Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Futrelle regarded the cold-blooded Ismay with the dispassion of a scientist. “Not that anyone will be upset by the lack of his presence… but how will you explain the absence of Mr. Crafton?”

Ismay was walking in a tiny circle in the tiny cabin. “Should anyone ask, he’s taken ill, he is under Dr. O’Loughlin’s care, staying here in his cabin. Though I hardly think on a ship this size, and with an individual so unloved, that this is likely to even come up.”

“You may be right,” Futrelle admitted.

Through all this, the captain had remained strangely silent.

In the hallway, with the room locked up tight, Ismay leaned in to Futrelle and whispered, “Now, I must ask you not to mention this to anyone, Jack- anyone… including your lovely wife.”

Futrelle grinned and patted Ismay on the back. “Do I look like the sort of man who tells his wife everything?”

Ten minutes later, in the sitting room of their stateroom, Futrelle had finished filling May in on all the details, including the more grisly ones.

They were sitting on the couch together, but May had her legs up under herself, and was turned toward her husband; she looked bright as a new penny in her casual day wear-white shirt with stiff collar and cuffs, blue woolen necktie, cream-color collarless cardigan and flared beige wool skirt.

She was not frightened or dismayed by the death of Crafton; if anything, she was exhilarated. She had been too long the wife of a newspaperman, too long the companion of a crime writer to be spooked by something so trivial as a locked-room murder.

“We should investigate,” she said.

Futrelle smiled half a smile. “I’m sorely tempted.”

“Do you think the murderer should be allowed to get away with this?”

“Frankly, considering the victim, I’m not sure the answer to that is obvious.”

“As a good Christian, and a good citizen, you have a responsibility to put things right.”

“I know. Besides, this is damned fascinating. Why was Crafton naked, do you suppose?”

“Perhaps sleeping that way was his normal practice.”

“Possibly, but you know how cold it’s been at night, even with these electric heaters. And not just anyone could have waltzed in there-whoever-it-was needed a key.”

“That’s not difficult, Jack-simply bribe someone on staff for the key.”

“Ah, but that White Star Line staff member would eventually find out a murder had been committed in the room that key belonged to, and suddenly the killer finds himself either turned over to the law or being blackmailed from a new direction…. No, it’s more likely Crafton let his murderer into his room, of his own free will.”

May frowned and smiled at once. “ Naked? ”

The phone rang and made both of them jump; they laughed nervously, Futrelle saying, “Isn’t it ducky we’re taking this murder so lightly,” and picked up the phone receiver.

“Futrelle here,” he said.

“Mr. Futrelle… Captain Smith.”

He straightened, as if he were speaking to an officer-which of course he was. “Yes, Captain.”

“Could you come to see me on the bridge? I’d like a word with you.”

“Certainly.” Futrelle decided to test the waters. “Could I bring my wife along? I’m sure she’d consider it a rare honor and treat.”

“Perhaps another time. This I think should be in private. Straightaway, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” Futrelle hung up the phone, turned to his wife, and said, “The captain wants to see me… and not you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, as my esteemed competitor’s detective is wont to say, ‘The game’s afoot.’”

The bridge, on the boat deck, was a white chamber as spartan and well-scrubbed as an operating room, attended by a brace of crisply uniformed officers, youngish men with the weathered faces their profession bestows. The row of windows onto the gray, glistening ocean and the only slightly bluer sky above gave the room an open-air effect; along those windows was a row of the porcelain-based, double-sided clockfaces of gleaming brass-trimmed, double-handle-topped engine telegraphs, and of course the wooden wheel itself, an old-fashioned instrument attached to newly fashioned technology. Looking out over the bow of the ship conveyed a certain majesty, but nowhere near the actual size of the colossal vessel.

Captain Smith, pacing slowly, eyes on the horizon, suddenly looked less a symbol, more a man. Without Ismay around, Smith seemed considerably bigger-taller, broader, more formidable.

When Futrelle was announced, the captain smiled slightly and said, “Good of you to come, Mr. Futrelle… walk with me to the bridge wing, would you?”

On the outdoor platform near the small three-sided booth from which the ship’s position was calculated by sextant, the captain leaned against the waist-high wall, regarding the sea with a stoic gaze. As they spoke, Smith rarely looked at Futrelle.

“Mr. Ismay wants the best for his company,” the captain said, “and who can blame him? This ship was his dream-he first sketched it on a napkin. But it’s my reality, Mr. Futrelle.”

“Your concerns and duties aren’t necessarily his,” Futrelle said.

“Precisely. But he is the director of the line, launching the company’s most important ship, and I am a lame duck of a captain, making his final crossing.”

“All the more reason to do what you think is right.”

Smith gave Futrelle a sideways look. “Right, as in proper? Correct?”

Futrelle shook his head. “There’s no rule book for a situation of this kind. Ismay wants to avoid bad press, but simply ignoring the incident could court disaster.”

“Elaborate.”

“Crafton didn’t just fall from the sky-even he had relatives and, presumably, friends. He certainly had business associates, in that extortion ring. Questions will be asked when we come ashore-and one may be why we didn’t ask questions aboard ship.”

Captain Smith nodded, barely. “I do believe Ismay’s discretion is well-founded.”

“Actually, so do I. Just too extreme.”

Without looking at Futrelle, Smith asked, “Would you do me a service, sir? I can repay you only with my gratitude and friendship.”

“Ask.”

“Could you-in a circumspect manner, playing upon the lack of knowledge of those aboard as regards Mr. Crafton’s demise-launch a sub-rosa investigation? Ask questions-innocent questions, on their face, but secretly knowing ones-to gather information so that I may make a decision before we reach New York.”

“Not everyone is ignorant of this murder, you know.”

“A handful know-ourselves, Ismay, the doctor and a single stewardess.”

“And there’s the murderer.”

“So there is.”

“And what if I should happen to ascertain the murderer’s identity?”

The captain’s face hardened. “Sir, I don’t care what his social connections are or how many millions he has in the bank. If he’s John Jacob Astor or some Italian beggar in steerage… If Jesus Christ is the murderer, we’ll turn Him over to the master-at-arms and slap Him in irons.”

“I admire your backbone, Captain. But might I suggest we hear our Lord and Savior’s side of it, first?”

And at last Smith turned and looked directly at Futrelle, and then he laughed and laughed; for so soft-spoken a man, the captain’s booming laughter echoed across the forward well deck and forecastle deck, startling the smattering of steerage passengers risking the brisk air.

“We’ll make no decisions until facts are gathered,” Smith said. He slipped his hand onto Futrelle’s shoulder again, and walked him slowly back toward the bridge. “There’ll be no mention of this to Mr. Ismay, of course.”