Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

“Hell, no.” He wasn’t as deranged as the late Crafton had thought. “After all, we have an overriding reason to keep Ismay in the dark about the investigation, beyond his own White Star-based objections to it.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“Why-he’s a suspect himself, Captain.”

“So he is.”

And the two men smiled and shook hands.

At luncheon, the cafe parisien tended to be lightly frequented, and today was no exception.

The Titanic ’s approximation of a sidewalk cafe on a Paris boulevard was designed more for a between-meal snack or perhaps an after-dinner aperitif; with sumptuous feasts available in the Dining Saloon and the a la carte Ritz, few passengers were willing to settle for the dainty sandwiches of the cafe’s circular buffet.

The younger set had largely appropriated this sunlight-streaming trellised cafe on the starboard B deck-with its unobstructed ocean view-making it one of the livelier areas aboard ship. But right now the cafe held only a modest scattering of passengers, seated on the cafe’s green wicker chairs at the festive round and square green-topped tables, taking advantage of the casually continental ambience, as the gently muted strains of the string trio playing in the reception room next door floated in.

Among this handful of passengers were the Futrelles and the Strauses, seated at a square table by the windows onto the ocean, tiny plates with tiny sandwiches before them all, accompanied by iced tea.

The Strauses had not selected their sandwiches from the buffet, however; a French waiter saw to it that they received kosher variations (the deviled ham Futrelle was nibbling at being wholly inappropriate). The waiter also made sure that the iced tea was sweetened, in the Southern style, as the two couples had Georgia backgrounds in common.

“What a good idea, getting away like this,” Ida Straus said. She wore a black-and-white dress (mostly black) with fancy beadwork, typical of her conservative elegance. “They feed us so much on this ship! This makes a nice change…. Don’t you agree, Papa?”

“Oh yes, Mama,” Isidor Straus said, idly stroking his gray spade beard as he contemplated the minuscule sandwiches on his plate. His suit was dark blue, his shirt a wing collar with a tie of light blue silk; he too had a quiet elegance. “I only hope the Harrises and their friends don’t mind eating alone.”

“I invited Henry and Rene,” Futrelle said, “but they declined-seems they exercised in the gym this morning, and worked up too much of an appetite.”

Actually, Futrelle had explained to the Harrises that he needed to speak to the Strauses in private, supposedly to gather information for a story with a department-store setting.

“If you need an expert on department stores,” Henry had said, “you’re goin’ to the wrong party…. Talk to Rene.”

And Rene had added, “Henry B. is right-I probably spend more time in Macy’s than Isidor Straus.”

But nonetheless the Harrises graciously deferred, with no prying questions.

So far it had all been small talk. For such different couples, the Futrelles and Strauses had much in common, from Georgia to New York (Macy’s was on Herald Square, after all, and Futrelle had worked for the Herald ). Both couples agreed that the maiden voyage on the Titanic was proving a perfect way to top off their respective European trips. The Strauses had been taking a winter holiday at Cap Martin on the Riviera; the Futrelles had decided to cut their trip short when Jack, with his birthday looming, had gotten homesick for their two children.

“We plan to take Virginia and John traveling with us,” Futrelle said, “when they’re older, and out of school.”

Straus nodded at the wisdom of that. “Let them be an age when they’ll appreciate what you’re giving them.”

“We have six children,” Ida said, “and as for grandchildren, we lose count.”

It went on like that, with an excursion into mutual admiration. Straus-with no college education, an inveterate reader-was impressed by Futrelle’s success in the writing field (though no mention was made of the Macy’s magnate ever having read a Futrelle story or novel). Futrelle found it fascinating that Straus-who, with his brother Nathan, had started out with a china shop in Macy’s basement and within ten years owned the store-had gone from the department-store business to Congress, becoming a close confidant of President Cleveland.

Straus was not a boastful man, and in fact downplayed his accomplishments. “I’m not interested in politics or business anymore. I’m at a stage in my life where my hobbies and traveling are more important.”

“You’re too modest,” May said. She looked youthful in a boyish leisure outfit of white shirt with blue-and-green striped silk tie under a knitted green-and-brown waistcoat; her hat was a large-crowned light brown felt number with a curled brim. “After all, everyone knows your ‘hobby’ is helping people.”

“You’re too kind,” Straus said, but he clearly liked hearing it.

Both Futrelles were well aware of Straus’s philanthropy, particularly in the areas of education and aiding Jewish immigrants. Everything Futrelle knew about Straus made the man out a saint, albeit a Hebrew one; what in God’s name could Crafton have had on this paragon of virtue?

It was time to find out; Futrelle caught his wife’s gaze and narrowed his eyes in a signal imperceptible to all but her. May immediately began to dig in her purse.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve forgotten my medicine in our stateroom… I need to take my pills with lunch.”

The only medication May was taking was aspirin, but of course the Strauses didn’t know that.

Futrelle began to rise. “Shall I go and fetch it for you, dear?”

“No, no, thank you, Jack-I’ll run and get it.” She turned to Ida with a smile. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into keeping me company?”

And of course Ida could only say, “I’d love to,” and soon the two women were winding through the mostly empty wicker tables and chairs.

Straus watched his wife depart with a fondness Futrelle found touching. “There goes as good a woman as ever a man was blessed with,” Straus said. The old boy turned toward Futrelle. “And hang on to that gem of yours, if you don’t mind a little advice.”

“Smartest move I ever made,” Futrelle said, “marrying that woman. Isidor… now that we’ll be alone for a moment, I need to ask you a question-in confidence.”

The eyes behind the pince-nez glasses narrowed. “Your tone is serious.”

“It’s a serious matter.”

Straus folded his hands, leaned forward. “Would it have to do with John B. Crafton?”

Straus’s perceptiveness amused and surprised Futrelle. “Now, how did you know that, sir?”

“I know there is a rumor drifting about the ship that the famous mystery writer Jacques Futrelle held a man over the balcony of the Grand Staircase, and shook the change from his pockets.”

Futrelle grinned. “That’s more than a rumor, Isidor.”

The old boy grinned back: the teeth weren’t his (or actually they were-he’d purchased them).

“I’d have paid good money for a front-row seat to that show,” Straus said. “You saw me give Crafton the heave-ho from our compartment, on the boat train, didn’t you?”

“Yes-I had a front-row seat for that one, and it didn’t cost me a dime.”

Straus raised an eyebrow. “So we have more than a love for the state of Georgia in common. We share a dislike for that foul little man.”

“We do. And I’d like to take the liberty of building on that common ground by asking a question or two… which if you do not answer, I’ll take no offense. I only hope you take no offense in the asking.”