A passenger might have got hold of a key somehow-either a spare room key, or a passkey. You seem quick to impugn the integrity of our staff.”

  Anderson shifted in his chair. “We’ll conduct a search of the ship for that knife, immediately.”

  I said, “Why waste the effort? It was surely tossed overboard, long ago.”

  Neither captain had any reply to that.

  “Absent fingerprints,” she said, “I do have new developments to share. Mr. Van Dine and I have successfully completed our interviews with those passengers named on the stowaway ringleader’s list.”

  “We believe that several of them,” I picked up, “may be identified strongly enough with the Allied cause to inspire assassination attempts.”

  “In particular,” Miss Vance said, “Madame DePage and Alfred Vanderbilt are involved with aiding the Allied wounded. And Elbert Hubbard’s inflammatory anti-Kaiser position makes him particularly vulnerable.”

  “On the other hand,” I continued, “we can see no reason why the German secret service would single out Charles Frohman, George Kessler and Charles Williamson for punishment. Frohman is producing a pro-German-American play, Kessler is simply a businessman who views the war as an inconvenience and Williamson is an art dealer of less prominence than these other celebrated passengers, included among them chiefly because of his close ties to Vanderbilt.”

  Turner was listening, but his eyes had that blankness one sees in a dog monitoring human speech for the word or two he recognizes-“bone,” “outside.”

  “So the scrap in the stowaway’s shoe,” Miss Vance said, concluding this phase of our presentation, “would not seem to be a list of potential assassination targets.”

  “However,” I said, “we have learned that a majority of these passengers are in possession of disturbingly large amounts of money or negotiable stocks. Elbert Hubbard has five thousand dollars with him, to purchase leather and other materials for his arts-and-crafts colony. Frohman has much more than that, with which he intends to secure theatrical properties. Madame DePage, of course, has one hundred fifty thousand dollars in war relief funds. And Kessler-I’m glad you’re sitting down, gentlemen-carries around two million in stocks and bonds in that briefcase of his.”

  Turner and his staff captain stared across the table at each other in wide-eyed disbelief at this unbridled foolishness among such supposedly superior human beings as their first-class passengers.

  “As for Vanderbilt and Williamson,” I added, “they do not seem to have undue amounts of cash or valuables with them. . both men maintain London residences. . but it would be a reasonable assumption on the part of thieves that such men would be worth robbing.”

  “Then the stowaways were a robbery ring,” Anderson said, eyes narrowed, nodding slowly. “Their purpose was plunder, not sabotage.”

  “They may have pursued a dual purpose,” Miss Vance said, reminding them of a theory she had proposed earlier. “Stealing Allied war relief money is a blade that cuts two ways, after all-and if these stowaways had planned to do their robbing late in the voyage, they would probably have fled to Ireland. .”

  Anderson, nodding more quickly now, said, “You mentioned previously the possibility of IRA involvement.”

  “Suppose near voyage’s end,” she said, “an explosive device were detonated somewhere off the coast of Ireland. In the confusion and commotion of passengers seeking lifeboats, these robberies could have been accomplished by the stowaways in stewards’ garb, and the thieves could then have been picked up by boat by IRA accomplices.”

  “It seems far-fetched to me,” Turner said, shaking his head.

  I asked, “More far-fetched than finding three German stowaways with a camera in one of your pantries? More outlandish than their murders?”

  “Moot point,” Turner huffed. “Falling-out among thieves, simple as that. Dead men can’t steal or for that matter kill, can they? I’m damned if I know why we’re giving this matter any further attention. . I have a ship to run!”

  Turner began to rise.

  Miss Vance glanced at me; I nodded-we’d discussed this, prior. Then she said to them, “I’m afraid I withheld another key piece of evidence. . or at least potential evidence.”

  Turner, now standing, exploded. “Good heavens, woman, what?”

  Anderson merely stared at her, aghast.

  “The condition of the two dead men locked within their cell indicated they had been poisoned, and that the stabbing was a postmortem ruse designed to suggest that ‘falling-out among thieves’ conclusion you reached, Captain.”

  Turner plopped back into his chair as the Pinkerton operative explained the evidence of cyanide poisoning, from the blue-tinted skin tone to the whiff of bitter almonds.

  “I would not hold your physician accountable for his poor diagnosis,” she said. “He is young, and not trained in criminal forensics.”

  Anderson’s expression was grave. “And you assume the two stowaways were poisoned by a crew member.”

  “Yes,” she said curtly. “My chief suspects were Master-at-Arms Williams, Steward Leach. . who admits to having served them their final supper. . and, frankly, Staff Captain Anderson, yourself.”

  “I am a suspect?” Anderson said, his expression mingling alarm and bitter amusement.

  “You had easy access to the stowaways in the brig,” I pointed out, “and who better than yourself to sneak them aboard in the first place?”

  “Further,” Miss Vance stated in her business-like way, “you have ties to Mr. Leach, having hired him as a family friend, which opens pathways to further conspiracy.”

  The usually affable staff captain was trembling with anger, his cheeks flushed. “This is an outrage. . I am a loyal ship’s officer, and I served with the Royal Navy! To suggest I am a German collaborator-”

  “I suggest no such thing,” Miss Vance said. “You’ve been accused of nothing. We merely point out that certain circumstances and facts place you on a list of suspects.”

  “A damned short list!” he blurted.

  “That is accurate,” she said. “But we have narrowed it, considerably. You see, gentlemen, I have received information from the Pinkerton agency, which points the finger away from you, Mr. Anderson. . your record of service to Cunard and for that matter your country is not only clean, but exemplary. . and from Master-at-Arms Williams, as well.”

  “Williams also has an excellent history of service to your company and to the Royal Navy,” I added.

  “Then. .” The flush had left Anderson’s cheeks. “. . you obviously suspect Mr. Leach. Would that not implicate me, as well?”

  “You would certainly be questioned by the authorities ashore,” Miss Vance admitted. “But Mr. Van Dine and I are of a mind that you were, frankly, manipulated into hiring Mr. Leach, because of those family obligations.”

  “Manipulated,” Anderson said, rather distastefully.

  “Poor judgment,” I said, “is a far lesser ‘crime’ than treason, don’t you think?”

  “You have a peculiar sense of humor, Mr. Van Dine,” Anderson said. “Not at all appropriate.”

  “Never mind that,” Turner said brusquely. “Young woman, what do you have on this man Leach?”

  Without referring to the lengthy cable she’d received, Miss Vance rather impressively recounted the new information. Neil Leach-whose father indeed was a lawyer, practicing in the West Indies-had majored in modern languages at Cambridge, with an emphasis on German.

  “Good Lord,” Anderson said. “Then he could have spoken to the stowaways, and would have understood anything they said!”

  “Yet he never volunteered his services,” Miss Vance said, “as a translator, after their captu
re.”

  “Remember,” I said, raising a professorial forefinger, “when we entered the pantry, the ringleader said, in German, ‘About time.’ ”

  “He was expecting someone,” Turner said, making the simple deduction.

  “Yes-someone on the crew. .someone who had given the stowaways stewards’ uniforms.”

  Miss Vance continued with her briefing on the background of Neil Leach, who in 1914 had taken up a post as a tutor to the son of a German industrialist. When the war broke out, he was briefly held, then paroled-probably recruited as a spy-and sent to America on a German ship.

  “In an interesting turn of events,” she said, “on the ship he became friends with a German steward. Since mid-April, Leach and the steward have lived together in a boardinghouse on West Sixteenth Street that is regarded as a hotbed of German activity-Captain Boy-Ed, the German naval attache, keeps a room there, as do a number of suspected German espionage agents.”

  “Why isn’t something done about it?” Turner asked crossly.

  I shrugged. “America is not at war with Germany.”

  Miss Vance continued: “The couple who run the boardinghouse, named Weir, are vocal supporters of the German cause. And a young German woman, in the same boardinghouse, frequently spent time with Leach, and told one of our agents that ‘Neil’ had been excited about an appointment he had at the German Consulate on Broadway-she said Leach spoke of ‘financial opportunities.’ ”

  “Charles Frohman is an acquaintance of this fellow, Boy-Ed, as well,” I commented. “We doubt this implicates the producer in any way, although it’s certainly an interesting coincidence.”

  Miss Vance looked from one captain to the other. “Boy-Ed may have known Frohman’s intention to travel with cash to invest in theatrical properties. . In any event, these circumstances may not be damning, but it’s clear Leach has suspicious affiliations with German sympathizers and even espionage agents.”

  Anderson, perhaps relieved that no fingers were pointing at him (at the moment), asked her reasonably, “What should be done, in your opinion?”