The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,33

three-quarters of the otherwise perfect specimen of Titanic stationery intact.

On the page, in a cramped, masculine cursive, had been penned the following list of names:

Astor

Brown

Butt/Millet

Futrelle

Guggenheim

Hoffman

Check marks were beside every name with the exception of “Brown.”

Ismay asked, “And what do you make of this, Jack?”

Futrelle, studying the list, said, “Well, these, obviously, are the names of Crafton’s blackmail ‘clients.’”

“Yes. Including your own.”

“With the exception of Mr. Guggenheim and Mrs. Brown… and the lack of a check mark next to Maggie’s name may indicate Crafton had not yet approached her… I witnessed the late extortionist in action with each of these individuals. Are you talking to everyone on this list?”

A nonsmile twitched Ismay’s lips; his mustache bobbed. “Thus far… only you.”

“Why?… Let me answer that in part, myself: with the exception of your Second-Class passenger Mr. Hoffman, I’m the least socially prominent of the lot. Approaching Colonel Astor or Mr. Guggenheim… that could be embarrassing. Delicate, at the very least.”

A wan smile now formed under Ismay’s mustache. “We value you every bit as much as anyone on this ship, Jack—a little more than most, actually.”

“Why?”

Finally the captain spoke, though he still did not turn away from the view on the sea: “You have a background in newspaper work, sir, and criminology. Before this matter is closed, I would like you to have a look at Mr. Crafton.”

Futrelle squinted; the sun coming in made it difficult to look at the captain for long. “I don’t understand.”

Smith swiveled on his heels, like a figure on a cuckoo clock; his hands remained locked behind him. “I want you to see the scene… Mr. Crafton’s body has not been moved, nothing has been disturbed.”

Futrelle held up the White Star letterhead. “Other than this list.”

Defensively pointing to the sheet still in Futrelle’s grasp, Ismay said, “That was found on his dresser. Out in the open. Just like that.”

“Just like this? May I point out, Bruce, that this letterhead has been torn.”

“Obviously.”

“And several names are missing.”

“I don’t follow.”

Futrelle kept his voice gentle, as unintimidating as possible when he said, “I think you do. This is an alphabetical listing… the missing names are Mr. Rood’s, Mr. Stead’s, Mr. Straus’s… and yours, Bruce. In order to remove your name from this list, tearing across the bottom, you had to remove Rood, Stead and Straus, as well.”

Ismay was naturally pale, but he turned paler. “Well! I certainly didn’t expect insults—”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult. I don’t blame you—in your position, I might have done the same. I might have destroyed the list in its entirety.”

Ismay thought that over. “Then you are willing to be of help?”

“I’m certainly willing to look at the scene of the crime.”

Eyes and nostrils again flared. “It’s not a crime, damnit!”

“Then why bother having me view the scene? Believe me, I understand, Bruce, that your position in this is not enviable. The last thing on this earth that you desire is to have this maiden voyage blemished. I can well understand that you do not want the Titanic’s name forever linked with death.”

Ismay considered Futrelle’s words, then said, “So you will be discreet?”

“I have no desire for my wife and myself to be moved from our sumptuous stateroom into steerage, thank you.”

Smith smiled—just a little, but a smile. He said, “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Futrelle.”

“I won’t go so far as to say it’s my pleasure, Captain… but I do consider it my duty, a concept with which you’re intimately acquainted.”

They took the stairs down to C deck. Crafton’s suite was C13, which was toward the forward end of the First-Class accommodations, on the port side of the ship, down a shallow hallway off of which were only a pair of rooms on either side. In a white uniform with cap, a bulbous-nosed, white-mustached, medium-sized old gent in his early sixties stood in the hallway to one side of the door marked C13, a black bag held before him like a big lumpy fig leaf.

Pausing there at the door, the captain said, “Mr. Futrelle, this is Dr. O’Loughlin, our chief surgeon. William, this is Jacques Futrelle.”

O’Loughlin smiled, but his eyes didn’t; he said, “I understand you’re a famous author.”

It occurred to Futrelle that if he were really famous, the chief surgeon would not have to be told that.

“I’m a writer,” Futrelle said. “How was the body found, doctor?”

Ismay, looking furtively about, said, “Let’s not discuss that until we’re within the cabin, if you would, gentlemen?”

And the White Star director used a key to unlock the