The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,31

off against each other politically. Being pulled between two such powerful individuals could strain anyone, even someone as strong as Major Archie Butt.

Millet said, “Archie was briefly in an English sanitarium… just to get away, to calm his jangled nerves, his… depression.”

Futrelle nodded toward Crafton, who was still quietly speaking to the distinguished stranger. “And he threatened to go to the yellow press with the story, I suppose.”

Archie nodded. His eyes betrayed the depressed state in which he was still, to some degree, caught up.

“Did you pay him off, Archie?”

“Certainly not!”

“Forgive me for asking… Who is that Crafton’s sitting with?”

“That’s Hugh Rood,” Archie said. “I’m told he’s a London merchant of some kind; import, export. Very well-off.”

And barely had Archie’s description of the man ended when Rood sprang to his feet and grasped Crafton by the lapels of his suit and dragged him halfway across the marble-topped table, spilling drinks, glass shattering on the fancy linoleum, every eye in the room turning toward the two men.

“Approach me again at your own risk,” Rood shouted, his voice low-pitched, harsh.

And he backhanded the little blackmailer, viciously, the slap ringing in the room like a gunshot.

Crafton tumbled from his chair onto the floor, and the sound was like somebody dropping a bundle of kindling.

Captain Smith stepped forward, Ismay took a step back, but before anyone could do or say anything else, Rood strode from the room, his face burning.

Crafton, ever resilient, rose from the linoleum, shrugged, licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled feebly, straightening his clothing. With surprising dignity, he said, “Mr. Rood has an unfortunate temper… Captain, as a good Christian, I prefer not to press charges.”

Then the ferrety little man took a halfhearted bow, and made a hasty exit, as conversation in the Smoking Room rose to a boisterous din of amazement, confusion and amusement.

DAY THREE

APRIL 12, 1912

FIVE

THE PROBLEM OF C13

AT TEN O’CLOCK, THE FUTRELLES were still in bed—actually, they were back in bed, having enjoyed a room-service breakfast—and, following some second-honeymoon calisthenics, they were still in their nightclothes, propped up with feather pillows, each lost in a novel.

They had decided the boat deck might be a bit chilly for deck-chair reading, and there would be time aplenty this afternoon for socializing. For all its amenities, the Titanic had no organized activities for passengers, who spent most of their time reading books, writing letters and playing cards.

Pools on the speed of the ship were another pastime, and each day in the Smoking Room, the prior day’s run was posted; the ship had made 386 miles, from Thursday to Friday, despite her two stops for passengers and mail—yesterday’s run would probably top five hundred. There was talk that Captain Smith and Ismay were trying to beat sister ship Olympic’s maiden-voyage performance.

May was reading the popular The Virginian by Owen Wister, which she’d bought in London; there had been something perversely satisfying about purchasing a novel of the American West from a West End bookseller. Futrelle was absorbed in a book he’d discovered in the ship’s library, contributed by some scamp as a grim joke: Futility, a science-fiction-tinged tale about the shipwreck of a luxury liner not unlike this one; in fact, the author—one Morgan Robertson, whose style was little better than the penny dreadfuls, but whose fertile imagination (like John Jacob Astor) made up for it—had even named his great ship the Titan.

The shrill ring of the nightstand phone drew Futrelle away from his novel—an iceberg had just struck the fictional wonder ship—and Futrelle answered it with a distracted, “Yes?”

“Oh, good! You’re there…. This is Bruce… Bruce Ismay.”

As if there were any doubt which Bruce it might be.

Ismay was saying, “I had hoped we’d find you in your stateroom.”

“Well, Bruce, you have,” Futrelle said, hoping Ismay wasn’t calling to say a full ship’s tour with Andrews had been arranged; Futrelle had in mind a lazy day. “How can I help you?”

“Could you come to my suite, straightaway? And do please come alone. The captain and I would like to speak with you… privately.”

The captain? That fact, and something in Ismay’s voice—a distressed edge—finally pulled Futrelle’s attention away from the novel, which he laid folded open on the nightstand.

“I’ll be there shortly,” Futrelle said, and hung up.

May peeked over the colorful dust jacket of The Virginian. “I take it that was Mr. Ismay. What does he want now?”

“Possibly something to do with the book project,” Futrelle said, reluctantly climbing from the comfortable bed.

“You don’t sound convinced of that.”

“I’m