The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,38

her purse.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve forgotten my medicine in our stateroom… I need to take my pills with lunch.”

The only medication May was taking was aspirin, but of course the Strauses didn’t know that.

Futrelle began to rise. “Shall I go and fetch it for you, dear?”

“No, no, thank you, Jack—I’ll run and get it.” She turned to Ida with a smile. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into keeping me company?”

And of course Ida could only say, “I’d love to,” and soon the two women were winding through the mostly empty wicker tables and chairs.

Straus watched his wife depart with a fondness Futrelle found touching. “There goes as good a woman as ever a man was blessed with,” Straus said. The old boy turned toward Futrelle. “And hang on to that gem of yours, if you don’t mind a little advice.”

“Smartest move I ever made,” Futrelle said, “marrying that woman. Isidor… now that we’ll be alone for a moment, I need to ask you a question—in confidence.”

The eyes behind the pince-nez glasses narrowed. “Your tone is serious.”

“It’s a serious matter.”

Straus folded his hands, leaned forward. “Would it have to do with John B. Crafton?”

Straus’s perceptiveness amused and surprised Futrelle. “Now, how did you know that, sir?”

“I know there is a rumor drifting about the ship that the famous mystery writer Jacques Futrelle held a man over the balcony of the Grand Staircase, and shook the change from his pockets.”

Futrelle grinned. “That’s more than a rumor, Isidor.”

The old boy grinned back: the teeth weren’t his (or actually they were—he’d purchased them).

“I’d have paid good money for a front-row seat to that show,” Straus said. “You saw me give Crafton the heave-ho from our compartment, on the boat train, didn’t you?”

“Yes—I had a front-row seat for that one, and it didn’t cost me a dime.”

Straus raised an eyebrow. “So we have more than a love for the state of Georgia in common. We share a dislike for that foul little man.”

“We do. And I’d like to take the liberty of building on that common ground by asking a question or two… which if you do not answer, I’ll take no offense. I only hope you take no offense in the asking.”

“I’m sure I won’t take offense. As to whether I’ll answer your questions, I’ll have to hear them first.”

A waiter stopped by to replace their iced-tea glasses with fresh ones, and moved on.

Futrelle leaned in. “Is it safe for me to assume that Crafton approached you as one of his prospective ‘clients’?”

“Safe indeed.”

“My response to him was to hang him by his heels. Was your response, your full response, the one I saw on the train?”

The eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”

“I mean… forgive me… did you pay him, or just send him packing?”

Now Straus understood; he nodded. “The latter. Not one penny in tribute to that scoundrel.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Have you seen Crafton today, about the ship, anywhere?”

Without hesitation, Straus said, “No. Not a trace. It’s said another passenger slapped him last night.”

“Yes. A Mr. Rood. I witnessed that, in the Smoking Room.”

“Perhaps it’s safe to assume that Mr. Crafton is… what is the expression? ‘Lying low’?”

“You may be right, Isidor. I can tell you I’m personally not at all concerned by his threats to me, and my reputation.”

Briefly, Futrelle told Straus of the mental breakdown he’d suffered covering the war news at the Herald, and that he felt exposure of this ancient history could do him no professional harm whatsoever.

“The threat to me was equally trivial,” Straus said. “You may be aware that my firm has a… motto, you might say, used by Macy’s rather extensively in its advertising: ‘We never deal in old or bankrupt stocks…’”

Futrelle, nodding, finished the familiar slogan: “… ‘Macy’s sells new and desirable goods only.’ Yes, of course.”

Straus’s mouth pursed briefly, as if he were tasting something nasty, not sweetened iced tea. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Crafton claims to have documentary evidence that Macy’s has been buying at public auction, selling items we purchased at close-out sales at full price, and so on. Furthermore, Crafton says he has proof that our advertising claims of having the lowest prices are often inaccurate and deceptive…. This is all poppycock, and even if it weren’t, even if it were true, who would publish it? No one!”

Futrelle—newspaperman that he was—knew Straus was correct; Macy’s advertised heavily in every New York City paper, and there was no way