The remark brought laughs around the table, but it flustered their new arrival.
“No, no, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean anything of the sort.” He smiled winningly. “I’m Ollie Bernard out of London, but fresh from Boston. On the lam from the States, you might say.”
Rising again, he offered his handshake all around. “I’ve made this voyage a dozen times, but never before on the Lusitania.”
“Oliver Bernard,” Mary echoed with interest. “Haven’t I heard that name associated with show business?”
“None too prominently, I’m delighted to say.” The Englishman gave them a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I’ve worked as a production designer, it’s true…hidden safely away backstage, on several highly notable Broadway flops and farces. And then, weary of the Great White Way, I decided to take my curse to the Boston theatre scene…”
As the fragile-looking émigré was getting started, Matt was distracted by an urgent hand on his shoulder—that of Flash, who, under the baleful gaze of the steward, had eased down into the last vacant seat beside him. The photographer was still in his street wear, and Matt guessed he hadn’t come to dine.
“If you could help me out with Alma…” the redheaded youth whispered in his ear. “She’s scared and thinks she’s being tailed. The nurses are in a tizzy.”
“Well, why aren’t you there with them?” Matt asked, turning aside from the group. While feigning irritation, he was actually relieved by the interruption. As they spoke, he took out his pencil stub and jotted down the names and occupations of the dinner guests he’d met, to save them for interviews later.
“We don’t think Alma should be linked with the other nurses, not at the back part of the ship,” Flash was murmuring in his ear. “That steward or crewman that Knucks paid off, he may get wind that she’s aboard, and where she’s booked. He could tip off Hogan’s mob contacts to be waiting for her in port. So they had her dress up in disguise, and I snuck her away forward.”
“Where, to our cabin?” Matt rolled his eyes in mock amazement. “What is it you adventurers need from me?”
“She hasn’t had much of anything to eat today, and she shouldn’t have to rely on scraps sneaked in for her.” Flash gazed around the splendor of the Grand Saloon. “This could be the best place for her, if you’ll bring her in as a guest.”
“Oh, really? Hide her in plain sight, you mean, like a purloined letter? Couldn’t we just order room service?” Matt sighed, seeing that he’d have to handle this in person.
Rising from his seat, he told the hovering steward, “My assistant here needs me. Can you save our places?”
He slipped him another two bits, and the man nodded. Their seatmates were all caught up in Ollie Bernard’s stage banter, so Matt said nothing more and followed Flash out. He was surprised by this sudden turn of events—gravely interested to see the cause, but afraid it might all be getting out of hand.
In all things practical, Matt trusted his young protégé. Flash was a product of the New York streets, a clever assistant and dedicated hustler. Even dealing with the criminal element and the rough-and-tumble side of city politics, his red-haired antennae were generally keen, with instincts, in some ways, sounder than Matt’s. But where lovely and lively women were concerned, what young man could you ever trust? And trusting Alma…that would be an experiment, especially under the acute lens of shipboard society.
As for the problem of class, Matt saw it as workable. From the lore of the Atlantic ferry trade, he understood that First Class passengers were often allowed freedom of the ship and the courtesy of entertaining guests of lesser class bookings, usually female—even though they might occasionally turn out to be gambling cheats, sneak thieves or confidence tricksters. Matt didn’t expect this of Alma, in spite of her shady past. But the close personal scrutiny of Detective Pierpoint could make things touchy.
On the other hand, crossing class barriers was evidently going to be easier now with the severe wartime crew shortage. And if extra fees, fare upgrades or a bribe were required, Matt could pay it out of his own funds. It might even be reimbursed later by his employer, depending on the news value of the arrangement.
The two reporters went to their stateroom without saying much. In the corridor and on the great spiral staircase, they passed some late, hurrying diners and a few strolling couples. When they reached the door of the suite, Flash knocked three times, then unlocked it and eased it open.
Stepping inside, Matt was stopped dead by what he saw. A lovely stranger stood before him, slender in a black evening gown. Her abundant raven hair was bound up in an artful cluster, with a few black ringlets dangling against her pale cheeks and delicate neck. She fit perfectly in the gilded stateroom—from her coiffure, to the stylish choker glittering silver at her throat, down to her ankles hemmed in the elegant gown’s foamy lace. Even the shoes, low-heeled with delicate black bows—all of the suite’s high-priced King Louis decor was just a gaudy frame to her Art Nouveau portrait.
It was Alma, Matt slowly realized, and not wearing a wig…she had evidently dyed her hair a deep black.
“Flash told me to put on the best things I had,” the woman explained, almost too demurely unaware of the effect she created. “I hope this passes for First Class.”
“And then some,” Flash murmured under his breath.
Matt finally trusted himself to speak. “If they’re looking for a blonde on the run, they won’t have much luck.”
Just then, Winnie appeared from the back room. Wearing a dark flowered dress beneath a fur-trimmed coat, with her plentiful auburn hair unchanged, she seemed informal but definitely not nursy—as fresh-looking as a Gibson Girl advertising poster.
“Oh—you, too,” Matt said, still recovering from the first pleasant shock.
“Don’t worry about us,’ Flash put in. “We already ate.” Confidently he took Winnie’s arm. “We’ll just have a quick turn on deck.”
“Well then, Alma.” At a loss for more words, Matt held out his arm. “Why don’t we head back to the dining saloon?”
Not looking the least surprised, she took his arm.
They left the suite a little before the other two, to be inconspicuous…avoiding Flash who, with his red hair, was conspicuous in everything he did. When the couple arrived at the grand stairway, the elevator was waiting, so they rode up one floor through the center of the spiral, trying to look perfectly at ease in their gilded cage. The lift attendant seemed impressed, either by Alma’s high style or by Matt’s nickel tip.
In the passage there was time for talk. “Who’re you supposed to be?” Matt asked.
“I can be your typist, Alma Brady.” Seeing his interested look, she added, “Yes, I can type. But don’t get any ideas.”
“Do you really want to be known by the same name, here forward?” Matt asked. “That could be easy to trace.”
“No need to worry,” she said, slightly breathless as they hurried along. “Big Jim, Knucks, and all the others know me as Maisie Thornton, a singer. Alma’s the name my ticket’s under.”
“But don’t you think Hogan checked you out, enough at least to know your real name? He’s good at that.”
“Maisie Thornton is my real name. Or it was,” she added grimly.
“Maisie…is that May, or Mary?”
“It was short for Mairead,” Alma confessed. After spelling the name out at his insistence, she added, “Way too Irish.” Then she fell silent to take in the spectacle as they entered the Grand Saloon. Looking about, her eyes glittered with more than the reflection of gilt and crystal.
For another two bits, the steward guided them back to the same two chairs, still vacant. The first course on the bill of fare was ready to be served: Creme de Champignons, mushroom soup from a silver tureen. New travelers had filled in most of the nearby seats, but all paused appreciatively in their dining as Matt seated his companion.
“Sorry to be late,” Alma announced as the waiters spread napkins on the newcomers’ laps and ladled soup into their bowls. “But I would have been sorrier to miss this,” she added, turning to her plate.
Hungry as she was, Matt saw that she knew how to sup…the spoon held between thumb and fingers, dipped away from the body and delicately raised, the soup drawn in silently from the near edge between her lips. Lovely pert lips, Matt couldn’t help but notice. He saw other eyes checking her comportment as well as her looks. She would pass muster, he decided.
The rest still sat attentive under the picaresque spell of Oliver Bernard. Once Ollie set down his soup spoon, he immediately started in namedropping.
“There’s Kessler over there. New Yorkers call him the Champagne King.” He nodded toward the vintner at a distant table, with his trademark black beard. “He’ll probably be throwing a fancy party or two this trip. Not that I’ll be in on it. I’m just small-fry.”
Wanting to make Alma feel included, Matt muttered aside to her, “Do you know Kessler? He’s a drink promoter who’s flooded Broadway with his new champagne brand, White Seal, for a French bottling company. With his lavish parties, chartering steam yachts and uncorking dozens of cases at a time, he’s a match for any thousand or so temperance crusaders.”
Dabbing at her lips with a napkin as Matt spoke, and then sipping delicately from her own champagne fife, Alma merely smiled back at him.
“But, Ollie,” Mary Plamondon was gaily asking, “you do know the big names on Broadway, don’t you? Like Sarah Bernhardt?”
“Never met the Divine Sarah,” Bernard said. “But the actress Rita Jolivet is here. Josephine Brandell too, I know both. And the playwright Justus Miles Forman, and Charles Klein, who doubles as an actor.”
Still scanning the tables, he added, “There may be others. Charles Frohman, the producer, is one of the biggest. I don’t see him, but he’s on board. He has to go over to London each year to get the pick of the season’s plays for New York production.”
“He’s quite a personality. Didn’t he launch Peter Pan stateside?”
“Yes, and he may be secretly married to the actress we all know, who did the part. He’s quite a wit. On the dock before sailing, someone asked him, ‘Aren’t you afraid of U-boats?’ and he said, ‘No. In my business I’m only afraid of the IOUs.’”
The quip brought a flutter of laughter around the table.
Their self-appointed hostess Mary followed up, “What about Isadora Duncan? I just read about her leaving for a European dance tour. Is she aboard?”
Bernard shook his head. “No, she and her troupe sailed earlier today on the New York. They were set to depart about the same time we did, but under an American flag, the dirty cowards! That may be why Frohman’s with us. He doesn’t always adore the biggest stars, unless he made them himself.”
Mary obviously enjoyed the gossip. “And what about you, Mr. Bernard?” she pressed him. “Why are you sailing for England? Not really running from your flops, as you said…?”
Ollie laughed awkwardly. “In point of fact, I mean to enlist. I’d like to see something of this war business before it’s all done.”
Suddenly he seemed almost self-conscious. “I’ve tried to sign up twice before, in Canada, and once Over There.” He pointed ahead of them toward Europe. “But recruitment is in an awful muddle, and my being deaf in one ear doesn’t help.” He laughed again. “I don’t see why—if they send me close enough to the cannons, I imagine I’ll end up deaf in both ears.”
His joke fell flat, whether due to the gravity of the subject or to his obvious sincerity. Charles Plamondon said, “Good luck, old man, I hope it works out for you,”
“Well, thanks,” Bernard shot back, “Or perhaps my good luck will run out, and they’ll finally take me!”
Still onstage, he scanned the room for a distraction. “Oh, look! Here comes Hubbard, just the man to liven things up.” He swiveled his chair and waved a hand. “Elbert, here’s a seat! Come and dine with the Olympians!”
The man who veered toward them was a quaint, familiar character, but impressive even so. His dignified, square-featured face was framed by a wide-brimmed black hat, which he defiantly wore in the formal company, and by long gray Pilgrim locks cut in bangs. For the mandatory bowtie, he substituted a flamboyantly knotted artist’s foulard in the wide collar of his shirt, and his long black coat was no dinner jacket.
“Pleased to meet you gents,” he said to the diners. “Ladies,” he added, with special bows to Mary and Alma.
“This is Elbert Hubbard, the sage American philosopher you all know.” Ollie said. “Elbert, where’s Alice?”
“She’s below, seasick,” Hubbard said, removing his hat with a flourish and taking his seat. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing that a day or two of fresh air won’t cure.”
As the second course, a buttered fillet of sole, was served, Mary said, “Mr. Hubbard, I’ve heard so much about you and read so many of your writings! What takes you to Europe? Are you spreading your message of self-reliance?”
Between bites of bread, while still spooning up soup in a casual rustic style, Hubbard replied, “It’s true, they could certainly use it. A little American spunk and know-how could work wonders over there. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Oliver, the difference in spirit?” he asked of Bernard. “Why, I imagine if we sent over Teddy Roosevelt with his Rough Riders, they’d clean up those Germans in a couple of days.”
“So you and your Roycrofters are siding against Germany?” Ollie asked.
“Why, yes. Haven’t you seen my article on Der Kaiser Wilhelm? I titled it, ‘Who Lifted the Lid Off Hell?’” He glanced sternly up and down the table to see if anyone objected to his strong language. “Without Kaiser Willie, of course, there might be a hope of world peace and true socialism. But those arrogant Prussians need to be put out of the way first. I plan on doing some writing to help the process along.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone here would disagree with you, Mr. Hubbard,” Mary said, looking around. “Mr. Vane here is going over to be a war correspondent. Aren’t you?” she asked, turning to Matt. “Would you put all the blame on the Central Powers?”
Finding himself on the spot for the first time, Matt set down his fork. “Well, there could be larger forces at work, economic ones,” he said. “And I’m not sure this war is a step toward world socialism, not by any means. A year ago a writer friend of mine, Jack London, went over to London—the city he’s named for—and wrote a book, The People of the Abyss. You know, Jack is famous for getting out there and living what he writes, whether it’s South Seas pirates or the Yukon gold rush. So he spent a month or two with the English unemployed—hordes of them, trudging the length and breadth of London, going from soup lines to relief missions, sleeping out in parks, unable to find work. Not bums, but honest workers kicked out by the economic system.”
Matt looked around, seeing that his audience was caught up.
“And the same thing was going on in Berlin and other European capitals, job shortages or a labor surplus, whatever you want to call it. These people were agitating for socialism, putting on the pressure, and the word was getting out.
“But now there’s war. Suddenly all those men are fully employed…in the army, or filling in for the others who’ve gone to the front. A lot of them will never come back…and the socialist agitation has all but died out.” Matt shrugged. “Labor surplus solved. The End.”
After his speech, there was silence at the table. Matt saw Alma glance up at him with a bemused look. The rest seemed unsure how to respond, until Hubbard spoke up.
“Come on, now, Vane…Matthew, is it? A
re you really suggesting that the British ruling class would drum up a war just to get rid of their indigents, as cannon fodder? Or that the Prussian officer class would do likewise? Well, maybe them. The bosses and rulers get blamed for a lot nowadays, but that’s going pretty far.”
“I can’t say who,” Matt replied. “It’s as I said, economic forces. A lot of people on both sides stand to gain by this war.”
“I could believe it of the Germans,” Ollie said. “They started it by invading Belgium, after all.”
“After the Austrians went into Serbia,” Mary added. “They’re just as bad, aren’t they?”
Hubbard announced, “It doesn’t really matter how it started. I’ll tell you how it will end. When the Americans get involved, with real fighting spirit, true physical fitness and Yankee ingenuity, we’ll wrap it up in no time. There won’t be any stalemate in the trenches once the Yanks are in!”
“Well, Mr. Hubbard,” Mary said, “I think we’re still a long way from that.”
“Last time I checked,” Matt added good-naturedly, “America was neutral.”
“That could change anytime,” Hubbard declared. “Even by the end of this voyage.”
As their meal progressed to a potted ham dish, sirloin of beef with potatoes and vegetables, and small delicate sausages, the conversation continued. Alma didn’t volunteer anything, concentrating instead on her food. And Matt couldn’t question her in the company of these new acquaintances, however well-meaning they might be. As the desserts arrived–Mexican cake, petits fours, and Bavarian chocolate–he barely ate anything, anxious to get her alone.
Chapter 8
Out of the Blue
Morning was clear on the Western Front. It was a fresh spring day under bright blue sky, a freshness that made Bernhard queasy with fear. No fog and no rain meant the French artillery and spotters would have a clear field of operation. Even worse, the scent of French meadowlands wafting eastward on the dawn air might inspire his own Prussian commanders to order new assaults—more lives squandered, for what? To enlarge Germany by at best a few hundred paces of blasted, treeless hell?
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