The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,77

him?”

His eyes popped in horror. “No! Oh my God, no, sir—she come to me… my quarters is right in First Class, y’know—and she took me to that room and showed me what she’d done. Him all dead in bed…. She was cryin’….”

“Did you know she’d taken the money off that dresser?”

His gaze dropped. “Well… yes, sir, I did, sir… I figured she had it comin’, what hell he put her through.”

“What did you do, William?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just grabbed Alice and used my key to lock the door behind us.”

So much for the locked-door mystery.

Another swallow; then Faulkner looked up, pitifully. “Do we… do we go talk to the captain now, sir?”

“I don’t think so.”

He seemed on the verge of crying. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

“The story you just told me?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Never tell it again.”

The boy’s eyes tightened, then they widened, and his face exploded into a winning smile. “Yes, sir. You’re a hell of a bloke, sir.”

“One other thing…”

“Sir?”

Futrelle pitched his Fatima into the sea; it arched and spit sparks, like a tiny flare. “I’m going back into the Smoking Room. I’ll have a brandy.”

So, nestled into a comfortable armchair, Futrelle sat and smoked a Havana cigar Archie Butt offered him, and sucked the rich smoke into his lungs, and enjoyed the snifter of brandy the attentive young steward brought him. He had nearly nodded off when something jarred him awake—an unexpected jostle that was the first sign since he’d boarded that he was on a ship, not in a hotel. The muffled sound of agitated voices, like distant cannon fire, drifted in from outside.

Wondering idly what that had been, Futrelle rose, stretched, took one last sip of brandy, crushed out the remainder of his cigar in a White Star ashtray. Perhaps he’d go out on the cold deck, before going back to his warm wife in their warm bed, and see what the fuss was about.

He certainly couldn’t have felt more at ease, or frankly more self-satisfied. A pair of damned blackmailers were dead, a mystery or two solved; the young lovers responsible would likely meet a merciful fate at the hands of Captain Smith. All was right with the world, the little city on the big ship safe once again, with naught but the promise of calm seas and smooth sailing ahead.

EPILOGUE

THAT NIGHT REMEMBERED

MY ANONYMOUS PHONE CALLER NEVER contacted me again, and my attempts to contact the various official expeditions to the Titanic’s wreckage on the ocean’s floor, two and a half miles under the Grand Banks, have been fruitless. My letters about murders on the ship, and the possible existence (and discovery) of two canvas-body-bagged corpses in the cold cargo hold, apparently have been viewed much as I originally did my midnight caller: the work of a crank. (My phone calls have resulted in hang-ups, bum’s rushes and being put on hold until a dial tone clicks back in.)

Of course, I have no way of contacting any unofficial expedition—doubtful as the existence of such an effort might be, considering the shortage of deep-diving submersibles like Robert Ballard’s Alvin and IFREMER’s Nautile—and confirming my caller’s story now seems unlikely or even hopeless.

Researching the story told me by May and Jack Futrelle’s daughter, Virginia, that April afternoon in Scituate, has been considerably more successful, as the narrative you’ve just concluded I hope indicates. Virtually everything Mrs. Raymond told me about the murders fit neatly into known history, and answered a number of questions that have baffled researchers (why Captain Smith canceled the Sunday lifeboat drill, for instance, and the seemingly needless rush to port).

Unfortunately, I had only that one long afternoon’s meeting with Mrs. Raymond, who passed away later that same year.

What we do know is: who survived, and who did not, and—despite the tumult of that terrible night—we have at least some idea of the circumstances surrounding those who lost their lives so tragically and, almost invariably, heroically.

For the record, at approximately 11:40 P.M., the Titanic—at a speed approaching twenty-three knots—side-swiped an iceberg, despite the ship’s captain and crew having received numerous warnings of ice in the area. With too few lifeboats aboard and a slowly dawning realization by crew and passengers of the extent of the damage to the ship, a disaster worsened into tragedy. By 2:20 A.M., the Titanic was gone, taking many of her passengers and crew with her, putting more than fifteen hundred people either in or under the icy waters.

Archie Butt and Frank Millet, with several other passengers, aided in