The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,41
casually, face bland, legs churning. “He claimed this fellow Stead was going to publish an exposé about the conditions of certain of our buildings.”
Futrelle knew very well that the Astors—who owned much of Manhattan—numbered among their ample holdings not only the opulent Astoria Hotel but block upon block of notoriously wretched slums.
“Do you think Stead could be an accomplice of Crafton’s?” Futrelle asked. This time he kept to himself Stead’s vigorous rebuff of the ferrety little man on the boat train.
“Very doubtful. You see, Mr. Stead is aligned with the Salvation Army…”
And as Astor caught a breath, Futrelle—fresh from hearing Isidor Straus sing so similar a song—finished for him: “Which is high on the list of those on the receiving end of the Astors’ many charitable contributions.”
“Quite so. Also, several other charities designed to aid former prostitutes and unwed mothers, pet causes of Mr. Stead’s; my family, my mother in particular, has long been a supporter of these causes.”
“So, this Crafton—you refused to pay the bastard.”
“No. I paid him. He only wanted a pittance—five thousand.”
Futrelle, on his bike ride to nowhere, was feeling light-headed; whether it was this exercise, which he wasn’t used to, or encountering Astor’s nonchalant attitude toward paying off a blackmailer, he couldn’t be certain.
“Tell me, Colonel, have you seen Crafton around the ship at all today?”
“No.” Astor suddenly stopped pedaling. His forehead was beaded with sweat but he wasn’t breathing hard. “I can’t say I was looking for him, either. He’s rather disagreeable company, don’t you think?”
Futrelle had stopped his pedaling, too. Astor was headed over to the rowing apparatus; he paused there and glanced at Futrelle, saying, “You mind if I have the first go, Jack?”
“It’s all yours, Colonel,” Futrelle said. “I’ve done all the traveling I care to, for the moment.”
In his stateroom, Futrelle took a warm relaxing bath, and lounged in his robe, returning to the chaise lounge and the novel Futility, the title of which seemed to him to reflect his efforts. Trying to see beyond Astor’s diffident mask was a hopeless task; like Straus, John Jacob Astor was a harder man than he might appear. Futrelle could well imagine the millionaire casually dispatching a manservant to smother a blackmailer with a pillow.
But he could also imagine Astor peeling off hundred after hundred from a fat wad of bills, to remove an annoyance, swatting the fly with money.
While Futrelle had been in the gym chasing Astor on a bolted-down bicycle, his wife had been sharing hot tea and buttered toast with Madeline Astor—and the Astors’ mascot Maggie Brown—in the luxurious First-Class Lounge on A deck.
The extravagantly ornate lounge, modestly based on the Palace of Versailles, was primarily the province of ladies, the distaff equivalent of the Smoking Room, sans smoking of course. The high-ceilinged oak-paneled room—with its carved scrollwork and glowing overhead bonfire of a central chandelier—had boundaries defined by a fireplace (too grand to ever light) at one end and a bookcase (too elegant to ever open) at the other. The green color scheme of the lush carpeting and richly upholstered chairs was soothing, undermined by the busy nature of their rococo designs. Scattered games of bridge and canfield were under way at the most exquisitely carved tables ever used for card playing.
But May and Madeline and Maggie weren’t playing cards; they were gossiping—or at least the latter two were… May was secretly playing detective.
The women had already discussed how the becoming, “but in no way young” Mrs. Helen Candee had attracted a harem of middle-aged men, while all agreed that a certain handsome young Swede in the Candee coterie was the likely candidate for the one having the shipboard affair.
And it had been noted that Ben Guggenheim and his mistress had given up on the pretense of traveling separately, and a number of stewards had been heard to address her as “Mrs. Guggenheim.”
“Have either of you seen this John Crafton around the ship?” May asked them casually.
“You mean that rat-faced little bastard with the gold-top cane?” Maggie Brown asked. She was bundled into a pale gray silk dress with black silk cuffs and trim, and a large wide-brimmed black velvet hat with ostrich feathers.
May, who had decided to be amused rather than disgusted by Maggie’s dockworker vocabulary, laughed and said, “I think it’s safe to say we’re talking about the same party.”
Madeline Astor—lovely in a pink silk suit with lilac satin bindings that matched the band and big bow of her wide-brimmed straw hat—leaned close and said, almost whispered, “You