Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Then a chair became available and Futrelle sat down for his shave. When Rood finally took the chair next to him, for a haircut and shave, Futrelle asked, “Say, have you seen him about the ship today?”

“Who?”

“Crafton.”

“No.”

“Funny. I haven’t either. Where do you suppose he’s gotten to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

And that was the end of their conversation; and of Futrelle’s shave. He paid the barber, tipped him well, said good-bye to Mr. Rood, who curtly said good-bye to him.

In the stateroom, as they dressed for dinner, Futrelle reported the encounter to his wife.

“Finally,” she said, “we’ve got someone who’s acting suspiciously.”

“In a way,” Futrelle said, frustrated, “Rood is behaving the least suspiciously of all… That is, like a blackmail victim with something to hide, something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

“You mean like murdering John Crafton?” May suggested.

And they went down to dinner.

In their evening clothes, Futrelle and shipbuilder Thomas Andrews-who was leading the way-might have seemed to have wandered astray, winding through the elaborate galley on D deck.

But no one bothered the pair, not a single question met them, as they threaded through the seemingly endless array of glistening white cabinets and stainless-steel fixtures, mammoth ranges, grill after grill, oven upon oven, a bustling domain of aromas and steam, of clatter and clang. Every member of the culinary army-cooks specializing in sauces, roasts, fish, soups, desserts, vegetables; bakers and pastry chefs; busboys and dish-washers-recognized Andrews as a frequent visitor.

In fact the only comment they received was from a cook who informed Andrews, “That hot press still ain’t workin’ worth a damn, sir. Playin’ bloody hell with our sauces.”

Andrews assured the cook he was aware of the problem and working on it, as the shipbuilder and Futrelle pressed on.

“I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day,” Andrews told Futrelle. “The captain said, should you need passage to any restricted areas on the ship, I’m to provide it.”

The ceiling above them was arrayed with hundreds of handle-hung water pitchers.

“I’ll try not to impose-I know you’re busy, Mr. Andrews.”

“My friends call me Tom.”

“Mine call me Jack.”

They were passing by an immense open cupboard of stacked china.

Gently, Andrews asked, “Do you mind telling me what this is about, Jack? If I’m not overstepping my bounds.”

The builder of the Titanic asking this of Futrelle seemed at once absurd and extraordinary.

“I’m not allowed to say,” Futrelle said. “But it does have to do with a matter of ship security.”

“Then this is more along the lines of your criminologist expertise than newspapering or fiction writing.”

“I really shouldn’t say any more, Tom.”

“Understood.”

After dinner in the First-Class Dining Saloon, Futrelle had excused himself from May, the Harrises, Strauses and their other tablemates to approach the captain’s table. Futrelle and Smith had stepped away-out of Ismay’s hearing, if not his sight-and the mystery writer had a word with Smith about his need to speak to a certain Second-Class passenger. The captain had immediately put Andrews and Futrelle together, and sent them on this mission, through the huge galley that served both First and Second Class-the First-Class Dining Saloon was forward of the kitchens, the Second-Class Dining Saloon aft.

Not seeking to collide with waiters or busboys, Andrews and Futrelle avoided the central double push doors into the Second-Class Dining Saloon and entered through a door to the far right. They stood in the corner, looking out over hundreds of heads of diners, well dressed but not in the formal attire that now made Andrews and Futrelle look like the restaurant’s headwaiters.

The pleasant, commodious dining room-with its unadorned, English-style oak paneling-was smaller than its First-Class brother, but not much-just as wide (the width of the ship) and a good seventy feet long. The windows, here, were portholes, undisguised, and the feeling of being on a ship was more prominent than in First Class. Endless long banquet tables with swivel chairs fixed into the linoleum floor gave the dining room an institutional feel, but that was a seating style common in First Class on other liners. White linen tablecloths and fine china made for typical Titanic elegance, and the food itself-baked haddock, curried chicken and rice, spring lamb-looked and smelled wonderful.

“Do you see who you’re looking for?” Andrews asked Futrelle, who was casting his gaze all about the room.

“No… we’d better take a walk.”

They moved down the central aisle, attracting a few glances.

Then Futrelle spotted him, up near the piano at the aft end of the room: Louis Hoffman, seated between his two adorable tousled-haired boys.

“I need to approach him alone,” Futrelle said.

Andrews nodded, and settled himself next to a pillar.

Hoffman and his boys were almost finished eating, the father helping the youngest boy scoop out the last tasty tidbits of tapioca from a cup. Again, their attire was not inexpensive: the boys were dressed identically, in blue serge jackets and bloomers and stockings; Hoffman a lighter blue suit with a dark blue silk tie and wing collar. He was a doting father, and watching him interact with his boys made clear the love this little family shared.

Futrelle almost hated to interrupt, particularly with the unpleasant subject he must broach; but he had no choice.

The chair across from Hoffman was empty and the mystery writer came around the long table and took it. The black-haired, dimple-chinned Hoffman glanced up with a smile under the waxed curled-tip mustache; but the smile faded and a frown crossed his rather high forehead.

“Mr. Hoffman, my name is Futrelle.”

“Can I help you?” His accent wasn’t English or German, but it wasn’t French, either, which based upon the continental manner of the man’s grooming had been Futrelle’s guess, and after all Crafton had referred to Hoffman as a “Frenchman.” Now Futrelle revised his opinion to something more like middle European-Czech perhaps, or Slovak…

“Papa!” the older boy said, and then the child spoke to his father in rapid French (apparently asking for more tapioca), and the father replied the same way (apparently gently refusing him).

Now Futrelle was thoroughly confused-“Hoffman” with his Slovak accent spoke French and so did his children.

“There’s a matter of common concern to both of us,” Futrelle said.

“How is that possible?” Hoffman asked curtly; his dark eyes were hard and glittering. “We have never met.”

“But we have both met John Crafton.”

Now the eyes narrowed. “The name is not familiar.”

“Please, Mr. Hoffman. I saw you speaking with him on the boat deck, Wednesday afternoon… and Crafton mentioned you to me himself.”

And now the eyes widened-but they were still hard, glittering. Gentle as he was with his boys, this was a dangerous man. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Believe me, as another of Mr. Crafton’s ‘clients,’ I understand the need for discretion… Could we speak in private?”

Hoffman glanced from one boy to the other; even the youngest one, who couldn’t be more than two years of age, was perfectly well behaved. As a fellow father, Futrelle found this remarkable.

“I do not leave my boys,” Hoffman said. “They are with me always.”

“Do they speak English?”

“No.”

“Well, bring them along, then. Perhaps we could go to your cabin.”