The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,73
said nothing, at first. Then a smile appeared under the trim mustache and he swallowed, rather thickly, and said, “Jack, you’ve given this old soldier a new lease on life.”
“I’m sure May would like an invitation to the White House.”
Archie laughed, and the laughter carried to his eyes, where a veil had been lifted. “I’ll pull some strings.”
Luncheon was the usual feast, a buffet beyond imagination, and Futrelle took the opportunity to whisper into regular tablemate Isidor Straus’s ear the same information he’d shared with Archie Butt. Straus merely smiled and nodded.
Early afternoon, a cold snap made a ghost town of the open decks. Even in the open promenades, passengers who’d taken to deck chairs were bundled up, often warming themselves with cups of beef broth, courtesy of the ever-attentive stewards. In the public rooms and cafés of the great ship, passengers took to letter writing, cardplaying, reading, and conversation.
Throughout the long, lazy afternoon, Futrelle gradually talked to the other Crafton “clients,” passing along the same gratefully received information about the blackmailer and his documents, gently refusing any details or explanations regarding the séance of the evening before.
His remark to Ben Guggenheim was typical: “For the rest of your life, you can brag about sitting at a séance on the Titanic, with none other than W. T. Stead as the medium. Isn’t that enough? Must you also understand what it was about?”
Guggenheim—who’d been walking the enclosed promenade with the lovely Madame Aubert, when the Futrelles came upon them—accepted Futrelle’s terms, gladly.
“My only condition,” Guggenheim said, “is that Crafton remain dead.”
Only Maggie Brown, having a light dessert in the Parisien café, gave the writer a hard time.
“You can’t tell me that séance wasn’t a put-up job!” she said. “You coached that little Gibson girl! You wrote her damned lines, didn’t you, Mr. Thinkin’ Machine?”
“You’re right…”
“I knew it!”
“… I can’t tell you that.”
“Jack, nobody likes a wiseacre!” But she was grinning at the time.
Futrelle found Alice Cleaver, as usual, in the Verandah Café, watching golden-haired Lorraine playing with a top that was mesmerizing baby Trevor.
The nanny sat so somberly, her black livery might have been mourning clothes. Then she noticed him approaching, and smiled nervously as Futrelle took the chair at the wicker table next to her.
Almost whispering, Futrelle said, “I’ve spoken to the captain. I believe your chances are good.”
“Oh, sir…”
“No tears. No scene. And no guarantees—we’ll know tomorrow, sometime. Until then—everything as usual, my dear.”
The beautiful eyes in the blunt-nosed face welled with tears. “Mr. Futrelle… I owe you everything.”
He patted her hand. “You owe me your best efforts toward making a better life for yourself.”
The writer and the nanny sat quietly and watched the two lovely Allison children capering. They were served tea and scones by the good-looking young steward who, days before, had been exchanging winsome glances with the broken-nosed beauty. He had a small bruise on his jaw—maybe she’d slapped him for his freshness, the shipboard romance foundering on the rocks. At any rate, the towheaded boy remained businesslike, and Alice didn’t bother acknowledging his existence.
Suddenly the nanny blurted, “Mr. Futrelle, do you think God will ever grant me another child of my own?”
“I don’t know, Alice. Do you want Him to?”
She was pondering that as Futrelle took his leave.
Once Futrelle had made the rounds of the Crafton clients, he and May retreated to their stateroom, where fully dressed they flopped onto the bed to read their respective novels—May, The Virginian, her husband, Futility. Futrelle had a shorter book to finish, and drifted off into a nap; May, the Western saga finally completed, slammed the covers shut and woke him, on purpose.
“For having nothing to do,” she said, “the days certainly go by quickly.”
“Nothing to do?” he muttered sleepily. “I only solved two murders.”
“I thought we solved them.”
“You’re right. That was ungracious. We.”
“I’m starting to think of this suite as home.”
“Dangerous thinking—this is nicer than home.”
She laughed a little. “Oh, Jack, this has been a wonderful second honeymoon… exciting… romantic…”
“Especially romantic,” he said, and he kissed her.
They were still kissing when the nightstand telephone rang; it was Henry Harris, wanting them to join him and René for some cards before supper.
“How ’bout we meet on the Grand Staircase balcony?” Henry suggested. “Half an hour?”
“All right. But make it an hour… we’ll need to dress for dinner.”
“It takes you an hour to dress for dinner?”
“Not me. You know how women are.”
Then he hung up and went back to what he and May had been doing.
Dorothy Gibson joined the