The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,64
soft, his expression almost bashful. “You haven’t asked me if there’s any truth to his slander.”
“I wouldn’t dignify the accusation with any consideration whatsoever. Besides—it’s none of my damned business, is it?”
Millet just thought about that for a moment; he seemed quietly shocked by Futrelle’s reaction. Then he smiled and nodded, saying, “You’re a good man, Jack.”
Their coffee arrived, and the two sat drinking it, talking of more pleasant subjects, including mutual admiration for each other’s prose (Millet was, in addition to a fine artist, an author of short stories, essays and an eminent translator of Tolstoy, among others). Millet expressed a typical expatriate’s view of his fellow countrymen, or at least countrywomen.
“An inordinate number of obnoxious, ostentatious American women on this voyage, don’t you think, Jack? Have you noticed how many of them carry tiny dogs with them, like living mufflers?”
“I have,” Futrelle admitted. “But it’s their husbands they lead around like pets.”
The two men had a hearty laugh, finished their coffee, shook hands and went their separate ways.
But Futrelle was dismayed by Butt’s refusal to attend, particularly now that he knew the major’s murder motive was the only one that truly rivaled that of the person Futrelle had pegged as the killer.
Only belatedly did it occur to him that Millet had the same motive.
And the artist seemed as unlikely as Butt to accept an invitation to a séance; so Futrelle decided not to bother offering one. The performance the mystery writer was staging was meant for only one person, and if he had misjudged the guilt of that person, the evening ahead would be purely entertainment, just another exotic shipboard trifle to amuse the rich passengers.
Just before nine, the audience of his show—who were also the star players—began to drift in, the men in their evening clothes, brandies and cigars in hand: Guggenheim and Straus, the handsome playboy and the reserved patriarch, an unlikely pairing but joined in business and ethnicity; Astor and his mascot Maggie Brown (in a blue silk beaded dinner gown and a feathered chapeau you could row to shore in), laughing it up together, her raucous presence unloosening the real-estate tycoon into near humanity.
Futrelle and May mingled with the millionaires and Maggie, and it was quickly established that Madame Aubert, Ida Straus and Madeline Astor were attending the evening’s concert.
Before long, Ismay entered, accompanying the lovely brunette actress Dorothy Gibson. Ladies’ men Astor and Guggenheim seemed immediately mesmerized by her oval face and languid eyes and creamy complexion, not to mention the hourglass figure ensconced in gray silk chiffon over dark blue silk, double pearls riding the swell of a bosom well served by a low scooped neckline.
Futrelle approached Ismay and the actress, saying, “Miss Gibson, it was kind of you to consent to join us.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, in her rich, warm contralto. Henry Harris should have no worries over how this moving-picture player would do with a speaking part on Broadway. “When I learned Mr. Ismay was to be a member of our party tonight, I imposed upon him to escort me.”
“Only too happy,” the White Star director said, his smile echoed by the upturned ends of his waxed mustache.
“Mr. Stead should be here any moment,” Futrelle said.
Ismay said, “I hope he’ll give us full instructions; this is my first séance, I’m afraid.”
Miss Gibson, clutching her escort’s arm, said, “I doubt any of us are veterans, Mr. Ismay. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself by screaming or tearing at the drapes.”
“I’ve attended a few sittings,” Futrelle admitted, “as story research. I wouldn’t be overly concerned.”
Maggie Brown, overhearing this, wandered over and said, “I sat with Eusapia Palladino once. She brought my parents back to talk to me.”
“That must have been thrilling,” Miss Gibson said.
“It was all right,” Maggie said. “Kinda made me wonder why they didn’t say somethin’ all those years they was sittin’ in my back parlor, freeloadin’.”
Futrelle’s laughter was partly in response to the irascible Mrs. Brown’s latest outburst, but also to the endearingly unladylike chortling of Miss Gibson.
Not joining in on the fun was Ismay, who had no discernible sense of humor; he was instead glancing around the room at the other guests, as they milled about. “Uh, Jack, a word with you, please? If you’ll excuse me, Miss Gibson…”
Maggie Brown and Miss Gibson fell in together, for a spirited show-business conversation (Maggie had theatrical aspirations), while Ismay buttonholed Futrelle near the bay window.
“I suppose,” Ismay said, “it’s pure coincidence that everyone here was on Mr. Crafton’s