Max Collins - The Lusitania Murders

“Sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. Miss Vance had made the call. The master-at-arms was on his way, as well.

“I’d just returned to my cabin,” he said, his expression wide-eyed yet business-like as he surveyed the corpse on the linoleum, “having dispatched a second group of crew members to continue the search of the ship. We’ve found nothing thus far.”

“Until now,” Miss Vance said, with a redundant gesture toward the corpse. She quickly filled Anderson in, leading him for a look at the discarded knife that lay on the floor of the adjoining short corridor.

“I would like to take that weapon into evidence,” she said. “While I’m limited, I do have a kit with me that includes fingerprinting works.”

“Good Lord,” Anderson said, “what if you find prints on the handle? What would you compare them to? Would you have us fingerprint everyone on shipboard?”

“If need be. However, might I suggest, for the present at least, that we not advertise this matter.”

Anderson sighed in relief. “I’m very pleased to hear you say that. As soon as possible, I would like to arrange for the body to be taken to the ship’s hospital.”

Miss Vance nodded. “Splendid idea, Captain-I would like the ship’s doctor to have a look at the body. I would also like to examine all of the late stowaway’s effects.”

This was agreeable to the staff captain, who requested the use of Miss Vance’s phone.

“We’ll get the doctor up here,” Anderson said, “and a stretcher, and remove the deceased to a comfortable bed.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” I said.

A voice said, “Good Lord,” which seemed to be the exclamation of choice here in the corridor; the master-at-arms, Williams, had arrived. The short, sturdy fellow had come from the direction of my cabin, and he stood a respectful distance from the dead man, gazing down with mouth and eyes agape, his thick dark eyebrows pushing his forehead into his scalp.

No one greeted the master-at-arms-it didn’t seem warranted.

“The captain will have to be woken, too,” Anderson said to no one in particular, rubbing his chin, apparently contemplating the various phone calls he would need to make from Miss Vance’s room.

“Mr. Williams,” I said to the master-at-arms, “who was guarding the stowaways?”

“No one,” he said with a shrug, still gazing at the corpse.

“And why is that?”

Anderson answered for him. “They were locked in the cells, and the brig itself is kept locked. No one sees them except the steward who brings them their supper.”

“Which,” I said, “would be Mr. Leach.”

With a nod, Anderson said, “I have to make my calls,” and was turning toward Miss Vance’s door when I spoke again.

“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but shouldn’t a priority be to check the status of those cells? Until we do, we won’t know for certain that all three stowaways are at large.”

Anderson glanced back at me, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his annoyance with my amateur’s question. “Mr. Van Dine, if the ringleader is dead in first class, it’s reasonable to assume the door to the cell has been unlocked. . and, if so, that all three went through that open door.”

“Two open doors,” I reminded him. “To escape, both the cell door and the outer door had to be unlocked. I would suggest you have a security breach-some crew member may be in league with these Germans.”

Now he turned all the way around and did not hide the annoyance in either his expression or his voice. “Sir, my men-”

But I cut him off: “Consist of whomever you were able to round up from loose ends, with all the able-bodied seaman serving the Royal Navy.”

The staff captain sighed-he twitched a non-smile, which was as close as he could allow himself to acknowledge the truth of my statement.

An awkward silence hung between us, until Miss Anderson said, “Mr. Van Dine has a point about the brig-I suggest he and I go down and check out the scene, until you can arrange for our dead stowaway’s removal.”

The frustrated Anderson agreed to this, and went into Miss Vance’s room, the door of which had been left ajar.

Prior to attending to our task, Miss Vance took care of another one.

“Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow?” she asked me.

I said certainly, and gave her one.

Stepping around Klaus, she returned to the short corridor, disappeared down it, and quickly returned holding the knife by its bloody tip, her fingers shielded from the blood by my handkerchief. She took it into her cabin, deposited it somewhere, and returned to the hall.

Williams was on one side of the corpse and Miss Vance on the other, when she asked pleasantly, “Are you still carrying that revolver we shared earlier?”

Williams blinked; those thick dark brows seemed only to emphasize a certain vacuity about his eyes themselves. “Why, yes, ma’am.” He patted his jacket on the left side, where indeed a bulge indicated something heavy resided there.

“Might I borrow it, please?” she asked, as if requesting another hanky.

His forehead furrowed, but then he shrugged and said, “Certainly, ma’am.”

And he removed the revolver from his pocket, and passed it across the corpse to Miss Vance. There was something terribly unsettling about the one-handed ease with which she managed the weapon.

Though our destination was merely a floor down, we took the elevator, on which the pistol-packing Miss Vance posed several questions.

“You suspect someone among the crew, Van?”

“Don’t you?”

“Do you suspect someone specifically?”

“Mr. Leach and Mr. Williams have the easiest access to the brig-the steward in charge of food service, and the master-at-arms.”

She nodded, but the tightness around her eyes seemed not to agree.

“What bothers you about that theory?” I asked.

“A clever criminal would not lay the blame so near his own door.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps he isn’t clever-does either Leach or Williams strike you as a mastermind?”

“No. . and that’s what troubles me. But I’ve already cabled my home office, and they’ll both be thoroughly investigated within forty-eight hours.”

We exited the elevator into the Shelter Deck’s Grand Entrance area, with its potted ferns and wicker furnishings. Without the usual milling of people, the ship seemed like a big empty house we were haunting, our footsteps echoing off the floor as we headed into the First Class Saloon, where the tables were already covered with fresh linen, china and silverware, ready for breakfast service. This tabernacle of a restaurant seemed absurdly vast, when only two people were in it, and we hurried across as if we were thieves trying not to get caught-that Miss Vance had a gun in her dainty fist only served to emphasize this sense.

We moved aft down a corridor with a galley on one side and pantries on the other; the hospital rooms, with the brig at the far end, were down a corridor to the left, bisecting the ship. The brig door was closed, but-when Miss Vance tried it-unlocked. The lovely detective seemed about to go in, when I inserted my arm between her and the door.

I shook my head. Even if she was the one with revolver, I would go in first. I was still, technically at least, the man here.

Opening the door quickly, I moved inside the same way, with Miss Vance and her gun following close. While I had not been expecting anything, really-other than perhaps an empty cell-what we did view was certainly not on either of our mental lists of possibilities.

The other two stowaways were still inside the cell, though the barred door yawned open. They were asprawl on the floor-the tall, skinny, brown-haired one to the left, the average fellow with lighter brown hair on the right. Even from just inside the room, the dark red-almost black-splotches could be seen on their white stewards’ jackets, over either man’s heart, like badges of blood.