The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,40

for tea in the First-Class Lounge, in, oh… about fifteen minutes.”

“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get… reckless.”

“You’ve been reckless enough for one day. Besides, I think you could use a little exercise, dear….”

“What I have in mind is exercise, of a sort.”

“… After all, Jack, writing is such sedentary work. Would you be offended if I suggested you attend the gymnasium this afternoon?”

“There will be less of me to love.”

She shrugged, turned away from the mirror, perfectly pretty. “It’s your decision. I just thought you might enjoy having a spirited physical-culture session…. I know Colonel Astor will be there.”

Futrelle bounded up from the chaise lounge, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You are a detective, my love,” he said, and slipped out of the stateroom.

On the starboard side of the ship, near the First-Class entrance, was the modern, spacious gymnasium, its walls a glistening white-painted pine with oak wainscoting, the floor gleaming linoleum tile, its equipment an array of the latest contraptions of physical training, or (in Futrelle’s view) instruments of torture. With the exception of the white-flannel-clad instructor, the gym stood empty—morning was its busy time.

The instructor greeted Futrelle, who had met the robust little fellow on the purser’s tour—T. W. McCawley, perhaps thirty-five years of age, with dark hair, dark bright eyes and a military-trim mustache.

“Mr. Futrelle!” McCawley said. He had a working-class English accent as thick as a glass of stout. “Good to see you, sir! Decide to come in and try your strength, t’day, did you?”

“I’m surprised you remember my name, Mr. McCawley.”

“You First-Class passengers are my business, sir—and your health is my chief interest and concern.”

“That’s bully,” Futrelle said, without much enthusiasm. The room’s rowing machine, pulley weights, stationary bicycles, and mechanical camels and horses held no appeal for the mystery writer. His idea of exercise was sitting on the porch of his house in Scituate for a spirited session in his rocking chair. “Has Colonel Astor stopped by?”

“He’s in the changing room,” the instructor said, with a nod toward the door in question, “gettin’ into his togs. There’s a pair in there waitin’ for you, sir.”

“You sure you have my size?”

“And larger. No job is too big for T. W. McCawley.”

The instructor’s enthusiasm already had Futrelle worn-out.

But he headed for the changing room nonetheless, finding white flannels in his size, and John Jacob Astor, already bedecked in white flannel, seated on a bench, tying the laces of a pair of tennis shoes, and without the aid of valet.

“Colonel,” Futrelle said. “What a pleasure running into you.”

“Afternoon, Jack,” Astor said; his voice was friendly enough, but his sky-blue eyes were glazed with their usual bored, distracted cast. “Your company will be appreciated.”

Astor went on into the gym, while Futrelle climbed into the white flannels; he hadn’t brought tennis shoes—the bluchers he’d had on would have to do.

“Join me for a spin, Jack?” Astor called out. He was pedaling away on one of two stationary bicycles near a large dial on the wall that registered the speed and distance of each bike.

Futrelle said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and hopped on.

The instructor was headed their way—as if any instruction on riding a bike were needed—when a young couple entered and McCawley did an about-face and attended them. The gym, unlike the Turkish Bath, did not segregate the sexes, and for about five minutes, the instructor ushered the young couple (honeymooners) around his dominion, eventually sending them off to their respective changing rooms.

During that time, Futrelle and Astor, aboard their bikes, chatted; this time Futrelle didn’t bother with small talk, as the best way to deal with the remote millionaire was to directly engage his attention.

“I saw you talking to that fellow Crafton, in the cooling room yesterday,” Futrelle said, barely pedaling.

Astor, who was in good shape, his legs working like pistons, said, “Did you?” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“I wondered,” Futrelle said, “if you’d had as unpleasant an experience with the louse as did I.”

Astor kept pedaling, staring straight ahead; but he was listening, Futrelle could tell the man was listening.

“He tried to blackmail me,” Futrelle said, and briefly explained.

Astor, hearing Futrelle frankly expose the mental skeleton in his closet, turned his cool gaze on his fellow rider, and his pedaling pace slowed.

“He had a similar scheme where I was concerned,” Astor admitted. But he offered no clarification, and picked his speed back up.

“May I be so bold,” Futrelle said, “as to ask if Crafton presented any real threat to you, Colonel?”

“Most likely not,” he said