The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,26

even her oversize navy-blue-and-white striped hat was a shapeless thing. Rumors that she was “in an advanced delicate condition,” despite her relatively recent marriage, seemed wholly credible.

The lanky Astor sported a boater and a red-and-blue tie that added color and dash to a conservative dark gray suit, and an oversize, dashing mustache at odds with his somber, detached demeanor. His face long and narrow, his chin cleft and rather small, he leaned on a carved ebony walking stick as he paused at a stall, holding his chin high, looking at prospective purchases down the considerable slope of an aquiline nose, peering through small, sky-blue eyes cursed of a world-weariness known only by the impossibly wealthy and the devastatingly poor.

Between the Astors was an Airedale, dutifully keeping them company, no leash in sight; the dog seemed happier than his master, though his mistress was having the most fun.

“This is very nice,” Madeline was saying at the stall next to the one where the Futrelles were examining some miniature porcelain dolls. The young Mrs. Astor was holding up a lovely lace jacket that didn’t look like it would fit her, at least not right now.

“How much in dollars?” Astor asked the vendor, a woman wearing a lovely lace jacket herself, and bad teeth.

“A hundred, fine sir,” she said, not missing a beat.

Astor shrugged. “Eight hundred it is,” he said blandly, and withdrew a wad of bills as thick as one of Futrelle’s novels; the millionaire peeled off eight crisp one-hundreds and handed them to the amazed vendor, who did not correct Astor’s mistake, and who could blame her?

Futrelle, arching an eyebrow, exchanged incredulous glances with his wife, who later bought a similar item for twenty-five dollars, which seemed outrageous to Futrelle but May rightly pointed out the savings compared with what the Astors had paid.

Promptly at 1:30 P.M., the Titanic’s steam whistles let go three long, mournful blasts announcing departure; the vendors packed up their things and hastened back to their bumboats, and soon gangways were raised, lines cast off, the dripping starboard anchor raised. From the boat deck, the Futrelles could hear and see a passenger on the Third-Class aft promenade, a small mustached man in kilts, playing his bagpipes.

The husband and wife looked at each other, savoring the bittersweet moment: the Irish piper’s mournful “Erin’s Lament” probably represented its emigrating player’s farewell to the beloved homeland he might never see again.

The Futrelles stood at the rail in the cold afternoon, watching the green hills and fields of Ireland slip away, knowing—as the ship made its wide, majestic turn starboard, into the Atlantic’s swells—that the next land they would see would have the Statue of Liberty out in front of it.

“It’s almost two and we haven’t had lunch yet,” Futrelle noted, checking his pocket watch. He had seldom missed a meal in his thirty-seven years.

“Let’s just get something light,” May suggested. “Dinner’s not that far away, and we’ll be bombarded with one course after another.”

The Verandah Café, portside off the aft A-deck promenade, didn’t seem as overrun with children as it had yesterday, and the couple ducked in for a snack. The enclosed space conjured the illusion of an outdoor terrace, with its potted palms, white wicker tables and chairs, archway windows and ivy-flung trellises.

The only children today had also been here yesterday: golden-tressed Lorraine Allison and her baby brother Trevor, overseen by the blunt-nosed almost beauty of their nanny, Alice, again holding court at a wicker table.

But this time the parents were here, as well, seated at the adjacent table having petits fours and tea, and in the company of none other than Futrelle’s acrobatic partner, John Bertram Crafton.

They were a happy little group, smiling, even laughing, Crafton in a natty brown suit but the same gray fedora, the boyish bespectacled Hudson in conservative gray enlivened by a red tie, the sweetly pretty Bess in a lilac-and-white striped cotton day dress.

The Futrelles sat a few tables away in the sparsely populated café; the same young steward who yesterday had been so attentive to nanny Alice stopped by to take their order.

“A couple of cups of hot bouillon, please,” Futrelle said, and the handsome lad nodded and disappeared.

It wasn’t until Futrelle had spoken that Crafton noticed the couple’s presence. Seeing Futrelle, the blackmailer’s face turned as white as the wicker chairs and he swallowed thickly. His smile grew nervous and, rising, he made a hurried goodbye and scurried away, gold-tipped cane in hand, through the revolving door into the smoking room.

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