“Oh, the process is a slow one,” she lied. “I won’t know whether that blade has prints for several days.”
“I see,” he said, seemingly accepting that absurdity. He tipped his cap. “Do please keep us informed. . . . Mr. Van Dine, I’ll leave word with the switchboard about those interviews.”
I thanked him, and he strode aft, disappearing through a doorway.
“Interesting fib,” I said to her, with a smile.
“I was studying him as I spoke,” she said soberly. “He betrayed nothing.”
“Probably because he had nothing to betray.”
She sighed. “Probably.”
We walked amidst the affluent passengers of Saloon Class, on deck decked out in their Sunday finery, fresh from divine services, derbies and boaters on the men, the chapeaus on their ladies no more elaborate than your average wedding cake. The wide open-air deck, narrowing when a davit-slung lifeboat interrupted with a reminder of reality, was the avenue down which these swells strolled in a manner seemingly oblivious to the hazards of ocean travel during wartime.
The Lusitania—like any great ship—was a city unto itself, almost a world unto itself; but I could not keep my mind from taunting me with the knowledge of three murders recently committed under the uninformed noses of these Sunday saunterers.
Time came when Miss Vance and I retired to her cabin, where we went over in some tedious and repetitious detail the facts and experiences of the day (and night) previous. I will not bore the reader with this, and admit no new insights were garnered. But it seems to be human nature to beat a dead horse, or in our case, a murdered trio of stowaways.
The First Class Lounge and Music Room, where my interview with Madame DePage took place, was aft of the Boat Deck’s Grand Entrance, an enormous* chamber rivaling the domed dining saloon in elegance.
Decorated in a late-Georgian style, panelled in inlaid mahogany, the lounge boasted its own domed ceiling with ornate plasterwork surrounding stained-glass panels through which sunlight filtered during the day (with electric bulbs to light the night). An apple-green color scheme unified the floral carpet with cushions and drapes, and marble fireplaces bookended the chamber forward and aft, over which were elaborately framed enameled panels of dignified if dull landscapes. For all its size, the lounge created coziness through arrangements of its satinwood and mahogany furnishings, which included easy chairs and overstuffed settees and tables just large enough for cards or snacks.
In a corner of the lounge, near a grand piano that bore silent witness, Madame DePage—in stylish black again, with a hat bearing one black feather and a white one—sat regally in an arm chair with Miss Vance on her left and me on her right.
The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty was the only person beside myself and certain crew members aware that Philomina Vance was the ship’s detective—and that Miss Vance’s role as her travelling companion was something of a ruse. Still, guarding the funds Belgium’s lovely envoy had raised for the Red Cross was a significant part of the Pinkerton agent’s assignment.
Nonetheless, we had decided not to share with Madame DePage the true facts, regarding the existence (much less the demise) of the stowaways. Miss Vance and I were, on the one hand, complying with the wishes for confidentiality of the two captains; but, also, Marie DePage was a possible suspect as an accomplice to the Germans, if not their murderer; and, in any event, an undeniable key figure in the affair.
She had, after all, received one of the warning telegrams, and her name had been on the chief stowaway’s list.
Which meant she may have been targeted for robbery—or even death—by the late saboteurs.
I was armed with a pencil and a secretary’s spiral-bound notebook, dutifully taking down the rather stale “news” the charming, charismatic woman was sharing with me.
“I tour your beautiful country,” she said, her accent turning syllables into poetry, “for two month.”
She meant “months,” of course, but such lapses in her otherwise admirable mastery of English only made her seem all the more charming.
“This effort was for the Belgian Red Cross,” I said, pencil poised.
“Oui—my husband, Antoine, is Surgeon General of the Belgian Army, and director of the Queen’s Hospital at La Panne. That is where I find this passion.”
“At the hospital, you mean?”
The dark eyes flashed, and so did a lovely white smile. “Yes—I visit the wounded soldier there, talk to them, write letters to their family for them. Soldier from both side! German boys, too. One say to me, ‘Madame, why do you write for me? I am your enemy.’ And I say, ‘To me you are just a wounded boy who needs help.’ They are all . . . you know the expression? Enfants perdus?”
I did. Lost children—soldiers sent to certain death in war.
Despite her smile, her eyes had welled with tears, and Miss Vance handed her a handkerchief.
“You must excuse me,” Madame DePage said, dabbing at her tear-pearled lashes. “You see, my son, Lucien, he is seventeen. I have just learn, a few days ago, that he has . . . join the army.”
Miss Vance turned to me. “That’s why Madame DePage booked last-minute passage on the Lusitania . . . to see her boy before he goes to the Western front.”
This apparently was why no better arrangements had been made to transport the $150,000 in cash she’d raised for war relief, than for her to transport those funds herself . . . with the help of the Pinkerton agency.
I politely listened—and made a record of—her impassioned description of her impoverished, war-torn country. But I was confused.
“Hasn’t Belgium already fallen to Germany?” I asked, chagrined that something so important to her was so vague to me.
“All but this leetle small tiny corner of my country,” she said liltingly, “in the northwest . . . that is where our hospital is.” She glanced around the opulent room, where wealthy travellers lounged, playing cards, conversing, having a bite to eat between shipboard repasts. “It is hard to be here . . . in such luxury . . . c’est-à-dire, to have enjoyment while others suffer.”
“People like these,” I reminded her, meaning the rich passengers of the ship, “made generous donations to your cause.”
According to an article I’d read in the News, her final and very successful stop had been on Fifth Avenue, where she spoke to a wealthy bunch called the Special Relief Society; and the J.P. Morgan Company was one of her fund-raising tour’s chief sponsors.
“Please do not misunderstand, monsieur—in Pittsburgh, in Washington, D.C., the response . . . the generosity . . . it was tremendous. The people of your country have large heart . . . liberty, they love. But the big conflict of this war is still in the future. The worst fighting, yet to come. We must foresee the coming slaughter, and be prepare to help the t’ousands of wounded, friend or foe. . . . I tell my American friend . . .”
She meant “friends.”
“. . . this war, in the night, like a thief, it will come for you.” She shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”
“Madame,” I said, “as a friend . . . I hope I might consider myself such?”
“Ça va sans dire!” she said, which meant, “that goes without saying.”
“And this is not for publication—merely comes from my own personal interest and concern. . . . Have you received any threats of any kind, during your stay in America?”
She frowned, shook her head. “No . . . the letters, they have all been on my side . . . usually with money in them, I am please to say.”
“No malicious phone calls, either, at the hotels or homes where you stayed?”
“Nothing . . . not even from the pro–German-American . . . and I know there are some.”
Strangely, it occurred to me at that instant that I was no longer as pro-German as I’d been the day before! Encountering saboteurs aboard the ship on which one is sailing can do that to a person.
“Though the Allied cause is in my heart,” she was saying, “I am a neutral because of m
y work. . . . I do not discuss the atrocity, to stir passion for the people to open their heart and wallet. No, I speak only of the suffering of boys on both side, of the starvation of the noncombatant in this tiny strip from Nieuport along the Yaer to the French frontier . . . ten mile wide, forty mile long.”
“Madame, I know you feel great compassion for the boys fighting on either side of this conflict.”
“Bien entendu . . . but of course.”
“Prior to boarding, were you approached by any young men to aid them in returning to their homes?”
“I do not understand.”
“German boys, stranded in America . . .”
She shook her head again. “This would be a good place for them, America, where they would have no guns to shoot at the Belgian boy.”
That had seemed unlikely, her aiding the stowaways; but I’d had to inquire, however elliptically.
Trying again, I asked, “Has anyone approached you on the ship, and struck up an acquaintance? By this I mean, someone you had not met previously.”
She shrugged. “On shipboard, this happen all the time. You yourself, monsieur, this describes.”
That was true. But I pressed on: “I mean someone unknown to you prior to boarding, who has made some effort to get close to you.”
A new friend, taken into the madame’s confidence, might well have robbery in mind.
Thoughtfully, she said, “I had not met before Miss Pope—but I knew of her, hear of her, we have the mutual friend. . . . She is an architect, you know, a designer of library, a leader of the party Progressive.”
And a lunatic who believed in spooks and fairies.
“Anyone else?”
She nodded. “There is a Dr. Fisher—Howard Fisher. He travel with his wife’s young sister, a Miss Connor, Dorothy Connor.”
Fisher, she said, wanted to help his British brother-in-law establish a hospital in France.
“They say they would like to join forces with my husband at La Panne,” she said.
“But you’d never heard of them before. And they are first-class passengers?”
“Oui.”
I wrote down their names. Later I would ask Miss Vance to investigate them, to which she readily agreed.
“I’ve focused on your war efforts,” I said. “Is there anyone on the ship that you knew previously—someone out of your personal life who you did not expect to see? Anyone with a grudge?”
“Au contraire . . . but for my friend Dr. Houghton, who go to assist my husband at La Panne.”
“How long have you known Dr. Houghton?”
“A few week—he is from a town in New York. . . Troy.”
“He sought you out?”
“Yes—at one of the rally where I raise the money.”
I had already jotted the good doctor’s name down, and would request Miss Vance investigate him, as well.
“These question,” she said, and her eyes were amused and yet her aspect remained one of tristesse, “they are not for your newspaper, no?”
“No.” I glanced at Miss Vance for help.
“Madame,” the lady Pinkerton said, “Mr. Van Dine and I have become good friends . . .”
The regal woman smiled. “Perhaps he is the man I hear in your room last night?”
This astonished both of us, but Madame DePage only laughed, the weight of the war finally disappearing from her shoulders. “I am French. Do you think I would judge you? . . . You know the expression le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point?”
The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing.
Suddenly I wondered just how friendly she and Dr. Houghton had become, no matter how dedicated she might be to her husband and his cause.
“A la belle étoile,” I said, “who knows what harmless time might pass, aboard a ship like this?”
Madame DePage smiled, eyes atwinkle, nodding her approval of starry nights and shipboard romance.
“Mr. Van Dine and I have become friends,” Miss Vance said, trying again—and this was the first time I’d seen this calm and collected woman show any sign of embarrassment, “and he is helping me investigate. We believe a ring of thieves may be aboard the ship.”
She did not mention that the members of this ring—at least, the three German stowaways—were in cold storage.
“I see,” Madame DePage said. “And you seek the faux bonhomme? The false friend, who tries to become close?”
“Yes,” I said. “Even a crew member who you might find in your room, seemingly quite innocent. . . . Ask yourself, does he belong here? Is he serving some ship’s purpose, or his own?”
The lovely envoy nodded and smiled. “Your concern is appreciated, monsieur. But I think the . . . Miss Vance, what is the word? . . . The precautions we have take, this will make the effort of any thief foolish. . . . And now I must bring our conversation to a close. I wish some time in my suite before luncheon—can you believe it is almost time to eat again?”
She rose, bid us bonjour, and Miss Vance and I were suddenly alone in our nook of the lavish lounge.
“Madame DePage does seem a terribly unlikely suspect,” I said.
Miss Vance had shifted to the chair vacated by Marie DePage, to sit closer. “I would agree—and the time I’ve spent with her, which is considerable, only underscores that notion.”
“Nonetheless, we had to have this interview.”
“Oh yes.”
“And we did learn some things.”
It was at this point that I suggested Miss Vance investigate Dr. Fisher and his sister-in-law, Dorothy Connor, and Dr. Houghton, madame’s male companion. She said she would wire Pinkerton to make what she called “background checks” on all of them—which she of course had already put into motion for the crew members Williams and Leach.
“What are these precautions to which madame referred?” I asked her. “What secrets are you keeping from me, Vance?”
She arched an eyebrow, and her half-smile dug a dimple in her left cheek. “After last night, Van, I would say precious few.”
I did not blush. “If you don’t trust me, well then . . . you don’t trust me.”
Miss Vance touched my hand. “I would be violating Pinkerton procedures.”
“It’s really none of my business. None of my concern.”
“Don’t pout! It’s not manly. . . .” She leaned conspiratorially close, her tone shifting from quiet to near whisper. “Madame DePage has a steamer trunk in her suite. Inside is a locked strongbox in which one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in cash, resides.”
I frowned. “How is this a precaution?”
She shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “The bills are counterfeit.”
I sat back, eyes wide. “What? But surely that’s illegal. . . .”
“Not in this instance. In cooperation with the U.S. Secret Service, Pinkerton placed this fake money, as bait, in madame’s possession. Should it be stolen, and the culprits not apprehended aboard ship, those counterfeit bills will lead the authorities to them. Lists of those bills will be distributed internationally.”
“That is clever,” I admitted. “And the real money is in safekeeping?”
“It’s somewhere in my cabin,” she said. “Isn’t that enough information for you?”
It was. But I did have to wonder if it had been in her mattress—if so, I’d never been that close to so much money in my life.
Then it was time for the first luncheon sitting, though I stopped by the switchboard first—seemed we had appointments this afternoon with George Kessler, Charles Frohman and Elbert Hubbard . . . and the latter one would no doubt try my digestion.
TEN
Money Bags
Charles Frohman’s suite was on the starboard side of the ship. With the exception of last evening’s meal, Frohman had apparently not ventured out of his quarters since boarding; and he was not your typically blustery theatrical character, despite a propensity for surrounding himself with specimens of that obnoxious breed.
I was aware of him by reputation, vaguely at least—Frohman was one of the best-known and most beloved men in New York—but it was Miss Vance, that delightful actress turned detective, who prepared me for the interview.
“It’s rather remarkable,” she told me over luncheon, “that he agreed to see us at all.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Well, the word is he’s surprisingly shy, considering his profession—they call him ‘the Silent Man.’ He never solicits interviews and his celebrity is something he himself has never encouraged.”
Charles Frohman, she explained with respect and even awe, was widely credited with raising the standards of the American theater, almost single-handedly dragging it out of the muck of disrepute, where fifty years ago John Wilkes Booth and his pistol had sent it crashing.
In an effort to see to it that the authors and actors he favored received proper exposure, Frohman bought theater after theater; he often had as many as eight new plays in rehearsal at once—and upward of five hundred companies touring. He became much more than just a business manager to these clients—he was friend, confident, father confessor and artistic adviser. This galaxy included Maude Adams, Ellen Terry, Otis Skinner, Ethel Barrymore, William Gillette and many more.
Frohman insisted on quality—mounting well-written plays, as intelligent as they were entertaining (Miss Vance said)—and employing actors whose talent was matched by private lives clean of scandal. Miss Vance felt that the American theater was now on an equal footing with its European counterpart, and acting would soon achieve a level of respectability equal to any of the professions.
I took in this information gratefully, along with the rest of my meal, and did not point out to her how ridiculous these last few assertions struck me. My silence may have been hypocritical, but even a man of letters knows when to shut up, around a woman of pulchritude.
Standing outside the door of Frohman’s suite, Miss Vance and I exchanged smiles—the rather raucous strains of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” were bleeding through. I knocked several times—firmly, to be heard over Irving Berlin.
The Lusitania Murders Page 12