The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,4

exchanging nervous glances with my wife; we’d agreed to avoid the Titanic in conversation, as on the phone Virginia had made such a point of her willingness to spend time with a Futrelle fan, as opposed to a Titanic buff.

“You know, it’s close to that time of year, isn’t it?” Virginia asked.

Again, I said nothing, just smiled a little—I knew damn well the anniversary of the sinking was days away.

“Each year, on April 14, for as long as she was able, my mother held a private memorial service to my father, and the others who lost their lives that night. She would stand alone on Third Cliff here in Scituate, looking out over the open sea, a fresh bouquet of flowers in her hands… and she would sprinkle the flowers with her tears, and then would toss them, into the water.”

“That’s lovely,” my wife said.

The handsome, deeply grooved features formed an embarrassed smile. “Well, my mother did have a terrible streak of melodrama, I’m afraid. But she loved Papa; I don’t think she ever really fully accepted his death. She and I didn’t really get along very well, you know….”

This private piece of information coming along so early in our conversation was startling; but I managed to say, brilliantly, “Really?”

Virginia sipped her coffee, which she was drinking black, and nodded, saying, “She favored Jack, my brother… she had quite an ego, Mother did. When she lost Papa, she lost the one person in the world she loved more than herself.”

A waiter came over and we ordered lunch; wood-grilled fresh fish of every variety—not exactly midwestern fare. Then when the waiter had gone, Virginia turned toward the gray, gently rippling landscape and spoke again.

“I wasn’t on the ship,” she said. “I was in school—I went to private school, up north—yet memories of the Titanic sinking have been with me most of my life. Mother relived the sheer terror of that experience, from time to time, nightmares mostly, and sudden stabs of memory. She lived to be ninety-one… I intend to outdo her, on that score.”

Thinking of my anonymous phone caller, I said, “You seemed to have a positive opinion of Dr. Ballard’s expedition, uh… when you were interviewed. But what do you think of these later expeditions, recovering—”

She interrupted sharply: “Ghoulish. Simply ghoulish. I’ve always thought of the Titanic as my father’s grave. I hope they’ll let her be—she’s at rest, a memorial in herself.”

“Oh, I agree with you,” my wife said. “This awful talk about trying to ‘raise’ the ship…”

Her brown eyes, which were lovely, pressed shut. “I pray nightly that the ship will be allowed to remain where she lies. Anything else is exploitation. It seems only… honorable, respectful, to leave the ship and its victims in their final resting place as was God’s will.”

I thought of those two canvas bags, sewn shut, in the cold cargo hold.

But then we spoke of her father, and she told anecdotes about him, warm funny stories of his playful practical jokes, such as the time her mother had “gussied herself up” for a party that her father wanted to skip. May Futrelle had approached her husband, who was tarrying with yard work, watering the lawn, and prodded him to come inside and put on his evening wear—he had instead hosed her down, in all her finery, and after her fury turned to laughter, they’d spent a quiet romantic evening together.

“They were a love story, Mama and Papa,” she said rather wistfully. “A real-life love story.”

“You know, I’d really like to see your father’s work get back into print,” I said. “Maybe if I could interview you, in depth, I could put a biographical piece together that would spark some interest.”

I was putting a toe in the water, because my real intention was to seek her cooperation in writing a book-length biography of her father.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I’m already working with two friends of mine, women I worked with in broadcasting, on creating a book about Papa.”

I tried not to show my disappointment, although such a project—even if not written by me—was good news to this Futrelle fan.

That left me with nothing to say, or to ask, and I awkwardly changed the subject back to the Titanic.

“You know, these people are grave robbers, quite literally,” I said. “Anyway, they are, if this phone call I received recently wasn’t just a crank.”

“How so?” she asked.

And I told Jacques Futrelle’s daughter about the cargo hold,