Max Collins - The Lusitania Murders

“Yet he never volunteered his services,” Miss Vance said, “as a translator, after their capture.”

“Remember,” I said, raising a professorial forefinger, “when we entered the pantry, the ringleader said, in German, ‘About time.’ ”

“He was expecting someone,” Turner said, making the simple deduction.

“Yes-someone on the crew. .someone who had given the stowaways stewards’ uniforms.”

Miss Vance continued with her briefing on the background of Neil Leach, who in 1914 had taken up a post as a tutor to the son of a German industrialist. When the war broke out, he was briefly held, then paroled-probably recruited as a spy-and sent to America on a German ship.

“In an interesting turn of events,” she said, “on the ship he became friends with a German steward. Since mid-April, Leach and the steward have lived together in a boardinghouse on West Sixteenth Street that is regarded as a hotbed of German activity-Captain Boy-Ed, the German naval attache, keeps a room there, as do a number of suspected German espionage agents.”

“Why isn’t something done about it?” Turner asked crossly.

I shrugged. “America is not at war with Germany.”

Miss Vance continued: “The couple who run the boardinghouse, named Weir, are vocal supporters of the German cause. And a young German woman, in the same boardinghouse, frequently spent time with Leach, and told one of our agents that ‘Neil’ had been excited about an appointment he had at the German Consulate on Broadway-she said Leach spoke of ‘financial opportunities.’ ”

“Charles Frohman is an acquaintance of this fellow, Boy-Ed, as well,” I commented. “We doubt this implicates the producer in any way, although it’s certainly an interesting coincidence.”

Miss Vance looked from one captain to the other. “Boy-Ed may have known Frohman’s intention to travel with cash to invest in theatrical properties. . In any event, these circumstances may not be damning, but it’s clear Leach has suspicious affiliations with German sympathizers and even espionage agents.”

Anderson, perhaps relieved that no fingers were pointing at him (at the moment), asked her reasonably, “What should be done, in your opinion?”

“We would like to question Mr. Leach,” Miss Vance said. “But moreover, we feel he should be held in custody.”

“On what charges?” Turner asked. “What real evidence have you?”

“Hold him on suspicion,” she said with a shrug. “Hold him for questioning by the British authorities.”

“For the safety of the ship,” I said, “putting him in the brig, or at least confining him to his quarters, would seem prudent, don’t you think?”

Turner’s gaze settled on his staff captain. “Your opinion, Captain Anderson?”

Anderson was thinking, though there was nothing brooding about it; the facts Miss Vance had presented seemed to have won him over to our side. His words, finally, confirmed as much: “Sir, I’m in accord with our ship’s detective. Young Mr. Leach’s association with the enemy in time of war is quite sufficient reason to take him into custody.”

Turner began to nod slowly, then he said, “That’s good enough for me. . And I may owe you people an apology. You’ve done damned fine work, and you have the ship’s best interests at heart and in mind.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

A knock at the door interrupted this meeting of our newly formed mutual admiration society.

“Would you?” Turner asked Anderson, who nodded and rose to answer it.

A familiar male voice from the doorway said, “Is the captain in, Mr. Anderson? Might I have a word with him?”

The voice was Alfred Vanderbilt’s!

“Certainly, sir,” Anderson said, and ushered the millionaire-sporty in a navy-blue pinstripe with a lighter blue bow tie and a jaunty gray cap-inside the day room.

Vanderbilt greeted all of us, acknowledging first Miss Vance, then the captain, then myself. He seemed surprised and even pleased to see us.

“Now this is a coincidence,” he said. “Captain, I’ve come because of the warning your ship’s detective and Mr. Van Dine gave me yesterday. . They instructed me to report anything I might see that struck me as suspicious.”

“That’s a wise policy,” Turner said.

Miss Vance asked, “What have you witnessed?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps nothing-but I had just met up with my friend Mr. Williamson, whose cabin is on the portside. . where I believe yours is, Miss Vance, and yours Mr. Van Dine. .”

“That’s right,” I said. I had left my cabin (and telephone) number for him yesterday; and of course he knew Miss Vance was staying with Madame DePage in the ship’s only other Regal Suite.

Vanderbilt was frowning. “That steward. . I believe his name is Leach. . was coming out of your cabin, Mr. Van Dine. He looked rather. . alarmed, when I noticed him. He hurried off, and I knocked on your door. . but there was no answer.”

“Because I was here,” I said, with a nod.

“I know that, now-but what was that steward doing in the unattended cabin of a passenger? Stewards don’t make beds or clean rooms, do they?”

“That’s certainly not Mr. Leach’s job,” Anderson said.

On the Lusitania , as on most ships, stewards tended to matters of food service and other passenger needs.

“Well,” Vanderbilt said, “both Mr. Williamson and I found it damned questionable.”

Miss Vance said, “Yesterday we observed Mr. Leach deliver a Marconigram to Mr. Vanderbilt’s suite-Mr. Anderson, has he been assigned to the wireless shack?”

“Stewards or bellboys deliver those messages,” Anderson said, “depending on their availability.”

Vanderbilt seemed embarrassed. “I hope I’m not making a mountain from a molehill.”

“No, sir,” Anderson said. “This is useful information. Thank you!”

Vanderbilt smiled, and took his leave.

“I would suggest,” Miss Vance said, “prior to questioning Mr. Leach, a thorough search of Mr. Van Dine’s cabin be made. . You have no objection, Mr. Van Dine?”

“None, Miss Vance,” I said. “In fact, I quite insist. . ”

Captain Turner returned to the bridge, and left us in Staff Captain Anderson’s hands. We took the elevator down to the Promenade Deck, and Anderson himself assumed charge of the inspection of my cabin, which was too small for us to join in. Miss Vance and I waited in the hallway, leaning against the mahogany railing, exchanging (to be frank) smug expressions. It felt quite good to have been so right.

Within minutes, our vindication cranked up a further notch.

“Ye gods,” Anderson said. He was on his knees, looking under the bed, as if a cuckolder might have been hiding there from a vengeful husband. He withdrew an object, holding it up for us to observe.

Though I had never seen one before, I felt quite convinced I knew what the object was.

But Miss Vance breathlessly confirmed my opinion: “A pipe bomb!”

Exiting my cabin gingerly, Anderson held the thing out at arm’s length-a half-foot of lead pipe, plugged with reddish brown wax at either end.

“I really should examine it for fingerprints,” Miss Vance suggested, though her tone was tentative.

“I’m afraid we will have to forgo such detective work,” Anderson said, making a preemptive decision, and he moved quickly aft, heading toward the Grand Entrance area, and the nearest access to the sheltered deck and the open air.

Miss Vance unhesitatingly followed behind him, though he said several times, “Keep back, both of you! Stay away!” Against my better judgment, I ignored his advice, and followed Miss Vance and her example.

When we reached the deck-passengers were lined up along the rail, enjoying the sunshine and the view of the quiet sea, others in deck chairs, reading or napping-Anderson yelled, “Make way! Make way!”