The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,30
pass. He knew that Smith—whose career had been otherwise spotless—had had his first real accident earlier this year, with the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic, of which he was the captain at the time of a collision with a Royal Navy cruiser. Futrelle suspected, after the performance with the New York, that Captain Smith had not mastered the finer points of seamanship needed to navigate the White Star’s new “wonder ships.”
“You should come back to command all the maiden voyages,” Astor said. “It wouldn’t be a White Star first crossing without you.”
“I’ll second that,” Andrews said, raising his wineglass.
“And I,” Ismay added.
The entire table raised their glasses to the captain, who smiled and nodded, then said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at the end of this crossing, I’ll have logged two million miles aboard White Star ships… and I think I’ve earned some time ashore.”
The captain thanked the group for its “splendid company,” and invited the men to join him in the smoking room for a cigar and brandy, while the women stayed at the table for conversation and aperitifs.
The First-Class Smoking Room, on A deck, was a bastion of male supremacy, an exclusive men’s club at sea where shipping magnates, rail and oil barons and millionaire industrialists could mingle in an atmosphere of free-flowing liquor, high-stakes card playing, and of course cigar smoke that was almost as rich as they were. The Georgian-style mahogany paneling, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, inset with stained-glass windows and etched mirrors, had the feel of a stately, prosperous Protestant church, an impression undercut by the green leather-upholstered armchairs and marble-topped tables, each with a raised edge around it to catch a sliding drink in rough weather.
The little group of men from the captain’s table—Smith, Astor, Andrews, Ismay and Futrelle—stood near the jutting corner whose walls with backlighted stained-glass images of Art Nouveau nymphs and sailing ships gracefully disguised and enclosed the casing of the ship’s immense rear funnel.
Again, the captain declined to drink, but he clearly relished a Cuban cigar so seductively fragrant that confirmed cigarette smoker Futrelle began to question his own tastes.
“With the exception of the sea, and Mrs. Smith,” Ismay said, “the captain’s greatest love is a good cigar.”
Smith raised an eyebrow, nodding his agreement as he held the Cuban before him, regarding it as if it were a treasure map. “Once I’ve retired, gentlemen, should you enter a room where I’m indulging in a fine Cuban such as this, I beg you keep still, so the blue cloud around my head not be disturbed.”
That prompted some gentle laughter, and as Astor began a discussion of yachting with the captain, Futrelle turned away to take in the room.
Seated about the smoke-draped chamber were such luminaries as publisher Henry Harper, railroad magnate Charles M. Hays, Senator William B. Allison of Iowa, and military historian Colonel Archibald Gracie.
And so was at least one considerably less illustrious individual, a certain John Bertram Crafton.
Crafton was seated at a table for four, but only one other seat was taken, by a slender, respectable-looking clean-shaven reddish-haired man, perhaps forty years of age, in formal evening attire, indicating he—like the captain’s party—had earlier supped in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Crafton still wore this afternoon’s brown suit.
The blackmailer was leaning forward conspiratorially and his distinguished-looking companion was frowning in the manner so common to prospective Crafton “clients.”
Noticing Major Butt and his friend Francis Millet seated near the fireplace, Futrelle excused himself and wandered over and sat between them.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I notice our old friend is spreading his typical good cheer.”
Broad-shouldered Archie had a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other; his sneer sent his mustache askew. Gray-haired Millet sat across from the major, hands folded, his own brandy untouched.
“Somebody should toss that bastard overboard,” Archie snorted. “Do I take it you’ve had the pleasure of Mr. Crafton’s company, Jack? Are you now a fellow ‘client’?”
“Oh yes—he dredged up my ‘nervous breakdown’ and I told him to stuff himself.”
“Is that right?” Archie shook his head. “He’s come after me with the same sort of rubbish… only there wasn’t much dredging that needed doing. This, uh… papal visit is something of a camouflage. I’ve been recently hospitalized.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Archie—but you look well, now.”
“Jack, I’m sure you can imagine the personal and professional pressure I’ve been under, with my loyalties divided between Teddy and Bill.”
The major meant by that Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft, two presidents whose loyalty he’d pledged who were now facing