Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

“Oh, I know Astor’s a patriot,” Maggie said. “And believe me, I’m relieved he’s a colonel, and not a captain…. Imagine where we’d be if he were in your shoes, Captain Smith.”

“I’m not sure I follow, Mrs. Brown,” the captain said with his easy smile.

“You got any idea how many times Astor here rammed his yacht into somebody else’s canoe? Of course, he won his share of races, once the real captains started giving the Colonel a wide berth.”

Astor was enjoying this immensely, and it did seem good-humored, but to Futrelle, Maggie Brown bordered on the overbearing. Still, in her way, she was a breath of fresh air in these stuffy quarters.

The dinner progressed through eleven amazing courses: oysters a la russe, cream of barley soup, poached salmon with mousseline sauce and sliced cucumbers, chicken lyonnaise, filet mignon with truffle on buttery potatoes, rice-stuffed vegetable marrow, lamb with mint sauce with creamed carrots, champagne sorbet, roasted squab, asparagus-salad vinaigrette, foie gras with celery, Waldorf pudding, cheese and fruit….

Conversation was pleasant and polite, though the food took center stage, and Maggie Brown said almost nothing, busying herself with eating everything in sight except the cut flowers in vases, stopping a waiter to ask for the occasional French translation.

Between courses, Futrelle mentioned to Astor that he had read the millionaire’s science-fiction novel, A Journey in Other Worlds, and that he had enjoyed it, which was not a lie-such futuristic concepts as television, energy conservation and subway systems had been imaginative and fascinating, and it would have been bad form to mention to Astor how abysmal the prose itself was.

Maggie Brown, overhearing this, chimed in to inform any who didn’t know (and this included the Futrelles) that “Astor here is quite the crackpot inventor-he holds all sorts of patents… cooked up a bicycle brake, a pneumatic road-flattenin’ contraption, turbines and batteries….”

Futrelle was impressed, and said so.

“I enjoy tinkering,” Astor admitted.

Madeline said, “My husband could have given Edison a run for it, if his family’s business responsibilities hadn’t stood in the way.”

“Money can be a curse,” Astor observed. “Actually, I think a man who has a million dollars is almost as well-off as if he were wealthy.”

Maggie Brown’s eyes bugged out at that one; but even she couldn’t think of anything to top it.

Between the sixth and seventh courses, Futrelle asked Andrews, “Is this a pleasure trip for you, Mr. Andrews? Enjoying the fruits of your labors?”

“Well,” Andrews said, with the shy smile that caused so many to find him immediately endearing, “this trip is a pleasure… I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished. But I am working, I’m afraid.”

Ismay said, “Mr. Andrews is heading up a guarantee group from Harland and Wolff.” The White Star director was referring to the shipbuilding firm that, under Andrews’s guidance, had constructed the Titanic.

“What is a ‘guarantee group’?” May asked.

“My assistants and I move about, hopefully undetected,” Andrews explained, “tracking down the inevitable snags, flaws and breakdowns that bedevil every new ship.”

Maggie Brown asked, “Is there anything to be worried about, Mr. Andrews? We’re not guinea pigs, are we? ’Cause if so, we’re paying a pretty penny for the privilege.”

“Actually, Mrs. Brown,” Andrews said, lightly, “we’re talking about such major problems as a plugged-up kitchen drain, or a malfunctioning ice machine.”

“This ship is a marvel,” Ismay said, at once dismissive and boastful. “And Mr. Andrews, God bless him, is a professional fussbudget… Earlier he told me he’d uncovered a troubling flaw in the ship.”

All eyes turned to Ismay for this dire news.

“The coat hooks in the staterooms employ too many screws,” Ismay said.

As his tablemates laughed good-naturedly, Andrews damn near blushed, touching a napkin to his lips, saying only in his defense, “The devil’s in the details, Mr. Ismay.”

“Well, you’ve given us a lovely ship, sir,” Madeline Astor said. “Please accept our thanks, and our compliments.”

Wineglasses were raised in an informal toast and Andrews finally went the entire distance, blushing like a rose. Captain Smith raised a water glass, however, as he was not drinking alcohol.

After dessert, Ismay spoke up. “I regret to inform you that this is Captain Smith’s final crossing.”

Astor asked, “Is that right, Captain?”

A smile emerged from the trim white beard. “Yes it is. I’ll be sixty soon. Forty-five years at sea, thirty-two of them with White Star… I think it’s time to turn the helm over to younger men.”

Futrelle asked, “Do you like these big ships, Captain? Like the Olympic, and the Titanic ?”

He nodded, but there was a graveness about it. “Modern shipbuilding has come a long way.”

That wasn’t quite an answer to his question, but Futrelle let it pass. He knew that Smith-whose career had been otherwise spotless-had had his first real accident earlier this year, with the Titanic ’s sister ship, the Olympic, of which he was the captain at the time of a collision with a Royal Navy cruiser. Futrelle suspected, after the performance with the New York, that Captain Smith had not mastered the finer points of seamanship needed to navigate the White Star’s new “wonder ships.”

“You should come back to command all the maiden voyages,” Astor said. “It wouldn’t be a White Star first crossing without you.”

“I’ll second that,” Andrews said, raising his wineglass.

“And I,” Ismay added.

The entire table raised their glasses to the captain, who smiled and nodded, then said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at the end of this crossing, I’ll have logged two million miles aboard White Star ships… and I think I’ve earned some time ashore.”

The captain thanked the group for its “splendid company,” and invited the men to join him in the smoking room for a cigar and brandy, while the women stayed at the table for conversation and aperitifs.

The First-Class Smoking Room, on A deck, was a bastion of male supremacy, an exclusive men’s club at sea where shipping magnates, rail and oil barons and millionaire industrialists could mingle in an atmosphere of free-flowing liquor, high-stakes card playing, and of course cigar smoke that was almost as rich as they were. The Georgian-style mahogany paneling, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, inset with stained-glass windows and etched mirrors, had the feel of a stately, prosperous Protestant church, an impression undercut by the green leather-upholstered armchairs and marble-topped tables, each with a raised edge around it to catch a sliding drink in rough weather.

The little group of men from the captain’s table-Smith, Astor, Andrews, Ismay and Futrelle-stood near the jutting corner whose walls with backlighted stained-glass images of Art Nouveau nymphs and sailing ships gracefully disguised and enclosed the casing of the ship’s immense rear funnel.

Again, the captain declined to drink, but he clearly relished a Cuban cigar so seductively fragrant that confirmed cigarette smoker Futrelle began to question his own tastes.

“With the exception of the sea, and Mrs. Smith,” Ismay said, “the captain’s greatest love is a good cigar.”

Smith raised an eyebrow, nodding his agreement as he held the Cuban before him, regarding it as if it were a treasure map. “Once I’ve retired, gentlemen, should you enter a room where I’m indulging in a fine Cuban such as this, I beg you keep still, so the blue cloud around my head not be disturbed.”