The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,22
will ever see. Not one red cent, sir.”
Crafton shrugged slowly, his tiny dark eyes widened. “If you don’t feel that your public, your publishers, will be put off by your mental aberrations, sir, your, your… dementia, then—”
“Listen, you damned little weasel—my public and my publishers care nothing about me except that I keep coming up with good stories. If my screws are loose, well then I’m colorful and more interesting—do you know the slightest thing about Edgar Allan Poe? Please, do me a favor, publicize away… my sales will go up.”
“We’re not bluffing, sir.”
“Neither am I. How can I best make my point? I know… Please, just for a moment, sir, come with me.” Futrelle rose. He curled a finger. “Come along, man—I won’t bite. I’m not really a lunatic.”
Crafton rose, suspiciously, gathering up his gloves and hat and walking stick.
Futrelle slipped an arm around the much smaller man’s shoulders and walked slowly with him toward the balustrade of the balcony. “I think you’ve misjudged people like myself, and have attracted more trouble than you know.”
“Are you threatening me again, sir?”
“No, no! Just giving you some advice. Are you aware that you’re being followed?”
“Followed?”
“And by a very unsavory character, at that.”
“I’ve seen no one.”
Futrelle moved closer to the railing of the balcony. “He’s lurking in the shadows of the reception area, below there….”
Crafton leaned forward, and Futrelle shoved him over, and Crafton’s hat and gloves and cane fell from his grasp, gloves spilling and landing in gray handprints on the marble stairs, hat and cane clattering onto the linoleum floor below, pocket change raining, even as Futrelle grasped onto the man’s ankles, just above his spats, letting him dangle there like a ripe fruit from a branch.
“Put me down, sir! Put me down!”
Several startled passengers below noticed this bizarre sight, and scurried away.
“Are you sure, Mr. Crafton, that that is what you desire of me? To put you down?”
“I mean, pull me up, at once, at once!”
Futrelle, however, let the man swing there, over the marble staircase and the floor just to the side of it, like a big pendulum. “Of course, sir, you could be right about me… I could be quite mad indeed.”
“I won’t say a word about you! Your secret is safe with me!”
Futrelle dragged the man up and over the finely carved oak railing as if he were hauling a big catch onto the deck of a fishing boat.
Crafton, on his feet again, began smoothing out his wrinkled attire, shaking as if he had the palsy. “That’s assault, sir—you could be put in irons! There were witnesses!”
“The witnesses seem to have gone—but we could bring this matter to the attention of the ship’s master-at-arms. Since I have no concern whatsoever, whether the information you hold on me is ever released to the public, I’d be glad to bring extortion charges against you.”
Crafton, still smoothing out his attire, thought about that, and said, “You may hear more from me later.”
“Why don’t you keep digging on me? Maybe you’ll come up with more. There are rumors to the effect that I have a terrible temper.”
Crafton moved down the stairway, at first quickly, then grasping onto the railing, as if afraid of losing his footing, and walking more slowly, if not steadily; he retrieved gloves, fedora, and walking stick, gathered up his change, and disappeared through the reception area, almost running.
Below, several navy-blue-jacketed stewards darted into view. They looked up at Futrelle, who leaned casually against the railing; one of them called: “Is there a problem, sir? We had reports of an altercation.”
“Really? I thought it was some sort of acrobatic display. Part of the ship’s entertainment.” He shrugged, and smiled, nodding to the confused stewards as he strolled down and around the stairs to use the electric lift.
When he got to their stateroom, May was entertaining the Harrises—who pretended to be outraged by the Futrelles’ superior quarters—and soon the little group decided to take one of the tours of the ship the purser was offering. The tour began with an inspection of the purser’s own office, followed by a look at the spacious kitchens with their modern timesaving devices (including an electric potato peeler), the libraries and other lavish public rooms, peeking in at the squash court, swimming pool and gymnasium. Rumors of a racetrack aboard were entirely unfounded, they were assured.
The purser’s Cook’s tour even included a quick stroll through the normally off-limits Second and Third Classes. Lounges and libraries that would have been First-Class on any