The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,15
us with the launching of this ship.”
“You may have been up against another problem, Mr. Ismay—Bruce.”
“Yes? What would that be?”
“Fear.” Futrelle raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t there those who feel that your ‘monster ship’ is simply too big to float?”
Ismay sighed. “Unfortunately, Jack, you’re right—though that’s such sheer poppycock it barely merits a response. This ship is the last word in modern efficiency, every expert considers it literally unsinkable. It’s utter ignorance, and the pity is, it’s not just coming from the great unwashed, but from intelligent, educated people, as well.”
“And what can be done about that?”
He leaned forward. “Reeducation. This is where you could be of service to the White Star Line, Jack.”
Futrelle sat back. “To repay my luxury suite, you mean?”
“No. There are no strings attached to that, other than the right to inscribe you upon our glittering First-Class passenger list. But I understand you and Mrs. Futrelle make at least one European crossing, annually…”
Futrelle nodded, folded his arms. “It’s the nature of my business. You indicated yourself, I have a following on your side of the pond.”
“Exactly. How would you like to have free annual passage on any White Star liner, a permanent open ticket—First Class?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“Not at all. It’s a business proposition, actually.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Futrelle—Jack… if you could concoct a novel, with the Titanic as its setting… a mystery… an adventurous romance… detailing the lovely surroundings, the fine cuisine…”
“I’m not an advertising writer, sir.”
Ismay held up his hands, palms out, as if Futrelle were a highwayman he was facing. “Please! I don’t mean to offend you. But isn’t a vivid, intriguing setting for his story something any good writer of popular fiction strives to achieve?”
“Yes, of course…”
Ismay shrugged again, risked a small smile. “Well, then. The White Star Line would simply like to see you use our magnificent ship as the backdrop for your next exciting novel.”
“Bruce… Mr. Ismay. Frankly, what you suggest strikes me at first blow as distasteful… and yet I admit I really can’t see a reason not to at least consider your suggestion.”
“Good!” He leaped to his feet, quick as a jack-in-the-box; this response from Futrelle was apparently enough for Ismay to consider this phase of the negotiations closed. “Your consideration is all I ask, at this point.”
Almost reeling from the suddenness of this, Futrelle rose, and Ismay cheerfully took his elbow and led him to the door. “… Now, in the meantime, please enjoy your voyage. I’ve arranged for you and Mrs. Futrelle to sit at the captain’s table, tomorrow evening—that should be a nice way to start off our first evening out at sea.”
“Well, uh… thank you, Bruce. I know my wife will be pleased.”
Ismay opened the door. “Ah, I only wish I could have brought Florence and the children along, this time. They came aboard this morning, for a tour of the ship…. You should have seen my Tom, George and Evelyn, running up and down the private promenade.”
“I have a girl and a boy, both teenagers,” Futrelle said politely.
“I’m always at your service,” Ismay said, and shut the door.
And Futrelle stood staring at the portal to B52 for a few moments, and was bemusedly heading back down to his own stateroom, wondering whether he should tell his wife about Ismay’s slightly unpalatable offer, when he noticed another passenger in the corridor.
Swinging his cane, pearl-gray fedora cocked to one side, John Bertram Crafton was coming Futrelle’s way.
“Mr. Crafton,” Futrelle said. “We meet again.”
Crafton, without pausing, nodded, touching his hat, saying, “We’ll have a chance to get better acquainted soon, Mr. Futrelle, I assure you.”
Futrelle kept walking, but glanced back, and hell and damnation, if Crafton hadn’t stopped at Ismay’s door—where he was knocking!
The little scoundrel did get around.
As departure time approached, Futrelle and his wife were among many other First-Class passengers making their way to the uppermost deck of the ship, the boat deck. There they stood at the rail near a davit-slung lifeboat and looked down at the crowd of citizens, from Southampton mostly, who appeared tiny indeed with the massive White Star sheds looming behind them and gigantic loading cranes towering above them—yet both the sheds and cranes were dwarfed by the Titanic.
At the stroke of noon, a measured, deafening blast from the full-throated, triple-toned Titanic steam whistle announced imminent departure. May pointed down and Futrelle’s eyes followed: like the drawbridge of a castle, the gangway was raising, to the frustration of what appeared to be a clutch of tardy, frustrated crewmen, literally missing the