Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

Astonishingly, Stead was beaming. “It does sound bad, doesn’t it? But it’s an experience of which I am inordinately proud, I must admit. You see, in order to demonstrate how easily young girls could be sold into white slavery, I arranged with several ‘accomplices’ to buy a child from her mother. This despicable deed done, we took the child to a house of ill repute, where she was accepted by the proprietress, and taken to a room where the next client would surely deflower the child-but, my point made, I then spirited the girl off, before any harm had been done to her. We sent to her France, where she was given a good life away from a mother willing to sell her into prostitution.”

“So this was a… stunt?”

Stead frowned at that characterization. “Much more than that, sir. Thanks to my efforts, the law was changed in England-the age of legal consent raised from thirteen to fifteen-and my book The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon exposed to one and all, for once and for all, this criminal vice, this foul child prostitution.”

“Why did you go to jail?”

He shrugged and half a smile could be seen in the thicket of beard. “The mother brought charges. I’m sure we could have bought her off, Jack-but I chose instead to go to jail for three months. I wore my jail uniform proudly thereafter-until it fell to pieces.”

Futrelle could only laugh and say, “Sir, you are a remarkable man.”

“Perhaps, from this, you can extrapolate my reaction to a blackmail attempt from the likes of John Crafton.”

“I witnessed your reaction-fairly strong for a pacifist.”

Stead shrugged. “He hasn’t contacted me since. I have not seen him since I came aboard, but then I’ve chiefly confined myself to my stateroom, going over the proofs of my new book.”

“Sir, I feel it only fair to make you aware of another unpleasant action of Mr. Crafton’s: he’s told certain other ‘clients’ of his on this ship that you and he are partners.”

The clear blue eyes widened. “What? That’s a damned lie!”

“I know, sir. But you can see the cunningness of it-your presence on the ship, your reputation for exposing crime and corruption…”

Stead was, after all, the author of such works as If Christ Came to Chicago and Satan’s Invisible World Displayed: A Study of Greater New York.

“Jack, do you know who this fabrication has been foisted upon?”

“I know of Mr. Straus and Mr. Astor, only.”

He laughed harshly. “They’ll see through him. They know of my association with the Salvation Army. I would tarnish the name of neither of these good charitable families.”

This was neither the time nor place to bring it up, but Futrelle could only wonder how this crusader could in good conscience overlook John Jacob Astor’s wretched history as a slum landlord.

Then Stead unexpectedly answered the unposed question: “The Astors of this world did not create the class that is the poor. My enemies are those who are mandated to serve society, but who choose instead to profit from the misery of others: crooked police, the corrupt politicians, those Tammany Hall villains.”

Futrelle rose. “Well, I think we can go on up to bed now, sir. I appreciate your hearing me out.”

And Stead rose, as well. “I appreciate the information, Jack.”

On C deck, Futrelle bid the old man good night.

“It’s a monstrous floating babylon, this ship,” Stead said, heading down the corridor, “isn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes it is.”

But as Futrelle entered his stateroom, where his wife was asleep with the light on and The Virginian in her arms, he wasn’t sure whether Stead meant to compliment the Titanic or insult it.

And he wasn’t sure if Stead knew, either.

Even on the TITANIC ,a vessel whose motion was at best barely detectable, Futrelle found that the subtle pulse of steaming engines and rushing waters conspired to make shipboard sleep particularly restful, satisfying, deep and dreamless. The unexpected and unwelcome alarm of the shrill ringing phone awakened him instantly, nonetheless, and he snatched the receiver from its cradle before the gently slumbering May, beside him, was similarly disturbed.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“Jack, it’s Bruce-Bruce Ismay.”

At least he didn’t say “J. Bruce Ismay.” But Futrelle sat up, reading the signal of the frazzled edge in the White Star director’s voice.

“Yes, Bruce,” Futrelle said thickly, wedging his glasses onto his nose, as if seeing better would help clear the cobwebs from his mind and ears.

“Did I wake you? If so I apologize, but it’s urgent that we see you, the captain and I.”

“Certainly. Your suite?”

“No, Captain Smith’s. It’s on the boat deck, starboard side, near the wheelhouse. There’s a gate separating the First-Class promenade and the officers’ promenade.”

“I know where that is.”

“Good. Second Officer Lightoller will be waiting there for you.”

“Give me five minutes,” Futrelle said, hung up, and rolled out of bed.

May turned over and her eyes slitted open. “What was that?”

Her husband was at the closet, selecting his clothes. “Ismay again. Probably wanting to know how my inquiries went yesterday.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

Climbing into his pants, he said, “Only what I see fit. I’m not getting Hoffman or Navatril or whatever-his-name-is into hot water. It’s not my place.”

She smiled sleepily at him. “You have a soft heart, Jack. That’s one of the few hundred reasons why I love you… What time is it, anyway?”

Slipping into his shirt, he walked over and checked the nightstand clock, an ornate gold item that would have been at home on a palace mantel. “After nine… I guess we slept in.”

She sat up, covers in her lap, her breasts perky under the nightgown. “Shall I get dressed? Shall we have breakfast when you get back, in the Dining Saloon? Or call room service again?”

Futrelle, otherwise clothed, was sitting on a chair, tying his shoes. “Why don’t you call room service, darling. Then we can talk frankly, about whatever it is Ismay and Smith want me for.”

Waiting at the forward end of the First-Class promenade on the boat deck, at the accordion gate, was crisply uniformed Second Officer Lightoller, a tall man (though not as tall as Futrelle) with dark close-set eyes, pointed features and a jutting jaw.

“Mr. Futrelle?” The voice was deep, resonant.

“Officer Lightoller, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

Futrelle stepped through, and Lightoller closed and locked the folding gate behind them: a near slam followed by the click of the key in the lock; there was something ominous about it. Then the businesslike Lightoller led Futrelle down the officers’ promenade to a door marked CAPTAIN-PRIVATE, which in military terms seemed a contradiction, and the second officer knocked.

Smith himself answered, in his navy-blue uniform today, graced with the usual ribbons; but he was not wearing his hat, and the lack of it was somehow disturbing. So were the eyes in the comfortingly stern white-bearded visage: they seemed cloudy, troubled.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Futrelle,” Smith said, the soothingly soft voice touched with, what? Melancholy? Distress?

The captain motioned Futrelle in, instructing Lightoller to wait outside the door.

These quarters, with their white-painted walls and oak wainscoting, harbored the no-nonsense, spartan style characteristic of a naval man, leaving luxury to the First-Class passengers; maple and oak Colonial furnishings gave the spacious sitting room a New England air, as did the handful of modestly framed nautical prints. This sitting room was also a sort of office, as in one corner, by a porthole, sat a heavy Chippendale desk with many compartments, and a brass captain’s-wheel lamp atop it. A doorway stood half-open for a glimpse into the bedroom.