Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

“I’m sure I won’t take offense. As to whether I’ll answer your questions, I’ll have to hear them first.”

A waiter stopped by to replace their iced-tea glasses with fresh ones, and moved on.

Futrelle leaned in. “Is it safe for me to assume that Crafton approached you as one of his prospective ‘clients’?”

“Safe indeed.”

“My response to him was to hang him by his heels. Was your response, your full response, the one I saw on the train?”

The eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”

“I mean… forgive me… did you pay him, or just send him packing?”

Now Straus understood; he nodded. “The latter. Not one penny in tribute to that scoundrel.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Have you seen Crafton today, about the ship, anywhere?”

Without hesitation, Straus said, “No. Not a trace. It’s said another passenger slapped him last night.”

“Yes. A Mr. Rood. I witnessed that, in the Smoking Room.”

“Perhaps it’s safe to assume that Mr. Crafton is… what is the expression? ‘Lying low’?”

“You may be right, Isidor. I can tell you I’m personally not at all concerned by his threats to me, and my reputation.”

Briefly, Futrelle told Straus of the mental breakdown he’d suffered covering the war news at the Herald, and that he felt exposure of this ancient history could do him no professional harm whatsoever.

“The threat to me was equally trivial,” Straus said. “You may be aware that my firm has a… motto, you might say, used by Macy’s rather extensively in its advertising: ‘We never deal in old or bankrupt stocks…’”

Futrelle, nodding, finished the familiar slogan: “… ‘Macy’s sells new and desirable goods only.’ Yes, of course.”

Straus’s mouth pursed briefly, as if he were tasting something nasty, not sweetened iced tea. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Crafton claims to have documentary evidence that Macy’s has been buying at public auction, selling items we purchased at close-out sales at full price, and so on. Furthermore, Crafton says he has proof that our advertising claims of having the lowest prices are often inaccurate and deceptive…. This is all poppycock, and even if it weren’t, even if it were true, who would publish it? No one!”

Futrelle-newspaperman that he was-knew Straus was correct; Macy’s advertised heavily in every New York City paper, and there was no way on God’s green earth that those papers would expose a firm that was doing so much business with them.

“The only person who might do it is someone like that cantankerous crusader Stead,” Futrelle said.

Straus chuckled and nodded. “Crafton said that he was negotiating with Stead to write the book which would expose my store’s practices.”

“That’s nonsense! I saw Stead rebuff the bastard with a violence second only to my own.”

Straus seemed faintly amused. “Nonsense indeed. Stead is a Salvation Army man, you know, and that group is among the charities we support.”

Philanthropist Straus was as shrewd as he was generous: the Jewish philanthropist contributing to this Christian charity put the Salvation Army in the same position as the New York newspapers. Maybe the old boy wasn’t exactly a saint; just another capitalist, granted a smart, good-hearted one.

Suddenly there was strength in Straus’s face, and in his words, that belied his kindly demeanor: “I’ve known the likes of Crafton since I was a youth, running the European blockade for the Confederacy. He’s a cowardly snake, and I say let him do his worst.”

“I admire your attitude, sir,” Futrelle said, just as the wives were returning.

Later, in their stateroom, Futrelle reported the conversation to May, as she reclined prettily on the chaise lounge. Her husband was pacing.

“Well,” she said, “I think they’re very sweet.”

“They’re a nice old couple,” he granted. “But Isidor Straus is a tougher old bird than he appears.”

“Capable of murder?”

“Who knows what a man of his accomplishments is or isn’t capable of? And Crafton may have had something far worse on the old boy than false advertising.”

“Such as what?”

“Don’t forget Straus was in Washington politics-that’s not exactly a bastion of morality and ethics. Businessmen like Straus run for office, saying they have the public at heart, but often are thinking of their own vested interests.”

“You suspect him, then.”

“He’s a suspect. But if he did it, he’s a better actor than Henry Harris could ever afford. When I asked old Isidor if he’d seen Crafton around the ship today, I saw no sign that he might know the man lay dead.”

“Not to mention naked. But maybe that’s the solution.”

Futrelle frowned at his wife. “What is?”

She gazed at him with mock innocence. “He was naked because Mr. Straus was coming ’round to measure him for a new Macy’s suit.”

Futrelle laughed in spite of himself, and joined her on the chaise lounge; it creaked and squeaked under the weight of them-mostly, him.

“Careful, Jack! We might have to pay for this.”

He kissed her sweet throat, then drew away, saying, “Did you ever hear of the man who asked every attractive woman he met if he could make love to her?”

“No! What did they say?”

“Most of them said no.”

“Then why did he keep asking?”

“I said ‘most of them’…. And maybe that’s the kind of blackmailer we have here. Maybe there’s no elaborate ring; perhaps Mr. Crafton even worked alone. Maybe his threats were empty, and the little blackguard was just a petty swindler looking for the occasional payoff.”

“You mean, he’s a nuisance and, if you’re rich enough, it’s worth some money to make him go away.”

“Precisely. Think how many people were on that list of his! If he were getting big money out of any one of them, he wouldn’t have needed so many ‘clients’… If I’d only waited to see how much money he wanted out of me, before I…”

“Before you what?”

“Nothing.”

She studied him as they lay side by side on the chaise, then asked, “What if I told you Rene said someone saw you hanging Mr. Crafton over the balcony by his feet?”

“I’d say Rene was getting that information secondhand… because I definitely didn’t see her there.”

Her eyes widened and her grin was gleeful. “You did do it! Why, you reckless fool…”

“I’ll show you how reckless I am, if you’ll let me.”

She bounced off the chaise lounge. “I’m not about to spoil you with too much attention. Besides, I have a certain scrap of information I think you might like to have.”

Watching as she smoothed out her brown ankle-length wool-tweed skirt, he asked, “Are you going to make me ask?”

Now she was straightening the blue-and-green tie, checking herself in the mirror, adjusting the cock of her brown felt hat. “I just don’t want you to think you’re the only detective in the family.”

“What piece of information?”

She looked at him in the mirror. “When Mrs. Straus and I were fetching my ‘medicine,’ we ran into the Astors, and now Madeline is joining me for tea in the First-Class Lounge, in, oh… about fifteen minutes.”

“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get… reckless.”

“You’ve been reckless enough for one day. Besides, I think you could use a little exercise, dear….”

“What I have in mind is exercise, of a sort.”

“… After all, Jack, writing is such sedentary work. Would you be offended if I suggested you attend the gymnasium this afternoon?”

“There will be less of me to love.”

She shrugged, turned away from the mirror, perfectly pretty. “It’s your decision. I just thought you might enjoy having a spirited physical-culture session…. I know Colonel Astor will be there.”