The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,27

Crafton left, the Allisons noticed the Futrelles, and Hudson called out, “Nice to see you again—other than that crowded corridor! Won’t you join us?”

“Thank you, yes,” Futrelle said, and he and May did.

Introductions in the hallway yesterday had been exceedingly brief and lacking in detail: the Futrelles soon learned that Hudson was an investment broker from Montreal (a partner in the firm), and the Allisons learned Jack Futrelle was the famous mystery author, Jacques. Hudson admitted he wasn’t much of a fiction reader, but Bess was an unrepentant bookworm and had read (and loved) both Jack’s The Diamond Master and May’s Secretary of Frivolous Affairs.

The latter made them instant friends: the Hudsons impressed by being in such famous company, the Futrelles flattered by Bess’s praise for their work.

At the suitable moment, Futrelle asked casually, “Your friend Mr. Crafton—how did you come to meet him?”

Hudson smiled and shrugged. “Well, sir, we met him just before we met you—in the C-deck corridor.”

“He’s very charming,” Bess said.

The Futrelles exchanged glances; they had been hoping a fan of their books would have better judgment and taste.

“He’s an investment broker himself,” Hudson said.

“Is that so?” Futrelle said.

“But that’s not why we hit it off so well. You see, we have horses in common.”

“Horses?”

“Yes.” Hudson smiled at Bess, patted her hand. “We’ve been very fortunate, of late, in business, and recently acquired a farm… the Allison Stock Farm, we’re calling it.”

“It’s always been our dream,” Bess said.

To Futrelle the young couple didn’t look old enough to “always” have had any dream.

“We built a farmhouse to our specifications,” Hudson said. “We’ll be moving in, as soon as we get back. Bess decorated it herself. She has a real eye.”

But the thread of the conversation had been lost, and Futrelle had to say, “Where do Mr. Crafton and horses come into play?”

“Oh! That’s why we were in England. On a horse-buying trip. Mr. Crafton is very interested in horses, and seems quite knowledgeable on the subject.”

Probably from the track, Futrelle thought, but only smiled politely.

The steward arrived with the cups of bouillon for the Futrelles. The nanny glanced over and the secret little look she and the steward exchanged was neither as secret nor as little as they thought.

Later, as Futrelle escorted May down a C-deck corridor, back to their stateroom, she said, “You were right about that shipboard romance.”

“I hope the lad doesn’t get into trouble for fraternizing.”

“I should think not. Alice isn’t a passenger, exactly. Did you notice the evil eye she was giving Crafton?”

“No,” Futrelle said. “Are you sure it wasn’t just her natural expression?”

“Now, Jack, she’d be quite an attractive young woman if she hadn’t…”

“Run into a door?”

“You’re terrible. What time is your appointment?”

Futrelle was signed up for the full treatment at the Turkish Bath, which was for women mornings, men afternoons.

“In about fifteen minutes. What do you have on for this afternoon?”

“I intend to take a good old-fashioned American bath, in the tub we’ve been provided thanks to the generous auspices of J. Bruce Ismay. We’re sitting at the captain’s table this evening, and surely you don’t expect me to be ready in a flash.”

“No. But I do think that with the several hours at your disposal, you’ll be able to make yourself presentable.”

She slapped his arm, and kissed his mouth, and—as they had now arrived at their stateroom—allowed her husband to unlock the door for her, before he went off to partake of the Titanic’s most arcane ritual.

The Turkish Bath—with its willingly hot steam room followed by male attendants providing full-body massage, exfoliation and shampoo—was an outlandish excess even for this ship. The cooling room was a Moorish fantasy of carved Cairo curtains (disguising portholes), blue-and-green tiled walls, gilded beams, crimson ceiling, hanging bronze lamps, blue-and-white mosaic floor, inlaid Damascus coffee tables, and low-slung couches and chairs with Moroccan-motif upholstery.

It was in this bizarrely exotic chamber that Futrelle again came upon the omnipresent Crafton, this time towel-draped, reclining on a couch next to a similarly lounging and towel-wrapped John Jacob Astor. Whether Crafton was attempting blackmail—as he had with Futrelle—or simply cozying up to the millionaire—as he had with the Allisons—was not clear.

The reason for the uncertainty was Astor himself: his expression remained lifeless, his sky-blue eyes joyless, even bored, blinking only when steam room sweat found its way into them. And as the fast-talking Crafton continued his spiel—telling Astor about the benefits of becoming a Crafton “client,” perhaps—Astor remained as mute as the Sphinx he had so recently visited.

Once again, Crafton