The Lusitania Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  Still in their stolen stewards’ whites, the three stowaways were not taking advantage of the bunks—two of them milled about, the tall skinny one and the fellow of average build, both tossing the occasional wary glance at their apparent leader, the burly blonde one, who stood staring at us sullenly.

  “This is Mr. Van Dine,” Anderson said to them curtly. “He speaks your damn language, so there will be no excuses now.”

  Anderson told me he would leave me to them—he wanted to see how Miss Vance was coming along with her investigating—and he departed. Williams sat at the desk, swivelled toward the prisoners in their cell, the revolver in his hand—a melodramatic touch, it seemed to me, with our spies under lock and key, but a certain point was made.

  Positioning myself a foot or so from the wall of bars, I spoke to them in German. “Who are you, and what is your purpose?”

  The blonde leader shook his head when the other two seemed eager to reply to the comforting sound of their own language.

  “I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I’m not a member of the crew—I am merely a journalist who speaks your mother tongue.”

  The burly blonde perked at this, and said, “We are impoverished tourists.”

  “Tourists?” I asked.

  “Yes—college boys who came to America looking for a good time.”

  They seemed a little old for that and I said so.

  The blonde said, “We were foolish. We spent all our money on girls and whiskey. Now to get back to Europe, we have to sneak aboard. And we were caught.”

  “Wearing stewards uniforms.”

  He shrugged. “We found them and put them on. We hoped to blend in.”

  “Speaking nothing but German?”

  Another shrug. “We are foolish boys out on a lark. We made a mistake. You have heard the expression, ‘reckless youth’?”

  I smiled. “Do you really think this story will hold up under British interrogation?”

  The blonde said nothing, but his two cell mates stared at him with anxiety oozing from their pores.

  “You see, Staff Captain Anderson has to quickly decide,” I said, “whether to bundle you boys back to the U.S.—for the next few minutes that remains an option—or to deliver you into the hands of the British secret service.”

  The blonde shrugged. “You imply we would prefer to return to America. But we boarded to go to Europe. We will explain ourselves when we arrive. We’re not spies.”

  “No, no, you’re college boys . . . and I’m just a journalist who doesn’t even know how Britain executes saboteurs. Do you happen to know—for my story? Is it the rope, or firing squad?”

  The skinny one turned pale; he staggered over and sat on the lower bunk and put his face in his hands.

  “We are foolish college boys who stowed away,” the blonde leader said. “We have nothing else to say.”

  “Fellows,” I said amiably, “I told you I’m a journalist. What you don’t know is that I work for a pro-German publisher. I was sent here to ascertain whether there are guns and munitions aboard this ship.”

  That got the blonde’s attention; the other two, as well, the skinny one lifting his face from his hands.

  “If you have discovered that information,” I said, “I will report it to my editor . . . and if you are frank with me about your identity, I will do my best to convince Captain Anderson that you should be sent back to America.”

  The skinny one was on his feet, moving toward his leader. “Listen to him, Klaus!”

  Klaus, the blonde, shot his skinny comrade a look that froze the man.

  Then the blonde said, “If we were spies, we would not have had time to find out such things.”

  “I see. What about explosives?”

  This startled even the blonde, though he showed it less than the other two.

  “Have you had time to deploy an explosive device?” I amplified.

  The average fellow said, “Klaus, he’s friendly . . . he is on our side.”

  “Shut up,” Klaus said. Then to me: “We are college boys. We are not who you assume us to be.”

  I shrugged, and dropped my bomb, as promised. “All right. But this is what my recommendation will be to Staff Captain Anderson: Keep these three imprisoned; if they have set an explosive device, with a timer, they may decide to talk, after all . . . as the clock ticks away.”

  The blonde sneered at this, but the other two were clearly upset, each going to a bunk at either side of the cell and flinging themselves there, turning their faces to the wall. They might have been sobbing.

  “We are not fools,” Klaus said.

  I glanced first at the skinny fellow, then at the average one, and said, “Well, you aren’t, anyway.”

  I turned and told the master-at-arms that I was going to join Captain Anderson at the pantry, and Williams said he would keep an eye on the prisoners. I quietly told him he might want to put the revolver away now; embarrassed, he agreed, and set the weapon on the desk, next to the confiscated camera.

  As I exited, Steward Leach was coming my way down the corridor. “What have you learned? Are they spies?”

  I paused and looked into the eager, concerned eyes of the pasty young steward. “They are Germans with a camera and a bad cover story. Short of having ‘spy’ written in ink on their foreheads, I’d say the evidence is conclusive. . . . Shouldn’t you be tending to the kiddies?”

  He grinned, baring his yellowish crooked teeth. “Luncheon is over. The brig is part of my watch—I need to check in with the master-at-arms, and see what he requires of me. . . . Eventually those bastards will need food and water.”

  “Might I suggest the crusts the cooks cut off your sandwiches,” I said. “As for the water, throwing them overboard might suffice.”

  When I reached the pantry, Anderson and Miss Vance were in the corridor outside the little room. Anderson turned eagerly to me for a report, and I told him that the blonde leader—Klaus—claimed they were college boys who’d run out of money and were stowing away home.

  “Tourists!” Anderson said disgustedly.

  “Well,” I said, “they did have a camera.”

  Miss Vance said to me, “Speaking of which, I found a bundle of photographic plates hidden at the rear of a lower shelf.”

  “What else did you discover?”

  “No weapons . . . no explosives. The only other items were three stacks of clothing, hidden behind some boxes—their street clothes, dock worker attire.”

  “That might indicate they had just changed into the stewards’ uniforms,” I said thoughtfully, “when we caught them. . . . Does that also mean they hadn’t yet committed any acts of sabotage?”

  Anderson shook his head. “They had plenty of time to hide a small pipe bomb.”

  I frowned. “What sort of bomb?”

  Miss Vance completed Anderson’s information. “A piece of pipe no larger than a healthy cigar that could ignite any ordinary substance, coal or wood, and not leave a trace.”*

  “We’ll search the ship,” Anderson said. “Discreetly but thoroughly.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” I said with dry sarcasm.

  But Anderson and Miss Vance had made it obvious how easy it would be to miss a tiny but deadly bomb.

  To brighten the mood, I told Anderson of the threat I’d left the stowaways to ponder.

  “Did you sense they might have placed such a device?” Anderson asked.

  “I couldn’t say—the ringleader is too collected to read, and the other two are so anxious they also defy assessment.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Miss Vance.

  “I do believe it might be worthwhile,” I said, “for me to question our little group periodically—the leader is a stalwart type, but, as I say, the other two are weak . . . promisingly so.”

  Miss Vance complimented me on this offering, and said to Anderson, “Could you have that camera and these plates taken to the darkroom, for development? That would seem a good place to start.”
/>   Anderson agreed.

  “Of course,” I said, “if you come up with some wonderful panoramic shots of the Manhattan skyline, we may have to reconsider. We may be hosting three innocent tourists, after all.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Miss Vance said.

  As did I. As did I.

  SIX

  After-Dinner Treat

  All around the ship, stewards were knocking on cabin and stateroom doors, checking to see if the dark curtains had been drawn in compliance with wartime blackout regulations; I was spared this minor indignity only because my cabin did not look out upon the ocean. I was not, on the other hand, spared another indignity, that of snapping, buttoning and hook-and-eyeing myself into the monkey suit required of those men wishing to eat in the Lusitania’s fabled dining room.*

  Tonight, after all, marked this first social event of our voyage. Throughout Saloon class, ladies were no doubt squeezing their forms, whether dainty or not, into evening gowns that had been long since selected with painful care to compete with the elegance of the white-and-gold palatial dining room that awaited them.

  And in the ship’s galleys, larders, bakehouses and confectionery kitchens, a battalion of cooks, bakers, butchers and scullions would even now be applying finishing touches to the voyage’s initial and typically elaborate meal, served by the Lucy’s regiment of waiters.

  I had been invited by Miss Vance—with the generous approval of Madame Marie DePage—to dine at the DePage table tonight; I was to meet them in the dining room. Taking the lift down to D deck, and the main floor of the saloon, I was guaranteed the full effect of the most talked about restaurant on the seven seas. And I was not disappointed.

  The First Class Dining Saloon was like a gigantic ornate Easter egg filled with the crème de la crème. The two-tiered white chamber, trimmed in the usual gold, was overseen by an enormous alabaster-and-gilt dome whose ornate plasterwork and oval panels, depicting cherubs after Boucher, would have been the envy of many a cathedral. Fully five hundred patrons at once could be served here, between the circular balcony of the upper tier (à la carte) and the main floor (table d’hôte), which was as wide as the ship itself. Marble Corinthian columns, circular tables with linen cloths and shining silver and glittering crystal, rose-tapestry swivel chairs, an immense mahogany sideboard . . . Cunard had spared no expense to provide a regal ambience for its first-class passengers.

  A Strauss waltz floated down from the balcony, courtesy of a subdued orchestra, and despite the room’s size and the number of patrons therein, the combined table conversation was a murmur, not a din, the occasional clink and clank of silver and china merely percussive touches. Waiters glided from table to table with a grace usually confined to dancers, as diners entered the palatial saloon, taking it all in with wide eyes, the upper class gawking like hicks at the county fair.

  I spotted the theatrical impresario Frohman, entering opposite me; he was relying heavily on his cane, followed by an entourage of half a dozen men and women, including two well-known and attractive actresses, Josephine Brandell and Rita Jolivet. The group was disturbing the decorum of Strauss and quiet conversation by speaking in the boisterous, self-centered manner typical of theater people.

  Moving past the slow, loud group, bushy-bearded George Kessler—the Champagne magnate—swaggered over to a small table where a middle-aged man with a younger wife held a seat for him. Perched between two of those gold-crowned columns, at a table for eight, were Madame DePage and her party, including Miss Vance, who had thoughtfully saved the seat next to her for yours truly.

  I went immediately to Madame DePage, who graciously rose to offer me her dainty hand, which was ensconced in black lace—her entire ensemble was black, her evening gown heavy with beads and lace, a black feather rising from a small hat . . . all in all, a peculiar cross between the funereal and the gay.

  I accepted her hand, almost (but not) kissing it as I half-bowed, saying, “It’s a great honor, Madame DePage. I admire very much your humanitarian efforts.”

  The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty—her skin was like cream, her lips pursed in a perpetual kiss—lowered her head in a small bow of her own. Then her eyes lifted to mine, sparkling as she said, in her lilting accent, “Miss Vance says you’re a charming fellow, Monsieur Van Dine. And you wish to interview me for your newspaper?”

  “I do, Madame—at your convenience.”

  “I will be delighted. It will be pleasant to speak of the serious matter. . . . Men, they die, they suffer, while we do the frivolous thing, inside of this . . .” She searched for a word. “. . . bubble.”

  “Bubbles are notoriously fragile, Madame.”

  “Oh, yes they are. It is a . . . illusion, our safety. The world, she is at war.”

  “I understand your point of view, Madame. But international law does not allow a ship like this one to be fired upon, until it has been searched and munitions or guns discovered.”

  “And then?”

  I shrugged. “Then the enemy can fire away.”

  “And what of the passengers?”

  “Oh, they must be removed.”

  “Ah, but passengers can be ‘removed’ in various ways, n’est-ce pas?”

  I smiled and lowered my head in capitulation.

  The lovely philanthropist made introductions. Seated next to her was Dr. James Houghton, a distinguished-looking gent in his middle forties, who was travelling to join Madame DePage’s husband as his assistant at the hospital at La Panne. Seated opposite them were a slender, bird-like but not unattractive woman in her later forties and a much younger man, possibly thirty or at most thirty-five, who seemed nonetheless to be her sweetheart. The woman was Theodate Pope, daughter of a car manufacturer in New England somewhere, and her bright-eyed soul mate was Edwin Friend.

  “So you’re a journalist?” the bird-like Miss Pope asked, in a breathy, high-pitched voice. Her beaded gown was a light green satin.

  I had at this point taken my seat at the far end of the table, next to Miss Vance, lovely in a blue satin the color of her eyes, every tendril of the blonde hair neatly up, complemented by a small hat with a large darker blue feather. This put me next to Mr. Friend, as well.

  “That’s right,” I said, seeing no reason to amplify, though the designation “journalist” obviously did me little justice.

  The woman persisted. “Have you any interest in the paranormal?”

  “Psychic phenomenon, do you mean? I’m afraid I have little patience with superstition, Miss Pope.”

  Her friend Friend chimed in. “Ah, but this isn’t superstition, sir—it’s science. That’s why we’re going to England, you see.”

  I didn’t see, nor did I particularly care to.

  But Miss Pope was saying, “Edwin and I are pursuing our mutual interest in psychic science. We’ve arranged to confer with the members of the English Society for Psychical Research!”

  That last had been delivered so triumphantly I was obviously expected to cheer or at least provide an ooh or an ah. Instead I merely nodded, and said, “Well, I wish you both luck.”

  This response disappointed them, but it achieved my desired effect: They turned away from me, to their own company, and throughout the evening spoke enthusiastically and incessantly to one another about spiritualistic matters.

  Miss Vance whispered, “You handled that well, Van.”

  I looked into the china-blue eyes, wishing I might live there—no pleasanter place could be easily imagined. “Did I, Vance?”

  Still speaking so low that only I could hear her, she said, “You dispensed of them without insulting them—it’s nice to know your acid tongue can be reigned in.”

  From the balcony the strained strains of “The End of a Perfect Day” wafted unsettlingly down, replacing Strauss with the inexplicably popular treacle of songwriter Carrie Jacobs Bond.

  “The orchestra certainly knows how to kill one’s appetite,” I said to Miss Vance.

  And a familiar male voice nearby blurted: “How
wonderful! One of my favorite tunes, by my favorite composer!”

  Elbert Hubbard had arrived. Pausing just behind us, the homespun excuse for a philosopher was escorting his wife, Alice, apparently in search of a table. Mrs. Hubbard was slender and not unattractive, in a scrubbed sort of way, though the woman seemed ill at ease in her chocolate-color satin evening gown, which had been in style once. Hubbard wore the required tuxedo, but one of his trademark floppy silk ties flowed down over his white shirt front, in seeming protest. With his shoulder-length gray-touched hair—so much like his wife’s—he cut a distinctive if bizarre figure in the midst of so much conservative wealth.

  Then he noticed Madame DePage, who had turned to smile and nod to him. They were apparently acquainted—or at least had been introduced, at some point—because Hubbard and his wife went to her like iron shavings to a magnet.

  “Marie,” he said, “how lovely you look. . . . I hope you can find time, on this voyage, to sit with me and exchange ideas and thoughts.”

  “I would be delighted, Fra Hubbard,” she said.

  I was dismayed to think so intelligent a woman could be swayed by this master of middle-brow blather.

  “I am afraid I would have little to discuss,” Madame DePage said frankly, glancing about the room with mild distaste, “with these rich.”

  Hubbard shrugged and his thick locks bounced on his shoulders. “Men are rich only as they give, Madame—you are the rich one in this room. He . . . or she . . . who gives great service gets great rewards.”

  “Someone should follow him around,” I whispered to Miss Vance, “and sew that stuff on samplers.”

  She gave me a reproving look, but her eyes were laughing.

  Madame DePage introduced the Hubbards to Miss Pope and her young lapdog, and the bird-like female inquired as to the great Hubbard’s opinion of paranormal research.

  “My opinion is favorable,” he said. “The supernatural is the natural not yet understood.”

  That brightened Miss Pope’s eyes like a Hallowe’en pumpkin whose candle had just been lit.

  But then Hubbard moved on—he seemed incapable of real conversation: He was strictly in the aphorism business. And his wife hadn’t said a word, merely a pleasant appendage of his. They made their way to a table beneath the orchestra, which had just begun playing another Carrie Jacobs Bond number, “Just-a Wearyin’ for You,” a forlornly lachrymose affair that had Hubbard looking skyward, as if God Himself were responsible for this dismal dirge.