The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,72

we begin our inspection immediately, we’ll be seriously late for church services.”

Rather dismissively, Smith said, “Well, then, cancel the boat drill.”

“Sir?”

“It’s just a formality, after all; we’ve got a calm Sabbath day at sea for our passengers, and we won’t interrupt it.”

Lightoller didn’t seem to like the sound of this order, but he said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.

Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Futrelle, I appreciate the manner in which you’ve aided us in this unfortunate matter. Mr. Ismay and I will take your suggestions under advisement.”

Futrelle rose. “I would appreciate it if you’d inform me of your decision. We should, as they say, get our stories straight.”

“We have another full day of travel,” the captain said. “Mr. Ismay and I will discuss this further, and you’ll have our decision tomorrow, by mid-afternoon.”

“I hope at the very least you follow my advice to burn those blackmail documents—including that torn list found in Crafton’s cabin.”

Ismay and Smith exchanged glances, then the captain said, “I believe you may be assured of that, sir.”

Futrelle sighed heavily. “I admit I’m relieved—not for myself; the documents aren’t so damning in my case. But you’ll do a great service to a number of people undeserving of such aspersions.”

Ismay stepped forward. “Mr. Futrelle… I apologize if I seemed rude. This has been an unusual situation, to say the least, and we do appreciate your generous counsel.”

“Do I assume correctly that you’ve changed your mind about commissioning me to write a murder mystery on the Titanic?”

“That is a fair assumption, sir,” Ismay said wearily.

And the White Star director offered his hand, which Futrelle shook; then the mystery writer and the captain shook hands, and the meeting was over.

With the boat drill canceled, church began on time—eleven A.M.—and though there were several pastors aboard, Captain Smith himself conducted the nondenominational Christian service himself. Held in the First-Class Dining Saloon, it marked the only occasion when Second- and Third-Class passengers were allowed into the First-Class area.

This rare instance of Titanic democracy meant that, present in the same room at the same time, were the Astors, Maggie Brown, Dorothy Gibson, Ismay, the Allisons with their children and nanny Alice, “Louis Hoffman” and his two cute boys and even the smelting-works lad, Alfred Davies.

And, of course, the Futrelles.

Captain Smith made a fine fill-in pastor, reading psalms and prayers, including “The Prayer for Those at Sea,” leading hymns accompanied by Wallace Hartley’s little orchestra.

Afterward, Futrelle—moving quickly to the rear where the Second and Third Class had been seated—managed to talk briefly to both Hoffman/Navatril, and Davies, filing out.

To the former he whispered, “You are in no danger of discovery if you do as I suggested previously, and on leaving this ship, promptly disappear.”

Hoffman gratefully clutched Futrelle’s arm and whispered, “God bless you, sir.”

“Good luck to you—and your boys.”

To Davies, Futrelle merely said, “I’ve passed your information along.”

The strapping lad seemed concerned. “I seen her sittin’ up front. She’s still with them kids, sir.”

“Only until crossing’s end. All is well.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “See you in the promised land, Fred.”

Davies grinned his crooked yellow grin, which suddenly seemed almost beautiful to Futrelle. “See you in the promised land, sir.”

The tranquillity, the reflection, of Sunday-morning service was already dissolving in the clatter of dishes and silverware and the scraping of chairs and tables, as stewards rushed to set the room up for luncheon at one. The noon siren prompted Futrelle to temporarily abandon May—who was on her way back to their suite—so that he could hie to the Smoking Room, to see how he made out in today’s pool.

The figures for yesterday’s run—though Futrelle came up a loser—were impressive: 546 miles.

A familiar voice behind him said, “Twenty-two and a half knots—impressive for a vessel this size.”

Futrelle smiled at his friend Archie Butt, one of many in the crowd of men checking out the bulletin board. “Are you a winner, Archie?”

“Hell no. But I hear the engines are turning three revolutions faster today… you may wish to figure that into your bet for tomorrow’s pool.”

For all his joviality, this military man—who, with his jutting, dimpled jaw and erect carriage might have walked off a recruiting poster—had the saddest eyes Futrelle had ever seen.

“Archie—a private word?”

“Certainly.”

And, taking the major to one side, Futrelle told him that Crafton was dead, and that his blackmail documents were to be destroyed. He also told his friend that he could give him no details, and he must not repeat this to anyone, except Frank Millet.

Major Butt