The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,57

our passengers safely on shore, the better.”

“With the extra boilers lit, we may be able to reach New York as early as Tuesday evening,” Captain Smith said, rising, adding, “I’ll see you out, Mr. Futrelle.”

The captain walked with Futrelle down the officers’ promenade, Second Officer Lightoller walking behind, keeping a respectful distance.

Staring out at the gray sea under the gray-blue sky, the captain asked, “Do you think there’s anything we’ve overlooked, sir?”

Futrelle considered that for a few seconds, then admitted, “The only thing that comes to mind… and it’s probably nothing… is the Allison family.”

“The Allisons.” Captain Smith nodded. “I’ve spoken to Hudson Allison; nice fellow. What connection could he have to any of this?”

“You wouldn’t think anything… but I know for a fact Crafton sought the Allisons out, was friendly to them. If you were to ask Hudson and Bess Allison about John Bertram Crafton, they would tell you what a friendly, charming fellow he is. Of course, their nanny was giving him the evil eye….”

Captain Smith stopped dead. “Their nanny? A woman named Alice something?”

“Why, yes…”

Why in God’s name would the captain of a ship the size of the Titanic, carrying thousands of passengers, remember or even ever know the name of one family’s nanny?

The captain turned to Lightoller and asked, “Do you have that note, Mr. Lightoller, that came up from Third Class a day or two ago?”

“I believe I know where it is, sir. We didn’t do a thing about that, though, sir.”

“I know. Fetch it, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lightoller clipped off, toward the wheelhouse, and Futrelle said, “I’m afraid, Captain, you’ve got me thoroughly confused.”

“A note came up from Third Class, I don’t remember the name of the fellow, but the gist of it was that he knew something about the Allisons’ nanny and wanted to know what it was worth.”

“Sounds like you have a blackmailer in steerage, too.”

Captain Smith twitched a frown. “We didn’t follow up on it—it seemed just a crank note, and unclear as to its purpose at that. If the Allisons are satisfied with their nanny, why should the opinion of some lout in steerage be of any interest or concern?”

Lightoller was on his way back, a small piece of paper in hand.

The captain said, “Give that to Mr. Futrelle, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” Lightoller said, and did.

“That will be all, Mr. Lightoller. I’ll see Mr. Futrelle to First Class.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the captain and the mystery writer were alone on the promenade.

“Mr. Futrelle, would you do me the favor of looking into this for me? Mr. Andrews will see that you get down to steerage… and back again, despite Mr. Ismay’s wishes.”

“My pleasure. Does this mean I’m back on the case, Captain?”

A glorious smile appeared in the impeccably trimmed snowy beard. “It’s my last crossing, Mr. Futrelle. What’s Ismay going to do—fire me?”

The captain said he had alerted Mr. Andrews that Futrelle would be stopping by, and the writer made his way to the shipbuilder’s suite on A deck, on the port side of the ship just off the First-Class aft reception area. Along the way Futrelle read the note, written in pencil, in a legible cursive hand and, despite a few misspellings, fairly literate, seeming to speak less of blackmail than Captain Smith had implied:

To the captain

I have notice on your fine shipp Miss Alice Cleaver nurse to young children of man and wife in first class who’s name I don’t know. Details on Miss Cleavers past history is of value to parents.

Untill I hear from you sir I remain your servant

Alfred Davies

Futrelle folded the note and dropped it in his pocket, then knocked on the door of A36. He was just ready to knock again when Andrews appeared, wearing coveralls, a distracted expression and the baggy-eyed look of a man who wasn’t getting enough sleep.

“Good morning, Tom,” Futrelle said. “Are those the required togs for Third Class?”

“Pardon?” Then he looked at himself. “Oh, this boiler suit… no, after I’ve put you and your Mr. Davies together, I have to go down to the stokehold, to speak to the chief engineer.”

Beyond the gentle-faced man with the rugged build in the doorway, a glimpse of the sitting room of A36 showed it had been given over to an office: blueprints were pinned to a drafting table near a desk arrayed with charts rolled up like treasure maps, piles of paper bearing calculations and sketches, and a half-eaten breakfast roll.

As they went down the stairway to C deck, Futrelle said, “You must be the