The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,45

her, then kissed each boy on the forehead, a gesture neither seemed to notice, so common was it from this doting father. Then Hoffman’s benign expression dissolved into a glower, as his gaze fixed upon Futrelle; Hoffman nodded toward the exit and bid Futrelle follow him.

Futrelle glanced behind him, seeing Andrews frowning and stepping forward; but Futrelle gestured to him to stay put. Andrews nodded and fell back.

The cabin was farther aft on D deck, and neither party said a word as they made their way there, Futrelle trailing dutifully after the smaller man. Hoffman unlocked the door and gestured for Futrelle to go in, which he did.

The Second-Class cabin was cozy but not cramped, and Futrelle had been in First-Class quarters on other ships that did not equal these pleasant accommodations: bunk berths at left, a sofa bed at right, a mahogany dresser against the wall between the beds, equipped with a mirror and foldout washbasin. The walls were white, the floors linoleum-tiled.

“May I sit?” Futrelle asked, gesturing to the sofa.

Hoffman nodded, his eyes tight with suspicion.

Futrelle sat and then Hoffman sat, too, opposite, on the lower berth.

“First of all, Mr. Hoffman, I want to assure you I don’t represent any police agency in any way.”

Alarm leaped into the dark eyes, but Hoffman tried to keep his voice calm and casual as he replied, “Why should that bother me if you did?”

“Because you’re traveling under an assumed name.”

“Nonsense.”

“You’re a Slovak with two French-speaking boys named Lolo and Momon. But you boarded as an Englishman named ‘Hoffman.’”

Eyes wild now, he sprang to his feet. “How much has he told you?”

Futrelle patted the air, as if trying to calm a child. “Nothing…”

Hoffman’s hand dropped into his suit coat pocket. “Are you with him?”

“What?”

“Are you part of this… ring?”

“No!”

And Hoffman’s hand withdrew from the pocket: in it was a small, but no less deadly-looking, blue-steel revolver.

The revolver’s single eye was staring at Futrelle.

Hoffman’s voice trembled with rage and something else, something worse: fear. He said, “You tell him, you tell your Crafton, the only price I’ll pay him is bullets. Tell him that.”

Futrelle rose, slowly, holding his hands, palms out. “I’m not with Crafton.”

Now Hoffman jammed the gun into Futrelle’s belly and said, “What, you think you can cut in on his game? Maybe you want to go over the side, yes?”

“No. Mr. Hoffman, I’m not a blackmailer. I’m in the same position you’re in—damnit, I’m Crafton’s prey, too!”

Hoffman thought about that, withdrawing the snout of the gun from Futrelle’s belly, stepping back one step.

In a move so fast it surprised even himself, Futrelle slapped the gun from Hoffman’s hand and it clattered onto the linoleum, thankfully not firing as it landed. Hoffman, startled but furious, threw a punch at Futrelle, but the larger man leaned back and the fist swished by harmlessly.

Then Futrelle—so much bigger than Hoffman—threw a punch into the man’s midsection that doubled him over, sending him stumbling backward, into the berths.

Futrelle retrieved the little revolver. He checked the cylinder: it was fully loaded. Sweating, nervous, Futrelle said, “You’ve gotten on my bad side now, Hoffman. Sit down. Now.”

Hoffman, clutching his stomach, desperately seeking to retain his fine Second-Class meal, sat back down on the lower berth.

“I’m not a blackmailer,” Futrelle said, and he emptied the revolver’s shells onto the linoleum floor, then tossed the empty gun at Hoffman, who he stood looming over. “I’m no friend of John Crafton’s, either. Let me tell you how he threatened me….”

And Futrelle sat down again, on the sofa, and quietly told Hoffman about Crafton’s threat to expose his mental breakdown. Slowly, Hoffman regained his composure and his manner softened.

“I’m sorry,” Hoffman said, and then he began to weep.

More startled by this than when the man had drawn the gun on him, Futrelle found himself rising and settling next to the little man on the lower berth, easing an arm around his shoulder.

Gently, like an understanding parent, Futrelle said, “Tell me, Mr. Hoffman. What is this about? Crafton holds some threat over you and your boys, doesn’t he?”

Hoffman, tears streaming, snuffling, nodded. “Do you have… ?”

“Certainly.” Futrelle withdrew a handkerchief and gave it to the man.

“My… my name isn’t Hoffman. I’m a tailor and yes, I was born in Slovakia, though for the last ten years I’ve lived in France. I married a beautiful young girl from Italy…”

Yet another country heard from.

“… and we had our two beautiful sons. No man ever had a happier life.”

Hearing those words from a man whose