The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,65
‘client’ list?”
“Well, that’s not quite true, Bruce. Dorothy Gibson wasn’t on it, and for that matter, the, uh… torn list you showed me didn’t include Mr. Straus, Mr. Stead or yourself… if you’ll recall.”
Ismay’s frown was so tight it distorted his features. “What is this about? What are you up to?”
Futrelle patted Ismay gently on the back, almost as if comforting a baby. “Don’t be so suspicious, Bruce. Enjoy yourself—of course, many of the names on Crafton’s list are present. He selected only the very best people for his blackmail victims; there’s bound to be some overlap.”
Ismay’s frown lessened but did not leave. “Should I believe you?”
Futrelle gestured to the double doorways that connected to the lounge. “Look, here—here’s our host, and a participant he chose himself….”
And the great man, dressed in a brown tweed suit that may have been pressed once or twice since the century turned, rolled in like a cannon on wheels. On Stead’s arm, looking feminine and almost pretty, like a new schoolmarm out west, was Alice Cleaver—her figure, every bit as hourglass fetching as Miss Gibson’s, was draped in her Sunday best: a dark blue tailored suit with a white shirtwaist and a ruffled skirt. She wore a small fluffy-flowered hat and a timid but not fearful expression.
“Who is that woman?” Ismay whispered. She was obviously not of the same social standing as the Astors, Guggenheims, or for that matter Maggie Brown.
“Her name is Alice Cleaver,” Futrelle said.
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“She works for the Allisons, First-Class passengers—their nanny. Stead noticed her and sensed some psychic vibrations or some such about her.” Futrelle shrugged. “I don’t understand the mumbo jumbo myself.”
Stead was ushering the girl about the room, introducing her to her celebrated séance mates. To their credit, they were all quite gracious to her—of course, her shapely figure hadn’t been lost on either Guggenheim or Astor. But whatever the reason, propriety or lust, they were putting her at ease, and Futrelle was grateful to Stead—who never looked to Futrelle more like Santa Claus in those white whiskers than he did right now—for making the young woman feel welcome.
Futrelle wanted Alice Cleaver relaxed, not skittish, otherwise his experiment would be meaningless.
Now that everyone was present, Futrelle approached Stead, who still had the Cleaver woman on his arm, and asked, “Are you ready to begin, sir?”
“Certainly.” Stead raised his voice, its deep, pleasing resonance filling the chamber; he opened his arms like an effusive preacher welcoming his flock. “Take your seats at the table, if you please!”
May had set place cards as if at a formal dinner, and the guests dutifully took their designated positions; a steward circled the table, gathering brandy glasses, offering an ashtray for cigars, Stead having requested no drinking or smoking during the sitting. Then the steward exited, pulling the double doors shut one at a time behind him, two reverberating thuds, sealing them in, quieting the dull din of conversation.
The large round table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and in the middle sat a hurricane oil lamp with a pale floral shade, already lighted. Set out on the table in front of Stead’s seat was a pad of foolscap with three sharpened pencils. Smiles and nervous laughter tittered about the table, but talk had ceased, the atmosphere not unlike the last moments before a church service got under way.
The rumpled, bewhiskered, professorial journalist-turned-medium was the last to take his place, with Miss Gibson to his right, Ismay next to her, Maggie next to him, then Astor, Alice Cleaver (opposite Stead), Futrelle, Guggenheim and Straus, with an empty chair between Straus and Stead for May, who stood poised at the electric-light switch, awaiting the signal.
“Before we douse all lights but this lamp,” Stead said, his voice calm yet commanding, “I must caution you against your preconceived notions of a séance. This table is unlikely to levitate; you will hear no rappings, no hooting trumpets, nor will you witness the materialization of ectoplasm or floating disembodied hands.”
Respectfully, Straus asked, “What can we expect, sir?”
“Such manifestations as those I mentioned,” Stead continued, in a measured, soothing manner, “are associated with a physical medium. I, ladies and gentleman, am a mental medium; I bring only spoken or written messages, messages from the world beyond the impalpable veil…. Are there any further questions before we begin?”
“You said physical manifestations are ‘unlikely,’ sir,” Futrelle pointed out. “That seems to be leaving a door open.”
“At a séance,” Stead said gently, “many doors may open. You were