The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,70
Alice. To see you spend a day in jail for removing a cancer on society like Crafton or Rood, I simply cannot countenance.”
She beamed at him, happiness seeming out of place on the battered face. “Oh, sir… what do you want from me?”
“Nothing!” Futrelle backed away, held his palms out. “Not a thing! Not your money, not your favors…”
She frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand. From where you sit, sir, I must be a murderess and a thief.”
“I see only a blackmailer’s victim, who fought back. If I’m successful in shielding you, I only want one thing, one promise…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Upon arriving in Canada, you will leave the Allisons’ employ, immediately… and use that bankroll of Crafton’s to begin a new life, with a new name.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And find some profession other than nanny. I don’t want you around children… understood?”
“Sir, oh sir… you are my judge, my kind and generous judge…”
“Do you promise?”
Tears were welling in those pretty eyes again. “I promise, sir.”
“Then let’s get down off this deck,” he said, “before we catch our death.”
DAY FIVE
APRIL 14, 1912
ELEVEN
SMOOTH SAILING
THE WIND CAME FROM THE southwest, moderate but with a bite in it. The Futrelles were on the boat deck walking off an enormous First-Class Dining Saloon breakfast (Jack had perhaps ill advisedly taken two servings of the grilled mutton chops and bacon). The couple could not have found the clear, cool morning more delightful: to the horizon stretched a smooth shimmer of blue-gray sea under a faded blue sky blessed only with fluffy white unthreatening clouds.
“I hope I did the right thing,” Futrelle said, his breath pluming. He was in his topcoat.
May, wrapped up in her black beaver coat, was holding on to her husband’s right arm with both of hers. “I know you did, darling. And even if you didn’t—you erred on the side of compassion… and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Well, it remains to be seen if the captain will go along with my suggestions.”
“Surely he will,” she said.
And as they walked, they caught a glimpse of the man himself, Captain Smith undertaking his full inspection of the ship, that sacrosanct ritual of all passenger ships at sea. In his white uniform with its medals and gold-ribboned cuffs, the captain led a parade of his department heads—chief officer, chief engineer, chief steward, the purser, even old Dr. O’Loughlin, all in dress uniform. From boat deck to boiler room, bow to stern, every accessible nook and cranny was to be inspected.
What Futrelle knew, that no one else did, was that the inspection team was running half an hour late; the captain would have to shake a leg to finish before the church service at eleven A.M. that he was set to lead.
The captain’s usual meeting of department heads, at ten A.M., had been canceled so that the captain could attend a meeting with Futrelle and Ismay, which the latter had called.
“I’ve informed Captain Smith of the doings in the Reading and Writing Room last night,” Ismay said, the irritated contortions of his mouth making his mustache do a funny little dance.
The three men were again seated at the round table in the parlor of Captain Smith’s suite near the wheelhouse. A steward, who had long since disappeared, had served coffee and tea—Futrelle took the former, and was stirring cream and sugar in—while Ismay and the captain had taken the latter, though neither had touched theirs.
“Really?” Futrelle said with a facial shrug. “It was just an evening’s entertainment.”
“I don’t think so,” Ismay said.
The captain said, “From what Mr. Ismay tells me, I gather you may have flushed out our murderer.”
And here Futrelle and the captain shared a secret: Smith had been aware of Futrelle’s scheme and had agreed to it, arranging the use of the Reading and Writing Room for the séance. But Ismay wasn’t aware of that, and Futrelle was happy to cover for the captain.
Who was saying, “Yet Mr. Ismay says you refused to confirm your discovery, last night, when he confronted you, afterward.”
“That’s right.”
The captain frowned. “You mean you did flush out the killer?”
“I mean, that’s right, I did refuse to confirm Bruce’s suspicions.”
Ismay slapped the table and cups of coffee and tea jumped, spilling a little. “If we do have a murderer on this ship, we must act, and act at once!”
Futrelle sipped his coffee and smiled above the rim of the china cup. “Why? Because now that Astor, Guggenheim and the other nobs are in the clear—and it’s just a servant girl in question—this won’t be