The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,24
breakfast—pressing ten-thirty—in the exquisitely continental à la carte restaurant, nicknamed the Ritz after the Ritz-Carlton dining rooms of White Star’s German rival, the Hamburg–Amerika Line. They had spent an at times spirited, at times tranquil morning in their stateroom, doing the sort of things a healthy, loving couple on their second honeymoon tend to do.
Two miles offshore, within the shelter of twin forts guarding the harbor, the Titanic dropped anchor, as twin tenders—the Ireland and America—drew alongside her with passengers and mail. The waterfront of Queenstown—a quaint seafaring village not unlike Scituate, the Massachusetts home of the Futrelles—was lined with sightseers, tiny well-wishers whose waving could barely be made out, whose cheering could scarcely be heard.
“Good morning!”
The voice belonged to J. Bruce Ismay, standing tall and thin, a handsome Ichabod Crane in a dark blue suit with gray pinstripes and matching gray spats, and, brisk breeze or not, no topcoat or hat.
As the blanket-bundled Futrelle and May stirred, Ismay urged them, “Don’t get up, please don’t get up on my account!” Before Futrelle could make introductions, the White Star Line director bowed to May. “J. Bruce Ismay, madam—I presume you’re the lovely Mrs. Futrelle.”
“If I’m not,” she said, “the lovely Mr. Futrelle has some explaining to do.”
Ismay laughed, once—he used laughs as punctuation, having enough of a sense of humor to know where to place them, though no more. “I understand you’re an author yourself.”
“A novice compared to Jack, here, I’m afraid.”
“But published.”
“Oh yes. Several times.”
“An accomplishment I envy. May I sit?”
“Please,” Futrelle said, and Ismay pulled up a deck chair on the husband’s side.
“Would it be bad form, sir, to ask if you’ve had time to consider my proposal?”
“Not at all.” Futrelle nodded toward his wife. “I have discussed it with May. She’s favorably disposed toward doing a mystery set aboard your ship.”
He beamed so widely at her, the ends of his mustache threatened to tickle the corners of his eyes. “I’m grateful, madam. I was not at all convinced your husband would say yes.”
“I haven’t said yes,” Futrelle reminded him.
“I hope that isn’t ‘no,’” Ismay said.
“I haven’t decided, but I am leaning in your direction, sir.”
“Splendid! What can I do to aid you?”
“We’ve had a tour of the ship, thanks to your personable purser, Mr. McElroy.”
“Wonderful chap.”
“Yes he is. But we may wish to take a closer look at the Titanic, from the crow’s nest to the boiler room. As a newspaperman turned fiction writer, I find the more truth I can build my tale around, the better.”
Ismay was nodding at the good sense of that. “Well, tonight at the captain’s table, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Andrews. I’m sure he’ll take you anywhere on the ship that you wish, and he has keys to everything.”
“Thomas Andrews? The master shipbuilder responsible for this vessel?”
“Himself,” Ismay said, clearly pleased that Futrelle was this knowledgeable, though Futrelle knew only what a few articles had told him.
A small and colorful flotilla of bumboats laden with local vendors and their wares had followed in the wakes of the two tenders; the bumboats bobbed out there, voices traveling over the water, “Lace and linens!,” “Knick-knacks and fineries!”
With comical urgency, May asked Ismay if they’d be allowed to board.
“It’s White Star’s policy to let the more reputable merchants come aboard,” he said, with a tiny shrug, “as a courtesy to our passengers.”
Her eyes were bright; shopping was one of May’s passions. “Where will they be setting up, and when?”
“On the aft A-deck promenade, madam, and soon.”
May turned to her husband, and said, “Jack, I need to get my handbag in our stateroom. Why don’t you continue your chat with Mr. Ismay, and I’ll meet you down on deck in a few minutes.”
Futrelle said that was fine, stood to help his wife unbundle herself from her blanket, they exchanged pecks on the cheek, and she was gone as if fired from a rocket.
“My wife is the same,” Ismay admitted. “Someday you simply must visit my wing at Harrods.”
Futrelle chuckled; that was a pretty good jest, coming from Ismay. “Actually, Bruce…” They were on first-name terms, after all; Ismay had insisted, yesterday. “I’m pleased we have a moment in private. There’s a subject I need to broach that I’d prefer to keep from my wife.”
Ismay frowned in interest, saying, “Continue, please.”
And Futrelle told Ismay of his meeting with Crafton on the balcony of the Grand Staircase—omitting, of course, his dangling of the man over the railing.
But Ismay didn’t need to be told of the latter.
With a