The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,63

patiently. “It’s an honor. Mr. Stead is a very famous man.”

“Do I have to?”

“It’s a night off, for Lord’s sake,” Hudson said irritably. “Don’t be sullen when you’re being singled out for a treat, girl!”

“If I must.”

Futrelle smiled at the young woman; the battered nose did such a disservice to her otherwise attractive features. The cobalt eyes were striking—and carried more intelligence than her dour manner betrayed.

“Alice,” Futrelle said, “Mr. Stead senses a great sensitivity in you. He would greatly appreciate your presence.”

Tiny Trevor said, “Goo! Gah!”

Lovely little Lorraine was laughing at her brother, letting him snatch the rattle from her.

Their nanny, who had once murdered a child younger than either of them, shrugged. “I’ll come.”

Futrelle had ruled out Hoffman/Navatril. It would have been clumsy, arranging an invitation for the Second-Class passenger, and the mystery writer doubted the man would come, under any circumstances. The doting father would not let out of his sight the children he’d kidnapped, which was one of the several reasons Futrelle did not believe him to be the murderer of Crafton and Rood.

Only one of those he asked refused his invitation to Stead’s séance.

“I want nothing to do with that old charlatan,” Major Archie Butt had said, taking a break between hands in an ongoing high-stakes poker game in the Smoking Room, a fragrant blue cloud of cigar smoke hanging over the table, as if threatening rain. Butt’s friend Millet was playing, as were young Widener and railroad man Hays.

“Hell, Archie,” Futrelle said, “you were hanging on his every word in here the other night.”

The dimpled jaw jutted. “That’s when I knew I’d had enough of him! That mummy balderdash! No, sorry, old man—afraid I have better things to do with my time… such as play cards or get bloody drunk or a sublime combination thereof.”

It was clear the major could not be budged, and, disappointed, Futrelle had moved through the revolving doors into the portside half of the Verandah Café (it was the starboard half of the palm court that had been taken over by children and their nannies). He had just sat at a table in the shade of a palm so close it was tickling his neck when Millet—dapper in a gray suit and blue silk tie—came through the revolving door, looking for him.

The white-haired, distinguished-looking artist pulled up a wicker chair and sat, smiling shyly. “Glad I caught up with you, Jack.”

“Surprised you left the table, Frank. It looked like you were winning.”

Millet smoothed his salt-and-pepper mustache with a thumbnail. “I asked to be dealt out for a few hands. I… wanted a word with you, sir—in private.”

A steward came by and the two men ordered coffee.

“I wanted to explain about Archie’s reluctance to accept your invitation,” Millet said.

“No explanation necessary.”

“Well, he was damn near rude, and… look, there’s something I’ve been wanting to let you know, anyway.”

“I’m listening, Frank.”

The reserved artist drew in a breath, gathered his courage, and said, “The story Archie told you about this fellow, this blackmailer Crafton, that was true, as far it went—Archie indeed has been suffering from nervous exhaustion.”

“Being pulled between two friends as powerful as Taft and Roosevelt has to be an ordeal.”

“It was, and it is… but this Crafton is a scoundrel of the first rank. You need to be cautious around him, Jack—he’s capable of spreading the most scurrilous slander.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I don’t think you are. This is… embarrassing to even bring up.”

“I don’t tell tales out of school, Frank—and the only writing I do these days is fiction.”

Millet nodded, sighed again and, with a tremor in his voice, said, “Well, as you know, Archie and I are close friends—we’re also both lifelong bachelors. This son-of-a-bitch Crafton was threatening to humiliate us, in the most damaging, defamatory manner imaginable… Do I have to be more specific, Jack?”

Looking at this esteemed American artist—a man decorated for bravery under fire in both the Civil War and the Russian-Turkish conflict—Futrelle felt a flush of rage toward the late Crafton.

Through his teeth, Futrelle said, “Crafton was going to try to paint Major Archibald Butt as, what—Oscar Wilde? It’s preposterous.”

Millet avoided Futrelle’s gaze, hanging his head. “All I can say is, Archie puts up a good front, but something as potentially emotional… and revealing… as Mr. Stead’s séance—good fun though it will probably be—would be a trial for him. So I apologize for my friend.”

“Again, none is necessary—but he’s lucky to have as good a friend as you.”

Now Millet met Futrelle’s eyes. His voice was