The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,43

Happy Hooligan, Buster Brown and other cartoon characters hung from the ceiling, strung up like a comics-page lynching.

Both chairs were filled as the two white-smocked barbers attended their customers; Futrelle settled in on the black leather couch, to wait his turn. There was one patron ahead of him: Hugh Rood.

Crafton’s Smoking Room adversary still had a distinguished look, his dark brown herringbone suit set off nicely by a brown-and-gold striped silk tie with diamond stickpin.

Futrelle introduced himself, and Rood—somewhat warily, it seemed—gave his name and accepted a handshake.

“I’d like to compliment you, sir,” Futrelle said. He spoke softly; the barbers were chatting with their customers, in the time-honored way, and Futrelle could—by keeping his voice down—keep their conversation private.

The handsome, reddish-haired Rood smiled, but his eyes, which were as green as money, seemed wary, confused. “What have I done to deserve a compliment from you, Mr. Futrelle?”

“You did what a lot of us wanted to do—you slapped that bastard Crafton.”

Rood’s face went curiously blank for a moment, then his brow tightened and, scowling, he said, “Nothing less than he deserved.”

“He’s a blackmailer, you know.” Quickly, he told Rood what Crafton had threatened to reveal about him.

“The man’s a cad,” Rood said.

“Might I ask why you slapped him, Mr. Rood? Did he have similar extortion designs, where you were concerned?”

The blank expression returned; then, rather coldly, he said, “Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. Forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to be rude… Mr. Rood.”

Then a chair became available and Futrelle sat down for his shave. When Rood finally took the chair next to him, for a haircut and shave, Futrelle asked, “Say, have you seen him about the ship today?”

“Who?”

“Crafton.”

“No.”

“Funny. I haven’t either. Where do you suppose he’s gotten to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

And that was the end of their conversation; and of Futrelle’s shave. He paid the barber, tipped him well, said good-bye to Mr. Rood, who curtly said good-bye to him.

In the stateroom, as they dressed for dinner, Futrelle reported the encounter to his wife.

“Finally,” she said, “we’ve got someone who’s acting suspiciously.”

“In a way,” Futrelle said, frustrated, “Rood is behaving the least suspiciously of all… That is, like a blackmail victim with something to hide, something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

“You mean like murdering John Crafton?” May suggested.

And they went down to dinner.

SEVEN

SECOND-CLASS CITIZEN

IN THEIR EVENING CLOTHES, FUTRELLE and shipbuilder Thomas Andrews—who was leading the way—might have seemed to have wandered astray, winding through the elaborate galley on D deck.

But no one bothered the pair, not a single question met them, as they threaded through the seemingly endless array of glistening white cabinets and stainless-steel fixtures, mammoth ranges, grill after grill, oven upon oven, a bustling domain of aromas and steam, of clatter and clang. Every member of the culinary army—cooks specializing in sauces, roasts, fish, soups, desserts, vegetables; bakers and pastry chefs; busboys and dish-washers—recognized Andrews as a frequent visitor.

In fact the only comment they received was from a cook who informed Andrews, “That hot press still ain’t workin’ worth a damn, sir. Playin’ bloody hell with our sauces.”

Andrews assured the cook he was aware of the problem and working on it, as the shipbuilder and Futrelle pressed on.

“I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day,” Andrews told Futrelle. “The captain said, should you need passage to any restricted areas on the ship, I’m to provide it.”

The ceiling above them was arrayed with hundreds of handle-hung water pitchers.

“I’ll try not to impose—I know you’re busy, Mr. Andrews.”

“My friends call me Tom.”

“Mine call me Jack.”

They were passing by an immense open cupboard of stacked china.

Gently, Andrews asked, “Do you mind telling me what this is about, Jack? If I’m not overstepping my bounds.”

The builder of the Titanic asking this of Futrelle seemed at once absurd and extraordinary.

“I’m not allowed to say,” Futrelle said. “But it does have to do with a matter of ship security.”

“Then this is more along the lines of your criminologist expertise than newspapering or fiction writing.”

“I really shouldn’t say any more, Tom.”

“Understood.”

After dinner in the First-Class Dining Saloon, Futrelle had excused himself from May, the Harrises, Strauses and their other tablemates to approach the captain’s table. Futrelle and Smith had stepped away—out of Ismay’s hearing, if not his sight—and the mystery writer had a word with Smith about his need to speak to a certain Second-Class passenger. The captain had immediately put Andrews and Futrelle together, and sent them on this mission, through the huge galley that served both First and Second