The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,74
two couples for poker on the balcony; dressed in their evening clothes and looking like a million dollars, they played penny-ante stakes and had a wonderful time. And it gave Futrelle the opportunity to thank the young actress.
“You were superb last night,” Futrelle told her, shuffling the cards.
May pretended to misunderstand and said, “Would you care to explain that remark?”
There was general laughter, and Dorothy said, “I was afraid I was overdoing the deep ‘man’s voice.’”
“No, it was splendid,” Futrelle said, dealing. “Henry, I think you may have your next Broadway star on your hands.”
“Henry B. will kindly keep his hands to himself,” René said.
Miss Gibson was embarrassed by that, but everyone else laughed.
Henry said, picking up his cards, “Why don’t you write a movin’-picture script for Dorothy, Jack?”
“Henry B.,” René said, “quit hounding the man. Jack, why don’t you?”
The bugler announced dinner.
“There’s nothing to do on these damned ships but eat,” René said. “So—shall we?”
Everyone agreed with her on both counts, but as they were going down the stairs, René’s high heel caught her dress and she went tumbling down half a flight of stairs. Futrelle’s first thought was that Crafton’s ghost had tried to shove him and caught René instead.
Everyone rushed to her side, and found her laughing and crying and swearing, all at once.
“First critical thing I’ve said about this ship,” she said, “and the damned thing decides to break my arm.”
Her arm indeed was broken, her self-diagnosis confirmed by Dr. O’Loughlin, and a Dr. Frauenthal—a joint specialist who was traveling First Class—agreed to set it in plaster. Dorothy Gibson went off to join her mother in the First-Class Dining Saloon, but the rest of the group decided to wait to eat until René could join them, agreeing to meet for a late dinner in the à la carte restaurant, the so-called Ritz.
Just before nine P.M., the Futrelles were the first to take their seats at the table in the luxurious restaurant, which—with its Louis Seize decor, from its floral-pattern plaster ceiling to the gilded, finely figured French walnut paneling, from its crystal chandeliers to the rose-hued Axminster carpet—might have been the dining room of some fine hotel in Paris.
The passengers dining at the spacious Ritz were dressed to the nines, as traditionally the second-to-last night out was the final opportunity to dress up (last night out was for packing and formal dining attire was set aside). The men in their white tie and tails, the women in the latest Parisian gowns, pale satins and clingy gauze, arrayed in glittering jewelry, were in high spirits, the air ringing with giddy laughter and wafting with the sweet aroma of flowers.
“You know, Jack,” May said, admiring the vase of American Beauty roses that was their table’s centerpiece, “something has been troubling me.”
None of the rich, fashionable women around them had anything over May: she was ravishing in her gold silk-satin gown, its short sleeves decorated with strands of glass beads, her hair up and adorned with bird-of-paradise plumes.
His wife’s beauty made him light-headed; or was it the wine he was sipping? “What, darling?”
“It’s about the Cleaver girl.”
Futrelle smirked. “Whatever could you find troubling about a nice girl like Alice?”
“That fellow—Rood? He was a big man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, well, tall, anyway. Not heavyset.”
“But, still… how could she have lifted him into that lifeboat?”
“She’s got considerable strength, dear.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Here are the Harrises.”
René was making a rather dramatic entrance, in a short-sleeved gown showing off her new cast, Henry following dutifully after. Word of her accident had traveled around the ship, and the passengers in the restaurant applauded her.
As Henry pulled out a chair for his wife, Futrelle said, “I thought the show-business expression was ‘break a leg’?”
“I believe in setting trends,” she said, though she was obviously suffering.
A private party in honor of Captain Smith’s approaching retirement was under way, and both the captain and Tom Andrews stopped by to compliment René on her “spirit” and “spunk,” respectively.
Futrelle chatted briefly with Andrews, who looked surprisingly fresh.
“Tom, what’s wrong?” Futrelle asked. “You actually look like you’ve had some sleep!”
Andrews grinned, leaning a hand on the writer’s chair. “Well, it’s just that I’ve finally caught up with all the problems on this little rowboat. I believe she’s as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.”
“Judging by the human brains I’ve encountered,” Futrelle kidded him, “that’s not much of a testimonial.”
Andrews laughed at that, graciously, and went back to the party honoring his captain.
The dinner was eight amazing courses, trundled over by the