Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Within minutes, Futrelle was again knocking at the door to suite B52. This time a servant answered-a cadaverous liveried butler in his late fifties-who ushered Futrelle through the parlor of the grandiose stateroom. Soon the author had left Napoleon’s Empire stylings behind for the mock-Tudor world of Ismay’s private enclosed promenade, with its white walls with dark half-timbering.

Blond wicker chairs, mostly deck-style, mingled with the potted plants, so the sunny space provided plenty of places to sit; but both Captain Smith and J. Bruce Ismay were pacing, with all the anxiety of expectant fathers but none of the hope.

“Jack!” Ismay said. He wore a businesslike dark brown tweed; no knickers today. “Thank you for coming, old man. Sit down, won’t you?”

Ismay pulled a wicker chair out into the walking area, and Futrelle sat; the White Star director drew up his own chair, while Smith-regal in a uniform as white and well pressed as that of a prosperous ice-cream salesman-stood with his hands locked behind him, staring absently out at the endless gunmetal sea.

Ismay was fussing. “Would you like coffee or tea, sir? Anything at all?”

“No. We had a late breakfast. Your room service is superb, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” Ismay said.

The captain said nothing.

Awkwardness settled over the promenade like fog. Ismay looked toward Smith for help, but Smith’s eyes were on the boundless waters.

“Something extremely unfortunate has occurred,” Ismay said, finally. “One of our passengers has… passed on to his final reward.”

“Who died?”

Ismay twitched a wholly inappropriate smile. “Mr. John Bertram Crafton of London.”

A humorless laugh that started in his chest rumbled out of Futrelle like a cannonball. Then he asked, “Murdered?”

Captain Smith glanced sharply over his shoulder, then stared back out at sea.

Ismay’s eyes and nostrils were flaring like those of a rearing horse. “Why do you assume he’s been murdered?”

“Oh, I don’t know-perhaps because he appears to have been trying to blackmail the entire First-Class passenger list… yourself included, Bruce.”

Ismay swallowed thickly. “Our ship’s surgeon indicates natural causes. Though a relatively young man, Mr. Crafton appears to have died in his sleep… peacefully. Who knows-perhaps he had a heart condition.”

Futrelle was cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief. “For that to be true, he’d’ve had to have a heart.”

Ismay sighed, shifted in the wicker chair, crackingly. “If this were a case of murder… and believe me, it isn’t… you would be in a particularly awkward position, Jack. After all, witnesses saw you suspending Mr. Crafton by his ankles over the Grand Staircase balcony.”

“That was just a prank to make a point.”

Futrelle thought he saw a faint smile cross the captain’s lips, but-in his side view of the man-wasn’t positive.

“In any case,” Futrelle said, “I was hardly alone in my distaste for Mr. Crafton. I don’t believe he was your choice for most favorite passenger, either, Bruce-and of course, Mr. Rood slapped him rather publicly, last night.”

“Very true,” Ismay said, nodding. “But, again, our ship’s surgeon says this is definitely not murder.”

“Well, that’s a relief, because you’d certainly have a blue-chip list of suspects on your hands… not to mention have a damper thrown over your highly publicized maiden voyage.”

Fires lighted in the White Star’s director’s eyes, and his spine stiffened. “That will not be allowed to happen.”

Futrelle shrugged. “If it’s not murder, why should it? As I believe I pointed out, we are a little town, floating in this palace of the sea. People die in little towns every day, every night. A natural enough occurrence… sad though it might be.”

“Yes.” Ismay lowered his head, his expression somber. “The loss of any one of our fellowmen is not to be taken lightly. As it is said in the Bible, ‘His eye is on the sparrow.’”

“And, it would seem, the vulture… So what does this have to do with me, gentlemen?”

The two men exchanged enigmatic expressions.

Then Ismay withdrew from the inside pocket of his suit coat a sheet of paper-White Star rounded-corner letterhead (found in every cabin on this ship) with its familiar wind-caught white-starred red flag at left of the legend: On Board R.M.S. Titanic. Oddly, the bottom of the sheet was torn away, leaving only three-quarters of the otherwise perfect specimen of Titanic stationery intact.

On the page, in a cramped, masculine cursive, had been penned the following list of names:

Astor

Brown

Butt/Millet

Futrelle

Guggenheim

Hoffman

Check marks were beside every name with the exception of “Brown.”

Ismay asked, “And what do you make of this, Jack?”

Futrelle, studying the list, said, “Well, these, obviously, are the names of Crafton’s blackmail ‘clients.’”

“Yes. Including your own.”

“With the exception of Mr. Guggenheim and Mrs. Brown… and the lack of a check mark next to Maggie’s name may indicate Crafton had not yet approached her… I witnessed the late extortionist in action with each of these individuals. Are you talking to everyone on this list?”

A nonsmile twitched Ismay’s lips; his mustache bobbed. “Thus far… only you.”

“Why?… Let me answer that in part, myself: with the exception of your Second-Class passenger Mr. Hoffman, I’m the least socially prominent of the lot. Approaching Colonel Astor or Mr. Guggenheim… that could be embarrassing. Delicate, at the very least.”

A wan smile now formed under Ismay’s mustache. “We value you every bit as much as anyone on this ship, Jack-a little more than most, actually.”

“Why?”

Finally the captain spoke, though he still did not turn away from the view on the sea: “You have a background in newspaper work, sir, and criminology. Before this matter is closed, I would like you to have a look at Mr. Crafton.”

Futrelle squinted; the sun coming in made it difficult to look at the captain for long. “I don’t understand.”

Smith swiveled on his heels, like a figure on a cuckoo clock; his hands remained locked behind him. “I want you to see the scene… Mr. Crafton’s body has not been moved, nothing has been disturbed.”

Futrelle held up the White Star letterhead. “Other than this list.”

Defensively pointing to the sheet still in Futrelle’s grasp, Ismay said, “That was found on his dresser. Out in the open. Just like that.”

“ Just like this? May I point out, Bruce, that this letterhead has been torn.”

“Obviously.”

“And several names are missing.”

“I don’t follow.”

Futrelle kept his voice gentle, as unintimidating as possible when he said, “I think you do. This is an alphabetical listing… the missing names are Mr. Rood’s, Mr. Stead’s, Mr. Straus’s… and yours, Bruce. In order to remove your name from this list, tearing across the bottom, you had to remove Rood, Stead and Straus, as well.”

Ismay was naturally pale, but he turned paler. “Well! I certainly didn’t expect insults-”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult. I don’t blame you-in your position, I might have done the same. I might have destroyed the list in its entirety.”

Ismay thought that over. “Then you are willing to be of help?”

“I’m certainly willing to look at the scene of the crime.”

Eyes and nostrils again flared. “It’s not a crime, damnit!”

“Then why bother having me view the scene? Believe me, I understand, Bruce, that your position in this is not enviable. The last thing on this earth that you desire is to have this maiden voyage blemished. I can well understand that you do not want the Titanic ’s name forever linked with death.”