The Lusitania Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  “You really are a grouch,” an already familiar alto voice said, next to me.

  I couldn’t suppress the smile as I turned to her, those loose tendrils flying like little blonde flags of her own in the breeze.

  “Just because I don’t behave like a schoolboy,” I said, “waving at a bunch of strangers, doesn’t make me a grouch.”

  “No. I am sure there are other factors.”

  I laughed, once. “Miss Vance, are you following me?”

  “Why, do you mind?”

  “No,” I said forwardly. “The sooner a shipboard romance begins, the better, I always say.”

  She arched a brow; her eyes were an impossible light blue, eyes you could gaze straight through to the core of her . . . a core consumed, at the moment, with mocking me. “Is that what you think this is? The beginnings of a romance?”

  I shrugged. “We only have a week. And, after all, you like my beard.”

  She raised a finger. “No—I said I liked the self-confidence it indicated—that you’re a man who goes his own way. If I could have my way with you, I’d cut that beard off.”

  “If I could have my way with you, I’d let you.”

  She did not blush, but she did turn away so I would not see just how broad her smile was. And when she turned back to me, the smile had lessened but was very much still there. “You are a rogue, Mr. Van Dine.”

  “I thought you were going to call me Van.”

  “I should call you a horse’s S.S.”

  And I laughed again—more than once. “I like you, Vance.”

  “No ‘Miss’?”

  “I don’t think so. Whether a shipboard romance develops or not, I believe you were right the first time.”

  “How’s that?”

  I half-bowed. “We are going to be great friends.”

  Below, burly stevedores were hauling the creaking gangplanks onto the pier, really putting their elbow grease into it. Hawsers thick as a stevedore’s arm were cast loose from bollards, splashing into the slip’s scummy waters before the sailors drew the ropes up onto the decks.

  Leaning on the rail, I asked her, “May I inquire what’s become of your companion, Madame DePage? I gather you’re travelling together.”

  She nodded past me, looking up, and I followed her eyes to the bridge; on the deck beneath the row of windows, Captain Turner—all arrayed in his gold-braided finery, looking rather more distinguished in his commodore’s cap than he had in his bowler at Luchow’s—was holding court with five of his most distinguished first-class passengers.

  Gathered about him in a semicircle were Miss Vance’s companion, Madame DePage, impresario Frohman, the “Champagne King” Kessler, and the richest man on any ship, Vanderbilt, as well as his lanky dark-haired friend, whose name I had not yet ascertained. The group consisted of every illustrious passenger who had received one of those mysterious telegrams—with the exception of the homespun Elbert Hubbard.

  Miss Vance gave me a look that I understood at once to mean we should move closer, which we did, until we were near enough to overhear Turner’s remarks to his guests.

  But it was Frohman who was speaking at the moment, the half-crippled producer leaning on his cane with seemingly all of his weight. “Tell me, Alfred—is it true you cancelled your passage on the Titanic the night before she sailed?”

  The frog-like Broadway czar’s tone was genial enough, but the question had a certain edge.

  Vanderbilt, with the face of a somewhat dissipated boy under that jaunty cap, said, “It’s true—I had a feeling about it.”

  Kessler asked, “Any premonitions this time?”

  The multimillionaire shrugged, and the crusty captain put a hand on Vanderbilt’s shoulder, and gestured down toward where Miss Vance and I stood . . . but he was really invoking the swarm of passengers clustered along the rail. He said, in a blustering way (which was easier for Miss Vance and me to hear than the previous exchange), “Do you honestly think all these people would have booked passage on the Lusitania if they thought they could be caught by a German submarine?* Why, that’s the best joke I’ve heard all year, this talk of torpedoing!”

  Captain Turner laughed, and so did Vanderbilt. I exchanged glances with Miss Vance—neither of us was smiling, much less laughing.

  The same could be said for Madame DePage, who—in a musical voice touched with that accent shared by France and her native Belgium, so fetching in a woman, so obnoxious in a man—said, “I do not find this war a subject fit for the . . . joking.”

  The smiles vanished from the faces of Vanderbilt and Captain Turner, both men apologizing.

  “I am concerned not for me myself,” Madame DePage said, her pretty dimpled chin lifted, “but for the wounded in this tragic atrocity.” The latter word, divided by her accent into four lilting syllables, had a poetry at odds with its meaning. “If this ship, she goes down, t’ousands will suffer in hospital.”

  Madame DePage was referring to the $150,000 she had raised; this implied the cash was on board with her—a dangerous state of affairs even in peacetime.

  “I have to say I share madame’s concern,” Vanderbilt’s slender friend said. “These warning telegrams are most alarming.”

  I had thought that was the reason for this little gathering—for the captain to reassure his guests. But he was a ham-handed old salt, wretchedly awkward with people.

  Still, he tried his best: “Mr. Williamson, I’m sure, when we trace them, these messages will be the work of some publicity hound. Please . . . my friends . . . think nothing of these things.”

  The captain was gesturing with one of the telegrams.

  Vanderbilt said, “I’m sure it’s just someone’s idea of humor. A tasteless joke.”

  “Germany could concentrate her entire fleet of subs on this ship,” Turner blustered (this seemed a strange thing to say, by way of reassurance), “and we would elude them.”

  “That’s quite a statement, Captain,” Frohman said.

  “I have never heard of the sub that can make twenty-seven knots—and we can.”

  “Flying that American flag will help,” said Vanderbilt’s friend, whose name apparently was Williamson.

  Since America was not at war with Germany—and with the Lusitania repainted as she was—hiding behind the Stars and Stripes seemed a good way to deceive a U-boat commander. But it had been tried before, and the White House had complained to Cunard.

  Turner did not respond to Williamson’s remark, and merely patted backs and gave out assurances that the warning telegrams were of no import, easing the group off the small raised deck with invitations to join him at his table for meals, if they liked.

  “Someone was missing from that little gathering,” I said.

  “I know,” Miss Vance said.

  I arched an eyebrow at her. “Really? And who do you assume that person to be?”

  Matter-of-factly, she replied, “Elbert Hubbard. He received one of those warning telegrams, as well.”

  “Is that what they were referring to? Warnings they received?”

  Miss Vance informed me coolly that Madame DePage had received a telegram warning her that the ship would be torpedoed—signed “Morte,” death.

  I shrugged. “Perhaps the Sage of East Aurora didn’t receive a warning—perhaps a legitimate telegram came in to him at the same time these warnings arrived for the others.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt that—not when he reacted to it in such disgust. He crumpled it and tossed it to the ground, you know.”

  “Is that right? Well, again, perhaps its contents were displeasing to him without it having been one of these warnings. Perhaps someone wired Hubbard to inform him of what a complete nincompoop he is.”

  She smiled a little. “I think he’s a great man.”

  “You do not.”

  “Well . . . a good man. A well-intentioned man.”

  “That’s something wholly other than ‘great.’ ”

  Now she shrugged. “Well, I suppose w
e’ll never know what was in that telegram Mr. Hubbard received.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Not unless you share it with me, Van.” She smiled at me, the eyes atwinkle again. “After all, you did pick it up.”

  I would not like to know what my expression looked like: Surely my mouth was agape and my eyes were wide and I appeared more the fool than a self-confident man. I realized that my masculine charms had not inspired this fetching wench to seek out my friendship, after all—she had seen me pick up the discarded telegram, open and look at it, and had sought me out, in her wily surreptitious female manner. I was beginning to suspect she was a damn suffragette.

  “Could I see it?” she asked sweetly.

  “See what?” I asked, but my bantering was limp. I took the telegram from my suitcoat pocket and handed it to her.

  “So Hubbard was warned, too,” she said, studying the crumpled paper.

  “Why, are you a detective?”

  Both eyebrows climbed her fine forehead and she asked innocently, “Do I look like a detective?”

  “No . . . but then, I don’t believe I look like a fool, yet apparently I am one. And here I thought you wanted to be my great good friend.”

  “I do,” she said nicely, apparently genuine, as she handed back the telegram. “Van, I’m just a good friend of Madame DePage, accompanying her, looking out after her interests.”

  A low hum began to emanate from deep within the ship, growing into a muffled roar; the ship’s four steam turbines began their rotation, and giant propeller blades made a muddy froth of the Hudson River.

  I glanced at my pocket watch: twelve-thirty. All delays, all doubts, all fears be damned—we were finally pulling away, as the Big Lucy gave off three throaty blasts from her mighty bass horn.

  “Shall we have lunch,” I asked, putting away my watch, “and discuss this further?”

  But she was gone—Philomina Vance had disappeared into the crowd on deck.

  And I stood there alone, strangely sad as the big ship—like a massive building pulling away from its foundations—groaned away from the dock. A brass band on deck was playing one song (“It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”), the band on the pier another (“God Be With You Till We Meet Again”), and somewhere a chorus was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Shouts of farewell tried to climb over that cacophony only to be drowned out by the bellow of steam whistles.

  Soon a trio of tugboats puffed up to the much larger vessel to nudge and cajole her bow, easing her around till she was pointing downstream. It didn’t take long for the faces on the dock to turn indistinguishable, and finally even the skyline of Manhattan was just a blur of brick.

  “Would you like to have lunch with me?” that delightful alto intoned.

  I turned toward the sound, hopefully, but tried not to show eagerness; she was again at my side, not a hint of guile in those clear blue eyes.

  I said, “If you’re not a detective, you must be a magician.”

  She smiled gloriously. “And why is that, Mr. Van Dine?”

  “Because of these vanishing acts you pull off.”

  She shrugged and offered me her arm. “You’ll just have to hold on to me, then.”

  That sounded wonderful.

  And I took her arm, like the fool I am, and went off for lunch with her, convinced no more ulterior motives lurked within that pretty blonde hatless head.

  If I were a lesser writer, I would at this point say: little did I know . . .

  But of course, we all know I’m above such things.

  FOUR

  Warm Welcome

  We took luncheon in the Verandah Cafe. Most passengers were availing themselves of the opportunity to get their first look at the ship’s fabled domed dining room; but Miss Vance said she preferred to save that treat for this evening. Though the day remained overcast, this shipboard outdoor cafe held a certain airy appeal for both of us, and the relative privacy was attractive, as well.

  The cafe was on the Boat Deck, past a lounge area rife with rose-upholstered wall seats and chairs, and even a marble fireplace; the tones of white and gold continued to prevail. The cafe was at the after-end of the deck, a twenty-by-forty* area with a white ceiling and dark-wood pillars open to the first-class promenade. The floor was parquet, the furnishings a mix of wood and wicker, with little potted trees whose stick-thin trunks rose to bushy explosions of green.

  We sat at a small round table whose white linen tablecloth was at odds with the casualness of the clientele, mostly men in caps with legs crossed, smoking cigarettes, reading newspapers. Miss Vance and I were the only mixed couple—and among the few patrons having luncheon.

  I had a plate of dainty deviled-ham sandwiches with their crusts trimmed off—apparently here in first class, the upper crust preferred no competition; and Miss Vance partook of a cup of beef broth. We both had tea, although my lovely companion took hers iced.

  “How is it that you became acquainted with Madame DePage,” I asked, with an offhandedness that I hope disguised my rapt interest. “If I may be so bold.”

  “You may.” The breeze was doing wonderful things with those blonde tendrils. “The madame and I are not friends, although we are friendly. I’m a paid companion.”

  “Ah. A secretary?”

  She offered me half a smile, half a shrug. “Something along those lines.”

  “Madame DePage must be a generous mistress.”

  An eyebrow arched. “Why is that?”

  I offered her a complete shrug, invoking both shoulders. “To book you Saloon passage.”

  It was common practice for servants and others attending first-class passengers to have rooms in second class (though rarely in third).

  “Actually,” she said, between sips of iced tea, “I’m sharing quarters with Madame DePage.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes it is. She has one of the Regal Suites.* The other, I understand, is Mr. Vanderbilt’s.”

  I nibbled a corner off a sandwich. “My little cabin is just down the hall from one of the Regal Suites—is yours portside or starboard? On the left or right, that is.”

  She smiled a little. “I know my portside from my starboard, sir—our suite is on your side of the ship.”

  Perhaps that would prove convenient, I thought. But I was also struck by the way she had referred to the suite so possessively—“our suite”—which was somewhat less than a subservient attitude . . . not that there seemed to be much in the way of subservience about Miss Vance.

  “And how long have you been a writer, Van?” she asked casually.

  I froze between bites and put down my sandwich. “I don’t recall mentioning that I was.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Truthfully . . . yes.” I looked unhesitatingly into those remarkable eggshell-blue eyes. “I’m aboard on a journalistic assignment. In fact, you might be in a position to help me out.”

  She cocked her head. “Really? How so?”

  “I’m hoping to interview the travelling celebrities . . . and your mistress, Madame DePage, certainly qualifies.”

  With a tiny wave of a gesture, she said, “That shouldn’t prove difficult. The madame is friendly to the press—she has a point of view she’s most anxious to communicate. I would be happy to pave the way for an audience.”

  I grinned at her—toasted her with my teacup. “Most generous of you, Vance.”

  “My pleasure. . . but I must say I’m a bit surprised you’re a reporter. I would have taken you for an author of fiction, or perhaps literary criticism.”

  “Why not a poet?”

  She was studying me the way a scientist looks at something smeared on a slide. “I don’t sense the romantic in you . . . at least not in the conventional sense. You have an acid eye, of a sort that would seek expression more directly than in that elliptical way a poet might employ. . . . Besides, I don’t believe poetry would strike you as a manly pursuit.”

  Miss Vance was remarkably insightful—although I had
written some small amount of poetry, in my time—but I was wondering how she had gathered so much about me in so short a span.

  “Vance,” I said, frankly exasperated and not a little impressed, “how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was any kind of writer?”

  Her lips twitched with amusement. “Well, Van, you’re a very well-groomed gentleman—your beard is immaculately trimmed . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  “But on your right hand, you have ink under your nails . . . either from a pen and/or the messy ribbon of one of those beastly typewriting machines.”

  Reflexively, I looked at the nails of my right hand and, to my dismay, she was quite right.

  “In addition,” she said, “at the dock you were observing passengers in a manner that indicated you were either, one, an agent or police official, private or government; or, two, a writer intent on observing human behavior. In retrospect, I should have noticed that you were keen on only the celebrities standing in line, which would have sent me in the direction of journalism.”

  This seemed quite a remarkable observation to me, and I said as much.

  “Further,” she said, keeping right on with it, “your attire reflected money and a sense of style, and yet was brand-new—”

  Now I had to interrupt. “Certainly it’s not unusual for a passenger about to board an ocean liner to dress in recently purchased apparel. What woman doesn’t buy a new ‘outfit’ for a trip?”

  “Well, Van, you’re not a woman—”

  “Thank you for noticing.”

  “But your freshly purchased apparel, added to the other facts, spelled writer.”

  “Why?”

  “Writers, even the most successful of them, lead a relatively solitary existence, and most often work at home. It’s characteristic of the professional writer to be rather . . . indifferent where fashion is concerned.”

  Understanding, I said, “But a writer who’s attending a special event . . . a play, an opera, a wedding . . . will certainly go out and buy new apparel.”

  Her smile indicated she liked that I was following her line of logic. “Yes. But this, added to these other seemingly insignificant details—topped off by your extraordinary gift with language—led me to risk sharing with you my assumption that you are, indeed, a writer.”