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 capture.”
“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 attaché, 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?”
“We would like to question Mr. Leach,” Miss Vance said. “But moreover, we feel he should be held in custody.”
“On what charges?” Turner asked. “What real evidence have you?”
“Hold him on suspicion,” she said with a shrug. “Hold him for questioning by the British authorities.”
“For the safety of the ship,” I said, “putting him in the brig, or at least confining him to his quarters, would seem prudent, don’t you think?”
Turner’s gaze settled on his staff captain. “Your opinion, Captain Anderson?”
Anderson was thinking, though there was nothing brooding about it; the facts Miss Vance had presented seemed to have won him over to our side. His words, finally, confirmed as much: “Sir, I’m in accord with our ship’s detective. Young Mr. Leach’s association with the enemy in time of war is quite sufficient reason to take him into custody.”
Turner began to nod slowly, then he said, “That’s good enough for me. . . . And I may owe you people an apology. You’ve done damned fine work, and you have the ship’s best interests at heart and in mind.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
A knock at the door interrupted this meeting of our newly formed mutual admiration s
ociety.
“Would you?” Turner asked Anderson, who nodded and rose to answer it.
A familiar male voice from the doorway said, “Is the captain in, Mr. Anderson? Might I have a word with him?”
The voice was Alfred Vanderbilt’s!
“Certainly, sir,” Anderson said, and ushered the millionaire—sporty in a navy-blue pinstripe with a lighter blue bow tie and a jaunty gray cap—inside the day room.
Vanderbilt greeted all of us, acknowledging first Miss Vance, then the captain, then myself. He seemed surprised and even pleased to see us.
“Now this is a coincidence,” he said. “Captain, I’ve come because of the warning your ship’s detective and Mr. Van Dine gave me yesterday. . . . They instructed me to report anything I might see that struck me as suspicious.”
“That’s a wise policy,” Turner said.
Miss Vance asked, “What have you witnessed?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps nothing—but I had just met up with my friend Mr. Williamson, whose cabin is on the portside. . . where I believe yours is, Miss Vance, and yours Mr. Van Dine . . .”
“That’s right,” I said. I had left my cabin (and telephone) number for him yesterday; and of course he knew Miss Vance was staying with Madame DePage in the ship’s only other Regal Suite.
Vanderbilt was frowning. “That steward . . . I believe his name is Leach . . . was coming out of your cabin, Mr. Van Dine. He looked rather . . . alarmed, when I noticed him. He hurried off, and I knocked on your door . . . but there was no answer.”
“Because I was here,” I said, with a nod.
“I know that, now—but what was that steward doing in the unattended cabin of a passenger? Stewards don’t make beds or clean rooms, do they?”
“That’s certainly not Mr. Leach’s job,” Anderson said.
On the Lusitania, as on most ships, stewards tended to matters of food service and other passenger needs.
“Well,” Vanderbilt said, “both Mr. Williamson and I found it damned questionable.”
Miss Vance said, “Yesterday we observed Mr. Leach deliver a Marconigram to Mr. Vanderbilt’s suite—Mr. Anderson, has he been assigned to the wireless shack?”
“Stewards or bellboys deliver those messages,” Anderson said, “depending on their availability.”
Vanderbilt seemed embarrassed. “I hope I’m not making a mountain from a molehill.”
“No, sir,” Anderson said. “This is useful information. Thank you!”
Vanderbilt smiled, and took his leave.
“I would suggest,” Miss Vance said, “prior to questioning Mr. Leach, a thorough search of Mr. Van Dine’s cabin be made. . . . You have no objection, Mr. Van Dine?”
“None, Miss Vance,” I said. “In fact, I quite insist. . . .”
Captain Turner returned to the bridge, and left us in Staff Captain Anderson’s hands. We took the elevator down to the Promenade Deck, and Anderson himself assumed charge of the inspection of my cabin, which was too small for us to join in. Miss Vance and I waited in the hallway, leaning against the mahogany railing, exchanging (to be frank) smug expressions. It felt quite good to have been so right.
Within minutes, our vindication cranked up a further notch.
“Ye gods,” Anderson said. He was on his knees, looking under the bed, as if a cuckolder might have been hiding there from a vengeful husband. He withdrew an object, holding it up for us to observe.
Though I had never seen one before, I felt quite convinced I knew what the object was.
But Miss Vance breathlessly confirmed my opinion: “A pipe bomb!”
Exiting my cabin gingerly, Anderson held the thing out at arm’s length—a half-foot of lead pipe, plugged with reddish brown wax at either end.
“I really should examine it for fingerprints,” Miss Vance suggested, though her tone was tentative.
“I’m afraid we will have to forgo such detective work,” Anderson said, making a preemptive decision, and he moved quickly aft, heading toward the Grand Entrance area, and the nearest access to the sheltered deck and the open air.
Miss Vance unhesitatingly followed behind him, though he said several times, “Keep back, both of you! Stay away!” Against my better judgment, I ignored his advice, and followed Miss Vance and her example.
When we reached the deck—passengers were lined up along the rail, enjoying the sunshine and the view of the quiet sea, others in deck chairs, reading or napping—Anderson yelled, “Make way! Make way!”
And as the burly staff captain ran up to the rail, a space was cleared for him by wide-eyed passengers, who looked with wonder as Anderson drew his arm back like a baseball pitcher, and hurled the lead pipe toward—and into—the sea. He had a good arm, the staff captain, and the object flew a good three hundred feet before the greedy water swallowed it with a gulp.
Miss Vance, her expression perplexed, approached Anderson, who was catching his breath. “That was evidence, you know,” she said.
“It was also . . .” And he glanced around at the curious faces of passengers, to whom he smiled, nodded, saying, “Nothing of importance! As you were . . . back to your, uh, enjoyment of this fine day!”
The passengers received this awkward statement with the skepticism it deserved, and milled and murmured amongst themselves; but no mutiny emerged—they simply, grudgingly, returned to their relaxation.
And as Anderson stalked back in the direction from which he’d come, we fell alongside him, on his either arm, and he said tightly to Miss Vance, “That was also, quite likely, a bomb.”
Neither of us argued with him; what else could it have been? A joke in—to quote Vanderbilt, the other day—“questionable taste?”
“What now?” I asked.
“I’m going to collect Mr. Williams,” he said, referring the master-at-arms, “and request that he get his revolver.”
Miss Vance, keeping pace with the staff captain’s stride quite nicely—we seemed to be headed toward the elevators—asked, “May I assume you’re heeding our advice, and taking Mr. Leach into custody?”
“You may. But I would prefer you leave this matter to me.”
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, “don’t talk rubbish—we’re accompanying you. I’m the ship’s detective, and Mr. Van Dine is my assistant.”
So I was Watson after all!
Within minutes we were on D deck, so far forward we were in the very nose of the ship, where—past the mess-hall-like Third Class Dining Room—a number of the stewards kept their quarters. Leach and another fellow shared a tiny cabin on the starboard side. Many of the stewards roomed together in dormitory-style areas another deck or two down, known as the “gloria.”
But Leach, friend of Anderson’s that he was, had been assigned one of these coveted cubicles. He had not been at his work station—he should have been busy with food service matters, involving the children’s dining room—and Anderson was checking the man’s quarters, accordingly.
Master-at-Arms Williams had the revolver in hand, to the right of the door, while Miss Vance and I were lined along the wall, down a bit, to the left. Anderson knocked.
“Mr. Leach!” he called.
Nothing.
“Mr. Leach!” Anderson called again.
Still nothing.
So the staff captain, backed up by the revolver-ready master-at-arms, used his passkey, and swung open the door.
They went in and we waited.
We heard a muttered, “Jesus Christ,” apparently from Anderson.
“Miss Vance!” Anderson called. “Come in here, please.”
She squeezed in; though not officially invited, I followed.
Leach was on the lower bunk, as if taking a snooze; but this was no nap: His posture was not one of repose, rather an ungainly sprawl that looked not a bit restful. His eyes were open, seeing nothing; his mouth was open, saying nothing.
And his skin bore a noticeable tinge of blue.
FOURTEEN
Party of Two
A c
up of tea, two thirds of which had been consumed, the remaining third of which displayed the telltale aroma of bitter almonds, was found on a small wooden table near the bunks in Steward Neil Leach’s cabin.
Anderson declared the death an obvious suicide, and I will spare the reader the detailed redundancy of our next meeting with Staff Captain Anderson and Captain Turner, in the latter’s dayroom, in which the matter was declared once and for all finally closed.
“With the discovery of the pipe bomb in your quarters,” Anderson declared, “the purpose of the stowaways, and their crew member confederate, is established clearly as sabotage . . . not theft, however much money some of our first-class passengers may have been foolish enough to bring along with them.”
Miss Vance seemed to have her doubts, but she did not express them to the two captains; from the tightness around her eyes, I could sense she had determined the uselessness of any effort to continue. She did request—a request that was granted—that she be allowed to take the late Leach’s fingerprints, and compare them to any prints found on the cup of cyanide-laced tea. This procedure, however, revealed only the dead man’s hands.
The following morning, Wednesday, we sat in the Verandah Cafe, enjoying the sparkle of the sea, the lullingly monotonous drone of rushing water, and glasses of iced tea (with lemon, sugar, but no cyanide). We had both received formal invitations to two parties Thursday evening: Theatrical producer Charles Frohman was throwing one in his suite, and wine magnate George Kessler would be taking over the Verandah Cafe itself for his do.
Traditionally, such end-of-the-voyage parties would have been held closer to . . . the end of the voyage; but Staff Captain Anderson—to whom such social concerns had been relegated—had organized the ship’s final concert for Thursday night. The Lucy would be arriving in Liverpool early enough on Saturday that reserving Friday evening for packing and other disembarkation preparations seemed prudent.
We were just discussing the parties, when Charles Williamson—out enjoying the fine day, spiffy in a gray suit, and as hatless as Miss Vance—stopped by to inquire about the same subject.
The Lusitania Murders Page 17