But that had me doubtful, suddenly. “Would Cunard put up with such an embarrassment?”
She waved off my uncertainty. “They would have no choice. It’s a matter of law enforcement. . and stir into the soup the presence of enemy agents during wartime, and you can bet the passengers would be stuck on this vessel for days-the closest to dry land they could get would be looking out a porthole!”
And of course the band of looters/saboteurs could not withstand what would await them at Liverpool. .
“So,” I said, “now we’re back to a bomb.”
“To a bomb,” she said with a nod. “Before the ship reaches an English port, our saboteurs-in-stewards’-clothing set off another of those pipe bombs-just off the coast of Ireland. . and you know the rest.”
As the crew hustles passengers into lifeboats, during the commotion and perhaps the panic, the villains retrieve their booty and go over the side, picked up by pro-German accomplices. The first-class conspirator most likely stays aboard, and receives his share at a later, safer date.
“And a good plan it was, too,” she admitted. “Either version. . Only, they’ve been interrupted in their efforts.”
“Death can be rude, at times. . but what if you’re right, Vance? What if the accomplice in first class is something of a criminal mastermind? Perhaps the crooked chef who cooked up the twisted recipe in the first place?”
Again her eyes narrowed. “You mean. . our first-class felon might continue improvising?”
I jerked a thumb toward the ship. “He. . or she. . shows every sign of such an inclination, starting with Klaus’s murder, and that pipe bomb deposited in my cabin, yesterday. . Or was that Leach’s independent handiwork, d’you think?”
She shook her head. “I believe not-I think your first instinct is correct. I think we have a murderous thief aboard who will likely try to gather his millions, yet.”
I studied her-studied her like a modern art painting I was trying to fathom. “You. . you know who it is, don’t you?”
Her smile was tiny and smug; so was her shrug. “Yes-don’t you?”
I admitted I didn’t.
She leaned forward, locked her eyes with mine. “Think for a few moments, Van, and you will. You have all the clues you need.”
“Really! Such as?”
She ticked them off on her pretty fingers. “First, the threatening telegrams-what was their real purpose? Second, the sequence of the names on the list in Klaus’s shoe-is it truly random? Third, the planting of the bomb in your cabin yesterday-why was that done, and at that particular moment? Finally, why did Klaus die on the portside of the ship?”
I confess my mind was reeling, but as we continued to discuss the matter, the clearness of it-the sheer obviousness of it-did present itself. .
. . as did our best course of action, which most certainly was not to present our findings to the two captains.
Instead, we would go to the two parties-that is, cocktail parties, thrown by Frohman and Kessler, tomorrow evening. She would go to one, and I would go to the other.
And before the final concert of the voyage, we would have our thief. . our murderer. . our answer.
By Thursday morning, when Miss Vance and I were strolling the Boat Deck’s open-air promenade, the Lusitania had experienced a change, however subtle. During the night, the ship had crossed into the war zone, signalling new precautions-we could see that the lifeboats had been swung out in their davits; and stewards were rigging more elaborate blackout curtains over doors and port-holes.*
Visibility was splendid, and the morning foretold a day as lovely as the previous several-sunshine, cool breezes, with the promise of a crisp evening. By the time evening arrived, however, I admit my nerves were on edge. We had spent the day in typical shipboard tomfoolery-food and strolls and even some time behind closed doors. But the task ahead was one for which a Pinkerton operative-even one as beautiful and feminine as Miss Vance-was far better suited than a man of letters.
Both cocktail parties began at six P.M. Approximately ten minutes past that hour, I dropped Miss Vance off at the Verandah Cafe, where Kessler was entertaining in the cool, open air, dusk painting the sea a shadowy shade of blue. Among the attendees were ship-builder Fred Gauntlett, the would-be nautical expert Charles Lauriat, the paranormal enthusiast Miss Pope and her young Friend, and several dozen others, most notably Madame DePage and her shipboard companion, Dr. Houghton.
Staff Captain Anderson had dropped by to represent the officers of the ship-Kessler was still giving him a bad time about the lifeboat drills-and I nodded hello to him. I scattered a bit of small talk around the cafe for perhaps five minutes, making sure to shake the Champagne King’s hand and thank him for the invite.
Miss Vance positioned herself near the bar, where we knew she would have easy access to the telephone.
“Good luck to us,” I said, and kissed her cheek, boldly.
Her eyes were glittering again. “Good luck to us,” she repeated.
I paused, my hand on her arm. “You love this, don’t you?”
Her smile was as enchanting as it was wide, the breeze catching the dark blonde tendrils and doing wonderful acrobatics with them. “Very much. . It’s better than opening night.”
Five minutes later, I was a floor below, on the starboard side of the Promenade Deck, in a suite where Charles Frohman was entertaining a slightly larger, even more star-studded group. The chubby frog prince of Broadway beamed as he moved throughout the crowd, leaning on his “wife” (that ever-present cane of his), seeming in less pain than before. The genial host was decked out in a dark suit with scarlet tie under a stiff white collar-formality and theatricality at once, a Napoleonic ring on his little finger to add a dash of Broadway flamboyance.
Everyone was dressed for dinner-men in formal wear, women in decollete gowns-but few were likely to bother with the dining saloon this evening: Generous trays of canapes were on the occasional tables, and Frohman’s girlish man William (as if having to keep track of Master-at-Arms Williams and Charles Williamson weren’t enough!) continually threaded through the room keeping Champagne glasses brimming. And the Champagne saw to it that the drawing room stayed alive with laughter and banter.
Vanderbilt and Williamson stood sipping Champagne, but the millionaire seemed gloomy, in the aftermath of his friend’s death, if not outright depressed. The art dealer was talking to everyone who happened by, full of personality, as if feeling the need to make up for his subdued friend.
Among the well-dressed, even glamorous crowd were Frohman’s theatrical entourage, including the actresses Josephine Brandell and Rita Jolivet, and the playwright Justus Miles Forman. In the midst of these fashionably dressed guests, an oasis of gauche, were the Bard of East Aurora and his bride; Hubbard was his usual floppy-tied self, in a tuxedo no respectable rental firm would let; his wife looked modestly attractive in an off-white silk gown appropriate for a wedding, circa 1900.
Right now Hubbard had found his way over to Williamson and Vanderbilt. The millionaire was staring into space, sipping his Champagne; but-judging by the snippet I heard-the art dealer had engaged Fra Albertus in a discussion of their common interest.
“You must not over-intellectualize art,” Hubbard was saying, and it frightened me to hear that view, because I agreed with it. “There is in most souls a hunger for beauty, just as there is a physical hunger.”
“But art is an intellectual process, too,” Williamson argued. “It must engage the mind as well as the heart.”
Hubbard shook his head. “Beauty speaks to the spirit through our senses-harmony as set forth in color, form and sweet sounds.”
“Art is a more complex thing than that, surely!”
The bard snorted a laugh. “Art is not a ‘thing’-it is a way.”
Back to aphorisms-but that, I had to admit, was a pretty good one.
I moved on, and suddenly I was facing my smiling host-homely as he was, his good nature made him appealing. “And where is your lovely
friend. .Miss Vance?”
“She is, I’m afraid, representing us at the Kessler affair.”
“Well, I hope she’ll stop by and eat some of my food, and drink some of my Champagne.”
I smiled. “If Kessler doesn’t fill up his guests with bubbly, something’s wrong.”
“True enough,” he laughed. “Now, I want to make sure Miss Vance knows my interest in her thespian abilities is quite sincere. Will you be staying in London for a while?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps a week.”
“Splendid. I would like you and Miss Vance to be my guests, and accompany me to James Barrie’s new play, Rosy Rapture, at the Duke of York’s Theatre, Saturday evening.”
“Mr. Frohman, that’s very generous!”
He raised a small chubby forefinger. “None of that-C.F., remember. C.F.!”
“Well, C.F., I accept your gracious invitation on both our parts.”
Before long I had managed to reach my goal-I meant to position myself near the desk, where the phone hid behind that enormous ship-shaped basket of flowers and fruit. Those flowers were doing fairly well, for as many days as had passed; I noted the card was signed by Maude Adams, the famous actress Frohman had discovered.
I nibbled canapes, but didn’t overdo the Champagne, chatting with whomever happened by. There was a great deal of war talk. . fairly optimistic, however: Allied advances on the Western front and in the Dardanelles, with the prospect of Italy joining the Allied cause.
Captain Turner himself came by, in a rare sociable mood. Several guests asked him about the new shipboard precautions-everyone had noticed them-and Frohman asked, “Are we in any danger, Captain?”
“In wartime there’s always danger,” Turner said. “But no cause for alarm. . I would request that those gentlemen who are fond of cigars refrain from lighting them on deck.”
Whether that was intended as a joke or not, it got a laugh that rippled across the suite, just as a bellboy was entering, to hand the captain a wireless message.* Turner bid some hasty good-byes and took his leave.
Shortly afterward, Williamson took his leave as well, thanking Frohman, saying he needed to drop by the Kessler party, out of politeness; C.F. understood. And Vanderbilt was left behind, with his Champagne and his doldrums.
“This war,” Hubbard was saying, a group of theatrical types gathering around a ham greater than themselves, “will progress from horror to horror. . Art, science, invention, man has lifted himself to the Matterhorn of Hope. . and now this.”
I used the phone, calling the Verandah Cafe, asking for Miss Vance, who soon came on the line; we spoke briefly. Then I wandered over to Vanderbilt.
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” I said, nodding.
“Mr. Van Dine.”
“If I might risk rudeness, I would like to ask a rather personal question.”
He looked at me curiously; an eyebrow lifted. He was a little drunk.
I asked my question. “You didn’t actually see that steward, Leach, come out of my room, did you?”
His eyes tightened. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your friend Williamson saw it, but asked you to report it. Do you know why?”
Vanderbilt’s defensiveness vanished; he shrugged. “He told me what he’d seen, and that he was concerned-asked if I would go to Captain Turner about it. He was afraid to.”
“Afraid?”
“Well, he knew Turner wouldn’t turn me away-that I’d be taken seriously.”
“I see,” I said, as if that made sense.
The phone’s ring was almost lost in the cocktail chatter, but I heard it, and went to answer; but Frohman’s valet, William, reached for the receiver before I got there.
I said, “That will be for me.”
He made a face and said, “I’m sure. . Frohman suite!” He listened, then turned to me with surprised confusion, handing me the phone, saying, “It is for you, sir.”
“Mr. Williamson has arrived at the party,” Miss Vance’s voice said into my ear, over the sound of festivities on her end of the wire. “He’s making the rounds-no one will miss the fact that he was here.”
“Time for you to leave.”
“Yes it is.”
I hung up, because it was time for me to leave, as well. Making no good-byes, I slipped out, and I reached the door to Madame DePage’s suite just as Miss Vance arrived, looking fetching in her low-cut green silk gown, a small purse in hand.
We did not speak. She used her key in the door-these were her quarters, as well as madame’s, after all-and we went in to wait in the lavish suite, with its Louis XVI decor and walnut panelling, its residence-like windows covered in black.
We did not have long to wait.
Dressed in a steward’s uniform, Charles Williamson-a large satchel in hand-entered the suite’s living room; he had just begun to search when I emerged from where I’d crouched behind a green settee, and said, “You look good in white-but you’ll look better in stripes.”
His eyes hardened-he was frozen in the middle of the room-and his hand dipped into the satchel, which was unlatched, and emerged with a revolver. .
. . but another revolver, a smaller but no less deadly one (compact enough for a purse), had inserted its snout in the back of his neck, before his own gun could become much of an issue.
“As ship’s detective,” Miss Vance said, “I’m placing you under arrest, Mr. Williamson. . ”
I took the gun from his right hand and, from his left, the satchel-in it were Mr. Kessler’s stocks and bonds, and Hubbard’s five thousand.
“I suppose C.F. Frohman’s cash would have had to wait,” I said, “till his party was over and he was off attending the concert.”
He made no denials. His blue eyes flicked from one of us to the other, his lips curled in something between a smile and a sneer.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, hands raised, “how did you know?”
“Klaus had a list in his shoe,” Miss Vance said accommodatingly-training her gun on Williamson, as I covered him with his own weapon. “Your name was at the top of it-and the names below were in alphabetical order. Quite straightforward, really-the stowaways’ contact first, followed by a listing copied from a passenger’s register, provided by your friend, the late Mr. Leach.”
“And you knew, from that? No court would accept such thin evidence.”
“No court has to-you’re nabbed red-handed, sir. But there are other matters-your inclusion among those who received warning telegrams, for example. You are hardly worthy of inclusion on such a celebrated list-why would a mere art dealer be included among the prominent likes of Hubbard, Vanderbilt, Kessler, DePage and Frohman?”
The sneering smile settled in one corner of his mouth. “Why indeed?”
“You sent those wires-you or your associates. A fairly venerated ploy, the villain hiding amongst his victims. . giving himself access to all the famous personages on that list, by becoming one of them. We asked your intended victims if any stranger on the ship had gone out of his way to make a friend of them. . Your name came up, but only once. . yet you no doubt got next to all of them-though they didn’t think of you as a stranger. No, not Vanderbilt’s friend-you had something in common, after all. . you were part of the group warned with those threatening telegrams!”
His smile had begun to fade.
I said, “You planted that bomb in my room-Vanderbilt admitted to me that you asked him to report seeing Leach do it, to Captain Turner. You meant to distract us, while you gave your accomplice a friendly drink of cyanide-laced tea; and in creating his ‘suicide’ you also meant to further cement in our minds Leach as the culprit. . Staging suicide is a specialty of yours, isn’t it?”
Now he frowned.
“Your cabin is just down the corridor,” Miss Vance pointed out sweetly. “On the portside of the ship. . the hallway where you stuck a knife into your cohort’s back.”
His laugh was hollow. “Why do you care? He was just a German-they were all just a bu
nch of damned Hun spies, and I took care of them. I deserve a medal.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but not a satchel of money.”
“Alert the master-at-arms,” Miss Vance said to me. Then to Williamson she said, “You’re checking into new quarters-the brig.”
Williamson only smiled. “I hope they’ve cleaned it out. That blood can get sticky.”
Chilled, I used the telephone.
FIFTEEN
Sinking Feeling
I suppose I have been frank enough about our relationship to reveal that Miss Vance and I spent Thursday night together in her cabin. After our shared exploit, we craved each other’s company in the manner of adults of free will and progressive thinking. We were happily and snugly slumbering in each other’s arms in a bed designed for one when the bellow of the ship’s foghorn rudely awakened us-and I damned near fell off the bed.
There was no getting back to sleep-the foghorn was simply too insistent-and, after I’d returned briefly to my cabin to freshen up and dress, we joined the DePage group at the first breakfast seating. Only Madame DePage herself had been informed of last evening’s melodramatics, largely because, after all, they had been staged in her quarters. Captain Turner himself had told Vanderbilt of his friend’s transgressions, and what was said between them I do not know-the millionaire made himself scarce, and I did not see him at all until much later that Friday.
Otherwise, a cloak of confidentiality as thick as the morning fog enveloped the ship.
Jaded, at this time, by the Lucy’s embarrassment of gastronomic riches, neither Miss Vance nor myself ate what could be called a hearty breakfast-tea and scones with marmalade being about the extent of it. Perhaps we felt that letdown that follows any great adventure-Miss Vance even commented that she was reminded of the day following the closing of a play’s successful run.
A walk on the Boat Deck’s open-air promenade presented an experience both surreal and ghostly, the air chill for May, the view past the railing one of swirling mist. The Lusitania might have been the Flying Dutchman, a specter ship at home in dense fog-perhaps I should have run this theory past the paranormally inclined Miss Pope. And even a landlubber like me could tell we’d slowed-the engine’s deep thrum had shifted significantly in amplitude and tempo.
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