Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

This rare instance of Titanic democracy meant that, present in the same room at the same time, were the Astors, Maggie Brown, Dorothy Gibson, Ismay, the Allisons with their children and nanny Alice, “Louis Hoffman” and his two cute boys and even the smelting-works lad, Alfred Davies.

And, of course, the Futrelles.

Captain Smith made a fine fill-in pastor, reading psalms and prayers, including “The Prayer for Those at Sea,” leading hymns accompanied by Wallace Hartley’s little orchestra.

Afterward, Futrelle-moving quickly to the rear where the Second and Third Class had been seated-managed to talk briefly to both Hoffman/Navatril, and Davies, filing out.

To the former he whispered, “You are in no danger of discovery if you do as I suggested previously, and on leaving this ship, promptly disappear.”

Hoffman gratefully clutched Futrelle’s arm and whispered, “God bless you, sir.”

“Good luck to you-and your boys.”

To Davies, Futrelle merely said, “I’ve passed your information along.”

The strapping lad seemed concerned. “I seen her sittin’ up front. She’s still with them kids, sir.”

“Only until crossing’s end. All is well.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “See you in the promised land, Fred.”

Davies grinned his crooked yellow grin, which suddenly seemed almost beautiful to Futrelle. “See you in the promised land, sir.”

The tranquillity, the reflection, of Sunday-morning service was already dissolving in the clatter of dishes and silverware and the scraping of chairs and tables, as stewards rushed to set the room up for luncheon at one. The noon siren prompted Futrelle to temporarily abandon May-who was on her way back to their suite-so that he could hie to the Smoking Room, to see how he made out in today’s pool.

The figures for yesterday’s run-though Futrelle came up a loser-were impressive: 546 miles.

A familiar voice behind him said, “Twenty-two and a half knots-impressive for a vessel this size.”

Futrelle smiled at his friend Archie Butt, one of many in the crowd of men checking out the bulletin board. “Are you a winner, Archie?”

“Hell no. But I hear the engines are turning three revolutions faster today… you may wish to figure that into your bet for tomorrow’s pool.”

For all his joviality, this military man-who, with his jutting, dimpled jaw and erect carriage might have walked off a recruiting poster-had the saddest eyes Futrelle had ever seen.

“Archie-a private word?”

“Certainly.”

And, taking the major to one side, Futrelle told him that Crafton was dead, and that his blackmail documents were to be destroyed. He also told his friend that he could give him no details, and he must not repeat this to anyone, except Frank Millet.

Major Butt said nothing, at first. Then a smile appeared under the trim mustache and he swallowed, rather thickly, and said, “Jack, you’ve given this old soldier a new lease on life.”

“I’m sure May would like an invitation to the White House.”

Archie laughed, and the laughter carried to his eyes, where a veil had been lifted. “I’ll pull some strings.”

Luncheon was the usual feast, a buffet beyond imagination, and Futrelle took the opportunity to whisper into regular tablemate Isidor Straus’s ear the same information he’d shared with Archie Butt. Straus merely smiled and nodded.

Early afternoon, a cold snap made a ghost town of the open decks. Even in the open promenades, passengers who’d taken to deck chairs were bundled up, often warming themselves with cups of beef broth, courtesy of the ever-attentive stewards. In the public rooms and cafes of the great ship, passengers took to letter writing, cardplaying, reading, and conversation.

Throughout the long, lazy afternoon, Futrelle gradually talked to the other Crafton “clients,” passing along the same gratefully received information about the blackmailer and his documents, gently refusing any details or explanations regarding the seance of the evening before.

His remark to Ben Guggenheim was typical: “For the rest of your life, you can brag about sitting at a seance on the Titanic, with none other than W. T. Stead as the medium. Isn’t that enough? Must you also understand what it was about?”

Guggenheim-who’d been walking the enclosed promenade with the lovely Madame Aubert, when the Futrelles came upon them-accepted Futrelle’s terms, gladly.

“My only condition,” Guggenheim said, “is that Crafton remain dead.”

Only Maggie Brown, having a light dessert in the Parisien cafe, gave the writer a hard time.

“You can’t tell me that seance wasn’t a put-up job!” she said. “You coached that little Gibson girl! You wrote her damned lines, didn’t you, Mr. Thinkin’ Machine?”

“You’re right…”

“I knew it!”

“… I can’t tell you that.”

“Jack, nobody likes a wiseacre!” But she was grinning at the time.

Futrelle found Alice Cleaver, as usual, in the Verandah Cafe, watching golden-haired Lorraine playing with a top that was mesmerizing baby Trevor.

The nanny sat so somberly, her black livery might have been mourning clothes. Then she noticed him approaching, and smiled nervously as Futrelle took the chair at the wicker table next to her.

Almost whispering, Futrelle said, “I’ve spoken to the captain. I believe your chances are good.”

“Oh, sir…”

“No tears. No scene. And no guarantees-we’ll know tomorrow, sometime. Until then-everything as usual, my dear.”

The beautiful eyes in the blunt-nosed face welled with tears. “Mr. Futrelle… I owe you everything.”

He patted her hand. “You owe me your best efforts toward making a better life for yourself.”

The writer and the nanny sat quietly and watched the two lovely Allison children capering. They were served tea and scones by the good-looking young steward who, days before, had been exchanging winsome glances with the broken-nosed beauty. He had a small bruise on his jaw-maybe she’d slapped him for his freshness, the shipboard romance foundering on the rocks. At any rate, the towheaded boy remained businesslike, and Alice didn’t bother acknowledging his existence.

Suddenly the nanny blurted, “Mr. Futrelle, do you think God will ever grant me another child of my own?”

“I don’t know, Alice. Do you want Him to?”

She was pondering that as Futrelle took his leave.

Once Futrelle had made the rounds of the Crafton clients, he and May retreated to their stateroom, where fully dressed they flopped onto the bed to read their respective novels-May, The Virginian, her husband, Futility. Futrelle had a shorter book to finish, and drifted off into a nap; May, the Western saga finally completed, slammed the covers shut and woke him, on purpose.

“For having nothing to do,” she said, “the days certainly go by quickly.”

“Nothing to do?” he muttered sleepily. “I only solved two murders.”

“I thought we solved them.”

“You’re right. That was ungracious. We.”

“I’m starting to think of this suite as home.”

“Dangerous thinking-this is nicer than home.”

She laughed a little. “Oh, Jack, this has been a wonderful second honeymoon… exciting… romantic…”

“Especially romantic,” he said, and he kissed her.

They were still kissing when the nightstand telephone rang; it was Henry Harris, wanting them to join him and Rene for some cards before supper.

“How ’bout we meet on the Grand Staircase balcony?” Henry suggested. “Half an hour?”

“All right. But make it an hour… we’ll need to dress for dinner.”