The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,44

Class—the First-Class Dining Saloon was forward of the kitchens, the Second-Class Dining Saloon aft.

Not seeking to collide with waiters or busboys, Andrews and Futrelle avoided the central double push doors into the Second-Class Dining Saloon and entered through a door to the far right. They stood in the corner, looking out over hundreds of heads of diners, well dressed but not in the formal attire that now made Andrews and Futrelle look like the restaurant’s headwaiters.

The pleasant, commodious dining room—with its unadorned, English-style oak paneling—was smaller than its First-Class brother, but not much—just as wide (the width of the ship) and a good seventy feet long. The windows, here, were portholes, undisguised, and the feeling of being on a ship was more prominent than in First Class. Endless long banquet tables with swivel chairs fixed into the linoleum floor gave the dining room an institutional feel, but that was a seating style common in First Class on other liners. White linen tablecloths and fine china made for typical Titanic elegance, and the food itself—baked haddock, curried chicken and rice, spring lamb—looked and smelled wonderful.

“Do you see who you’re looking for?” Andrews asked Futrelle, who was casting his gaze all about the room.

“No… we’d better take a walk.”

They moved down the central aisle, attracting a few glances.

Then Futrelle spotted him, up near the piano at the aft end of the room: Louis Hoffman, seated between his two adorable tousled-haired boys.

“I need to approach him alone,” Futrelle said.

Andrews nodded, and settled himself next to a pillar.

Hoffman and his boys were almost finished eating, the father helping the youngest boy scoop out the last tasty tidbits of tapioca from a cup. Again, their attire was not inexpensive: the boys were dressed identically, in blue serge jackets and bloomers and stockings; Hoffman a lighter blue suit with a dark blue silk tie and wing collar. He was a doting father, and watching him interact with his boys made clear the love this little family shared.

Futrelle almost hated to interrupt, particularly with the unpleasant subject he must broach; but he had no choice.

The chair across from Hoffman was empty and the mystery writer came around the long table and took it. The black-haired, dimple-chinned Hoffman glanced up with a smile under the waxed curled-tip mustache; but the smile faded and a frown crossed his rather high forehead.

“Mr. Hoffman, my name is Futrelle.”

“Can I help you?” His accent wasn’t English or German, but it wasn’t French, either, which based upon the continental manner of the man’s grooming had been Futrelle’s guess, and after all Crafton had referred to Hoffman as a “Frenchman.” Now Futrelle revised his opinion to something more like middle European—Czech perhaps, or Slovak…

“Papa!” the older boy said, and then the child spoke to his father in rapid French (apparently asking for more tapioca), and the father replied the same way (apparently gently refusing him).

Now Futrelle was thoroughly confused—“Hoffman” with his Slovak accent spoke French and so did his children.

“There’s a matter of common concern to both of us,” Futrelle said.

“How is that possible?” Hoffman asked curtly; his dark eyes were hard and glittering. “We have never met.”

“But we have both met John Crafton.”

Now the eyes narrowed. “The name is not familiar.”

“Please, Mr. Hoffman. I saw you speaking with him on the boat deck, Wednesday afternoon… and Crafton mentioned you to me himself.”

And now the eyes widened—but they were still hard, glittering. Gentle as he was with his boys, this was a dangerous man. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Believe me, as another of Mr. Crafton’s ‘clients,’ I understand the need for discretion… Could we speak in private?”

Hoffman glanced from one boy to the other; even the youngest one, who couldn’t be more than two years of age, was perfectly well behaved. As a fellow father, Futrelle found this remarkable.

“I do not leave my boys,” Hoffman said. “They are with me always.”

“Do they speak English?”

“No.”

“Well, bring them along, then. Perhaps we could go to your cabin.”

Hoffman considered that, then said, “No. We will speak in private. A moment please.”

He rose and moved two seats down, to an attractive young blonde woman in her twenties, to whom he spoke in French. She smiled at him, nodding, speaking in Swedish-accented French! The only word Futrelle recognized in her response was “Oui,” for despite his Huguenot heritage, he knew barely enough of the language to order in a French restaurant.

As the blonde woman took the father’s seat between the boys, Hoffman smiled shyly at her and thanked