The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,36
and not you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, as my esteemed competitor’s detective is wont to say, ‘The game’s afoot.’”
The bridge, on the boat deck, was a white chamber as spartan and well-scrubbed as an operating room, attended by a brace of crisply uniformed officers, youngish men with the weathered faces their profession bestows. The row of windows onto the gray, glistening ocean and the only slightly bluer sky above gave the room an open-air effect; along those windows was a row of the porcelain-based, double-sided clockfaces of gleaming brass-trimmed, double-handle-topped engine telegraphs, and of course the wooden wheel itself, an old-fashioned instrument attached to newly fashioned technology. Looking out over the bow of the ship conveyed a certain majesty, but nowhere near the actual size of the colossal vessel.
Captain Smith, pacing slowly, eyes on the horizon, suddenly looked less a symbol, more a man. Without Ismay around, Smith seemed considerably bigger—taller, broader, more formidable.
When Futrelle was announced, the captain smiled slightly and said, “Good of you to come, Mr. Futrelle… walk with me to the bridge wing, would you?”
On the outdoor platform near the small three-sided booth from which the ship’s position was calculated by sextant, the captain leaned against the waist-high wall, regarding the sea with a stoic gaze. As they spoke, Smith rarely looked at Futrelle.
“Mr. Ismay wants the best for his company,” the captain said, “and who can blame him? This ship was his dream—he first sketched it on a napkin. But it’s my reality, Mr. Futrelle.”
“Your concerns and duties aren’t necessarily his,” Futrelle said.
“Precisely. But he is the director of the line, launching the company’s most important ship, and I am a lame duck of a captain, making his final crossing.”
“All the more reason to do what you think is right.”
Smith gave Futrelle a sideways look. “Right, as in proper? Correct?”
Futrelle shook his head. “There’s no rule book for a situation of this kind. Ismay wants to avoid bad press, but simply ignoring the incident could court disaster.”
“Elaborate.”
“Crafton didn’t just fall from the sky—even he had relatives and, presumably, friends. He certainly had business associates, in that extortion ring. Questions will be asked when we come ashore—and one may be why we didn’t ask questions aboard ship.”
Captain Smith nodded, barely. “I do believe Ismay’s discretion is well-founded.”
“Actually, so do I. Just too extreme.”
Without looking at Futrelle, Smith asked, “Would you do me a service, sir? I can repay you only with my gratitude and friendship.”
“Ask.”
“Could you—in a circumspect manner, playing upon the lack of knowledge of those aboard as regards Mr. Crafton’s demise—launch a sub-rosa investigation? Ask questions—innocent questions, on their face, but secretly knowing ones—to gather information so that I may make a decision before we reach New York.”
“Not everyone is ignorant of this murder, you know.”
“A handful know—ourselves, Ismay, the doctor and a single stewardess.”
“And there’s the murderer.”
“So there is.”
“And what if I should happen to ascertain the murderer’s identity?”
The captain’s face hardened. “Sir, I don’t care what his social connections are or how many millions he has in the bank. If he’s John Jacob Astor or some Italian beggar in steerage… If Jesus Christ is the murderer, we’ll turn Him over to the master-at-arms and slap Him in irons.”
“I admire your backbone, Captain. But might I suggest we hear our Lord and Savior’s side of it, first?”
And at last Smith turned and looked directly at Futrelle, and then he laughed and laughed; for so soft-spoken a man, the captain’s booming laughter echoed across the forward well deck and forecastle deck, startling the smattering of steerage passengers risking the brisk air.
“We’ll make no decisions until facts are gathered,” Smith said. He slipped his hand onto Futrelle’s shoulder again, and walked him slowly back toward the bridge. “There’ll be no mention of this to Mr. Ismay, of course.”
“Hell, no.” He wasn’t as deranged as the late Crafton had thought. “After all, we have an overriding reason to keep Ismay in the dark about the investigation, beyond his own White Star–based objections to it.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“Why—he’s a suspect himself, Captain.”
“So he is.”
And the two men smiled and shook hands.
SIX
INFORMAL INQUIRY
AT LUNCHEON, THE CAFÉ PARISIEN tended to be lightly frequented, and today was no exception.
The Titanic’s approximation of a sidewalk café on a Paris boulevard was designed more for a between-meal snack or perhaps an after-dinner aperitif; with sumptuous feasts available in the Dining Saloon and the à la carte Ritz, few passengers were willing to settle for the dainty sandwiches of the café’s circular