The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,54
Futrelle said, hung up, and rolled out of bed.
May turned over and her eyes slitted open. “What was that?”
Her husband was at the closet, selecting his clothes. “Ismay again. Probably wanting to know how my inquiries went yesterday.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
Climbing into his pants, he said, “Only what I see fit. I’m not getting Hoffman or Navatril or whatever-his-name-is into hot water. It’s not my place.”
She smiled sleepily at him. “You have a soft heart, Jack. That’s one of the few hundred reasons why I love you… What time is it, anyway?”
Slipping into his shirt, he walked over and checked the nightstand clock, an ornate gold item that would have been at home on a palace mantel. “After nine… I guess we slept in.”
She sat up, covers in her lap, her breasts perky under the nightgown. “Shall I get dressed? Shall we have breakfast when you get back, in the Dining Saloon? Or call room service again?”
Futrelle, otherwise clothed, was sitting on a chair, tying his shoes. “Why don’t you call room service, darling. Then we can talk frankly, about whatever it is Ismay and Smith want me for.”
Waiting at the forward end of the First-Class promenade on the boat deck, at the accordion gate, was crisply uniformed Second Officer Lightoller, a tall man (though not as tall as Futrelle) with dark close-set eyes, pointed features and a jutting jaw.
“Mr. Futrelle?” The voice was deep, resonant.
“Officer Lightoller, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”
Futrelle stepped through, and Lightoller closed and locked the folding gate behind them: a near slam followed by the click of the key in the lock; there was something ominous about it. Then the businesslike Lightoller led Futrelle down the officers’ promenade to a door marked CAPTAIN—PRIVATE, which in military terms seemed a contradiction, and the second officer knocked.
Smith himself answered, in his navy-blue uniform today, graced with the usual ribbons; but he was not wearing his hat, and the lack of it was somehow disturbing. So were the eyes in the comfortingly stern white-bearded visage: they seemed cloudy, troubled.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Futrelle,” Smith said, the soothingly soft voice touched with, what? Melancholy? Distress?
The captain motioned Futrelle in, instructing Lightoller to wait outside the door.
These quarters, with their white-painted walls and oak wainscoting, harbored the no-nonsense, spartan style characteristic of a naval man, leaving luxury to the First-Class passengers; maple and oak Colonial furnishings gave the spacious sitting room a New England air, as did the handful of modestly framed nautical prints. This sitting room was also a sort of office, as in one corner, by a porthole, sat a heavy Chippendale desk with many compartments, and a brass captain’s-wheel lamp atop it. A doorway stood half-open for a glimpse into the bedroom.
In the midst of the room, Ismay was seated at a round table—a captain’s table—and there it was, the captain’s hat, crown down, like a centerpiece bowl awaiting flowers or fruit.
The White Star director—in an undertaker’s black suit and tie—was pale as milk, if the milk had gone as sour as his expression, anyway; dark pouches lingered under bloodshot eyes and even his mustache seemed wilted.
Captain Smith gestured to a chair at the round table and Futrelle sat, and so did he.
“Would you be so kind,” Ismay said, and despite his cadaverous appearance, there was nothing rude or anxious in his voice, “to provide an informal report as to the results of your ad hoc investigation, yesterday, Mr. Futrelle?”
Futrelle glanced sharply at Captain Smith, who said, almost sheepishly, “It became necessary to acquaint Mr. Ismay with our arrangement.”
After a sigh and shrug, Futrelle said, “Well, as you both can guess, I had to be indirect in my questioning, and in my approach. Most of our suspects, if indeed that’s what they are, are distinguished, notable individuals. If you are expecting a detailed list of alibis and denials of guilt, I have none.”
“What did you learn?” Ismay asked politely. “What did you observe?”
“What,” the captain added, “are your suspicions?”
“I spoke with Mr. Straus, Mr. Astor, Mr. Guggenheim, Mr. Rood, Mr. Stead, even Mrs. Brown. And I’d spoken frankly about Crafton with Major Butt prior to the blackmailer’s death. I also spoke with Mr. Hoffman. By being frank with them about the nature of how Crafton intended to blackmail me, all but one of them was equally frank with me. Now, my friends, I see no reason to share with you what these reasons are; suffice to say, that while every one of