The Titanic Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,67

me, which I will share with you. She says, ‘Let me say to my dear friend and helper, who goes forth across the sea, rest assured that you will be left in no uncertainty when comes the clarion call. All questions soon will be answered.’”

Futrelle, like any good producer, was getting irritated with Stead, to whom he attempted to send the following psychic message: Stick to the script, you old goat!

Then the quiet room was again loud with the ticking clock, the thrum of engines, the rattle of the glass dome, the distant movement of people elsewhere on the ship….

Just when Futrelle thought he would scream not from fright but boredom, Stead said, in his own voice, “I sense a spirit in this room.”

Darkness and ambience had begun playing sly tricks; their own faces in the campfirelike glimmer of the lamplight seemed to float about the table.

“A child… a very young child,” Stead said quietly. “So young he has not learned to speak…”

Alice Cleaver’s hand gripped Futrelle’s even tighter. With his head lowered, but his gaze secretly shifted her way, Futrelle could see her, staring at Stead, the blunt-nosed mask of her face frozen with fear, the cobalt eyes wide and staring and glittering in the hurricane’s yellow glow.

“… but I sense forgiveness… absolution… this baby, like the baby Jesus, embodies forgiveness…”

The grip loosened, just a bit; and Alice Cleaver’s lower lip trembled, her eyes brimming with tears.

“… though he died by violence, the baby boy is at peace, and he loves his mother….”

Tears trickled down the homely face, glistening in the lamplight.

But another woman at the table was reacting, too: the woman next to Stead, Dorothy Gibson—her eyes closed tight, her head weaving as if loose on her neck—was in a trancelike state, trembling, a trembling that ascended to tremors, as if the young woman were a volcano intent on erupting.

All eyes in the darkened room were on the beautiful face in the yellowish luster of the lamp, a beautiful face that began to contort as if in excruciating pain.

Then, in a deep, male voice, Dorothy Gibson spewed the words: “I forgive no one!”

Stead, still holding on to the convulsing girl’s hand, asked gently, “Who are you, spirit? Why are you troubled?”

Miss Gibson shivered, as if fighting the spirit within her, then the male voice said, “My name is John.”

Alice Cleaver blinked away the tears; she, too, was trembling, but the tears had halted, and her eyes were wide and wild with fright.

Patiently Stead asked, “What is your last name, John?”

The deep male voice erupted from the girl: “Crafton!”

Astor said, confused, “Crafton isn’t dead!”

Maggie said, “Yeah? When’d you see him last?”

“That’s just wishful thinking,” Guggenheim said, but he didn’t sound so sure.

“Quiet,” Straus said, fascinated by the bizarre tableau.

Ismay’s eyes were narrowing in mistrust; then he glared across the table at the mystery writer. “Futrelle…”

And Alice Cleaver’s grip on Futrelle’s hand was evincing the strength he’d suspected she had….

“I can’t breathe!” the male voice screamed, and everyone at the table jumped in their seats, as Dorothy Gibson’s face reddened, the pretty features twisting into a mask of anguish. The deep voice flowed out of her: “Stop! Please stop…. Can’t breathe! I can’t breathe… you… are… killing… me!”

Alice Cleaver screamed.

Releasing Futrelle’s hand as if it were a stove’s hot burner she’d touched, the young woman sprang to her feet and ran into the darkness.

“Please keep your seats,” Stead said gently, just loud enough to rise over the murmured confusion of his guests. “May—the lights… this sitting is over.”

Ismay was rising, but Stead stood and reached across the exhausted Miss Gibson and clutched Ismay’s arm. “Be seated, sir! Do not follow them… I beseech all of you.”

In the meantime, Futrelle had pursued the young woman into the darkness, her sobbing leading the way; even in the dark, Futrelle had enough sense of his bearings to know she wasn’t heading for the double doors into the lounge, but to the side door, the corridor door.

Then a momentary slash of light cutting through the blackness—as that door opened and closed—confirmed his suspicion.

The nanny was running down the corridor, forward of the Reading and Writing Room, and Futrelle was after her, following her into the reception area—empty of passengers, not even a steward in sight—as the Grand Staircase yawned before them. His glasses had fallen off his face, and her hat had tumbled to the floor, like a big bread crumb marking her path.

She all but flew up the stairs, her ruffled skirt rustling,