Max Collins - The Titanic Murders

He walked her to their stateroom door, and said, “Do you mind if I go to the Smoking Room, for a cigarette before bed?”

“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to be awake when you get back… that wine went straight to my head.”

“I love you, darling,” he said lightly, and they shared a peck of a kiss.

The Smoking Room was lightly attended, the concert tonight going a bit long, apparently; the usual card games were under way, and smoke floated like blue fog. Archie and Millet were playing bridge with young Widener and Hays. Nearby, in a leather armchair, in the glow of a table lamp, reading a book, sat a bewhiskered oversize gnome in yellow brown, rumpled tweed: W. T. Stead.

Futrelle pulled a chair around. “May I join you for a moment, Mr. Stead?”

Stead looked up, pleasantly. “Certainly, sir. I’m rereading Angell’s The Great Illusion, that magnificent antiwar tract; it may provide inspiration for my speech at Carnegie Hall.”

“I didn’t see you about the ship, this afternoon, Mr. Stead. You were even missing from morning services.”

“No, I’ve been indisposed.”

“Indigestion?”

“Conscience… I ill used my powers of mediumship last night, Mr. Futrelle.”

“Toward a good end.”

“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “But the ends do not justify the means.”

“I apologize if I coerced you into corrupting your sense of ethics.”

Stead managed a small grin, patting his belly. “I’m a big boy, Mr. Futrelle. No one forces me to do anything I don’t care to do.”

“Mr. Stead, what was that business last night with the message from ‘Julia’? You were padding your part, a bit, weren’t you?”

His response was matter of fact: “That was a real message from the other side, Mr. Futrelle-perhaps scolding me for my actions.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’ indeed.”

“Well, you should know soon enough, if helping me was right or wrong.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

Futrelle shrugged. “Your friend Julia said you’d be hearing a ‘clarion call,’ soon-and get all the answers you’ve been seeking. Doesn’t sound like a scolding to me.”

“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I hope you are.”

A steward leaned in and said, “Can I get you anything, sir? A brandy, perhaps?”

Futrelle glanced up; it was the boy from the Verandah Cafe, with the bruised jaw and the tow head.

“You know,” Futrelle said, rising, “you can. Would you mind stepping out on deck with me for a moment?”

“Sir?”

“Won’t take but a few seconds. The privacy will benefit both of us.”

The steward, smiling nervously, backed up. “Sir, I’m working….”

“And I’m a First-Class passenger, and I’d like some help out on deck.”

“… All right, sir.”

Futrelle smiled down at Stead. “Thanks for your assistance, last night; that was a service only you could have provided. Now, get back to your book, and see if you can’t come up with a formula for world peace.”

Half a smile blossomed in the white-thicket beard. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Futrelle.”

Futrelle motioned to the young steward to go through the revolving doors, into the Verandah Cafe, which they did.

Though the cafe was empty, the writer said, “Out on the boat deck, if you please.”

“Isn’t this private enough, sir?”

“The boat deck, if you please.”

The boy lowered his head, his eyes peering up like a beaten dog’s. “All right, sir. If you insist, sir.”

Out in the bitter cold of the still night, under a thousand stars but no moon, Futrelle lighted up a Fatima, smiled meaninglessly at the lad, who stood before him, with the blankly apprehensive expression of a teenager guilty of numerous infractions, wondering which one his parent knows about.

Smart in his white jacket with gold buttons, he was a handsome boy, with wide-set dark brown eyes, a strong nose and full, nearly feminine lips. He was shaking. It might have been the bitter cold. Futrelle doubted that.

“What’s your name, son?”

“William, sir. William Stephen Faulkner.”

“Do they call you Bill?”

“They call me William.”

“Where are you from, William?”

“Romsey Road, sir. Southampton.”

Futrelle exhaled a stream of Fatima smoke. “William, has Alice told you what I’m trying to do?”

The boy frowned. “What? Who?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. Your girlfriend-Alice. I’m trying to help her. Like you tried to help her.”

A nervous smile formed. “Sir, you… you must have me confused with someone else. If you’ll excuse me.”

The boy began to go, but Futrelle gripped his arm. “For God’s sake, son, don’t make me turn you in. Give me a reason not to.”

Their faces were an inch apart; the brown eyes were wide with alarm. “Sir! What… what do you want from me?”

Futrelle let loose of him, took a step back. “The truth, William. What happened on the boat deck, with Alice and Rood, that night? You were there, weren’t you? In the shadows, waiting to protect her. Surely you wouldn’t have allowed her to meet such a dangerous individual by herself, not after what she’d been through with Crafton.”

His mouth hung open in amazement. “How can you know this?”

“Alice told me,” Futrelle lied. “But I want to hear it from you, son.”

The young man stumbled toward the rail, held on. The boat well yawned below; beyond that, the poop deck. No one was out on such a chill night as this-just this boy and the mystery writer.

“He grabbed her arms,” the boy said numbly. “He was shakin’ her, shakin’ her…”

The boy demonstrated, grabbing the air.

“That’s when you stepped in?”

He nodded, swallowing. “I… I grabbed him, pulled him away from her-and he swung at me, got me here… that’s how I got this jaw, sir… and as I was gettin’ up, he pushed me down. I came up hard, rammin’ into him, shovin’ him back, and…”

“He hit his head.”

The boy sighed heavily and nodded. “There was a lot of blood; I sneaked back, later, with a bucket, and cleaned that up. Alice didn’t scream or nothin’. She was calm, almost like she was in a trance. She helped me hide ’im in the boat… it took the both of us to do it….”

“I know.”

“You know that?”

“That’s how I knew she had help, son. She couldn’t have lifted that body up into that hanging boat, not by herself. And you were her only friend on the ship, weren’t you?”

He shrugged, then nodded; hung his head. “She’s not a bad girl, sir. ’Tweren’t her fault, none of it.”

“Did you unlock Crafton’s door so she could go and smother him, and rob him?”

His eyes popped in horror. “No! Oh my God, no, sir-she come to me… my quarters is right in First Class, y’know-and she took me to that room and showed me what she’d done. Him all dead in bed…. She was cryin’….”

“Did you know she’d taken the money off that dresser?”

His gaze dropped. “Well… yes, sir, I did, sir… I figured she had it comin’, what hell he put her through.”

“What did you do, William?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just grabbed Alice and used my key to lock the door behind us.”

So much for the locked-door mystery.

Another swallow; then Faulkner looked up, pitifully. “Do we… do we go talk to the captain now, sir?”

“I don’t think so.”

He seemed on the verge of crying. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

“The story you just told me?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Never tell it again.”

The boy’s eyes tightened, then they widened, and his face exploded into a winning smile. “Yes, sir. You’re a hell of a bloke, sir.”