Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Futrelle bounded up from the chaise lounge, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You are a detective, my love,” he said, and slipped out of the stateroom.

On the starboard side of the ship, near the First-Class entrance, was the modern, spacious gymnasium, its walls a glistening white-painted pine with oak wainscoting, the floor gleaming linoleum tile, its equipment an array of the latest contraptions of physical training, or (in Futrelle’s view) instruments of torture. With the exception of the white-flannel-clad instructor, the gym stood empty-morning was its busy time.

The instructor greeted Futrelle, who had met the robust little fellow on the purser’s tour-T. W. McCawley, perhaps thirty-five years of age, with dark hair, dark bright eyes and a military-trim mustache.

“Mr. Futrelle!” McCawley said. He had a working-class English accent as thick as a glass of stout. “Good to see you, sir! Decide to come in and try your strength, t’day, did you?”

“I’m surprised you remember my name, Mr. McCawley.”

“You First-Class passengers are my business, sir-and your health is my chief interest and concern.”

“That’s bully,” Futrelle said, without much enthusiasm. The room’s rowing machine, pulley weights, stationary bicycles, and mechanical camels and horses held no appeal for the mystery writer. His idea of exercise was sitting on the porch of his house in Scituate for a spirited session in his rocking chair. “Has Colonel Astor stopped by?”

“He’s in the changing room,” the instructor said, with a nod toward the door in question, “gettin’ into his togs. There’s a pair in there waitin’ for you, sir.”

“You sure you have my size?”

“And larger. No job is too big for T. W. McCawley.”

The instructor’s enthusiasm already had Futrelle worn-out.

But he headed for the changing room nonetheless, finding white flannels in his size, and John Jacob Astor, already bedecked in white flannel, seated on a bench, tying the laces of a pair of tennis shoes, and without the aid of valet.

“Colonel,” Futrelle said. “What a pleasure running into you.”

“Afternoon, Jack,” Astor said; his voice was friendly enough, but his sky-blue eyes were glazed with their usual bored, distracted cast. “Your company will be appreciated.”

Astor went on into the gym, while Futrelle climbed into the white flannels; he hadn’t brought tennis shoes-the bluchers he’d had on would have to do.

“Join me for a spin, Jack?” Astor called out. He was pedaling away on one of two stationary bicycles near a large dial on the wall that registered the speed and distance of each bike.

Futrelle said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and hopped on.

The instructor was headed their way-as if any instruction on riding a bike were needed-when a young couple entered and McCawley did an about-face and attended them. The gym, unlike the Turkish Bath, did not segregate the sexes, and for about five minutes, the instructor ushered the young couple (honeymooners) around his dominion, eventually sending them off to their respective changing rooms.

During that time, Futrelle and Astor, aboard their bikes, chatted; this time Futrelle didn’t bother with small talk, as the best way to deal with the remote millionaire was to directly engage his attention.

“I saw you talking to that fellow Crafton, in the cooling room yesterday,” Futrelle said, barely pedaling.

Astor, who was in good shape, his legs working like pistons, said, “Did you?” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“I wondered,” Futrelle said, “if you’d had as unpleasant an experience with the louse as did I.”

Astor kept pedaling, staring straight ahead; but he was listening, Futrelle could tell the man was listening.

“He tried to blackmail me,” Futrelle said, and briefly explained.

Astor, hearing Futrelle frankly expose the mental skeleton in his closet, turned his cool gaze on his fellow rider, and his pedaling pace slowed.

“He had a similar scheme where I was concerned,” Astor admitted. But he offered no clarification, and picked his speed back up.

“May I be so bold,” Futrelle said, “as to ask if Crafton presented any real threat to you, Colonel?”

“Most likely not,” he said casually, face bland, legs churning. “He claimed this fellow Stead was going to publish an expose about the conditions of certain of our buildings.”

Futrelle knew very well that the Astors-who owned much of Manhattan-numbered among their ample holdings not only the opulent Astoria Hotel but block upon block of notoriously wretched slums.

“Do you think Stead could be an accomplice of Crafton’s?” Futrelle asked. This time he kept to himself Stead’s vigorous rebuff of the ferrety little man on the boat train.

“Very doubtful. You see, Mr. Stead is aligned with the Salvation Army…”

And as Astor caught a breath, Futrelle-fresh from hearing Isidor Straus sing so similar a song-finished for him: “Which is high on the list of those on the receiving end of the Astors’ many charitable contributions.”

“Quite so. Also, several other charities designed to aid former prostitutes and unwed mothers, pet causes of Mr. Stead’s; my family, my mother in particular, has long been a supporter of these causes.”

“So, this Crafton-you refused to pay the bastard.”

“No. I paid him. He only wanted a pittance-five thousand.”

Futrelle, on his bike ride to nowhere, was feeling light-headed; whether it was this exercise, which he wasn’t used to, or encountering Astor’s nonchalant attitude toward paying off a blackmailer, he couldn’t be certain.

“Tell me, Colonel, have you seen Crafton around the ship at all today?”

“No.” Astor suddenly stopped pedaling. His forehead was beaded with sweat but he wasn’t breathing hard. “I can’t say I was looking for him, either. He’s rather disagreeable company, don’t you think?”

Futrelle had stopped his pedaling, too. Astor was headed over to the rowing apparatus; he paused there and glanced at Futrelle, saying, “You mind if I have the first go, Jack?”

“It’s all yours, Colonel,” Futrelle said. “I’ve done all the traveling I care to, for the moment.”

In his stateroom, Futrelle took a warm relaxing bath, and lounged in his robe, returning to the chaise lounge and the novel Futility, the title of which seemed to him to reflect his efforts. Trying to see beyond Astor’s diffident mask was a hopeless task; like Straus, John Jacob Astor was a harder man than he might appear. Futrelle could well imagine the millionaire casually dispatching a manservant to smother a blackmailer with a pillow.

But he could also imagine Astor peeling off hundred after hundred from a fat wad of bills, to remove an annoyance, swatting the fly with money.

While Futrelle had been in the gym chasing Astor on a bolted-down bicycle, his wife had been sharing hot tea and buttered toast with Madeline Astor-and the Astors’ mascot Maggie Brown-in the luxurious First-Class Lounge on A deck.

The extravagantly ornate lounge, modestly based on the Palace of Versailles, was primarily the province of ladies, the distaff equivalent of the Smoking Room, sans smoking of course. The high-ceilinged oak-paneled room-with its carved scrollwork and glowing overhead bonfire of a central chandelier-had boundaries defined by a fireplace (too grand to ever light) at one end and a bookcase (too elegant to ever open) at the other. The green color scheme of the lush carpeting and richly upholstered chairs was soothing, undermined by the busy nature of their rococo designs. Scattered games of bridge and canfield were under way at the most exquisitely carved tables ever used for card playing.

But May and Madeline and Maggie weren’t playing cards; they were gossiping-or at least the latter two were… May was secretly playing detective.