The Titanic Murders

DAY FIVE


APRIL 14, 1912





ELEVEN


SMOOTH SAILING





THE WIND CAME FROM THE southwest, moderate but with a bite in it. The Futrelles were on the boat deck walking off an enormous First-Class Dining Saloon breakfast (Jack had perhaps ill advisedly taken two servings of the grilled mutton chops and bacon). The couple could not have found the clear, cool morning more delightful: to the horizon stretched a smooth shimmer of blue-gray sea under a faded blue sky blessed only with fluffy white unthreatening clouds.

“I hope I did the right thing,” Futrelle said, his breath pluming. He was in his topcoat.

May, wrapped up in her black beaver coat, was holding on to her husband’s right arm with both of hers. “I know you did, darling. And even if you didn’t—you erred on the side of compassion… and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, it remains to be seen if the captain will go along with my suggestions.”

“Surely he will,” she said.

And as they walked, they caught a glimpse of the man himself, Captain Smith undertaking his full inspection of the ship, that sacrosanct ritual of all passenger ships at sea. In his white uniform with its medals and gold-ribboned cuffs, the captain led a parade of his department heads—chief officer, chief engineer, chief steward, the purser, even old Dr. O’Loughlin, all in dress uniform. From boat deck to boiler room, bow to stern, every accessible nook and cranny was to be inspected.

What Futrelle knew, that no one else did, was that the inspection team was running half an hour late; the captain would have to shake a leg to finish before the church service at eleven A.M. that he was set to lead.

The captain’s usual meeting of department heads, at ten A.M., had been canceled so that the captain could attend a meeting with Futrelle and Ismay, which the latter had called.

“I’ve informed Captain Smith of the doings in the Reading and Writing Room last night,” Ismay said, the irritated contortions of his mouth making his mustache do a funny little dance.

The three men were again seated at the round table in the parlor of Captain Smith’s suite near the wheelhouse. A steward, who had long since disappeared, had served coffee and tea—Futrelle took the former, and was stirring cream and sugar in—while Ismay and the captain had taken the latter, though neither had touched theirs.

“Really?” Futrelle said with a facial shrug. “It was just an evening’s entertainment.”

“I don’t think so,” Ismay said.

The captain said, “From what Mr. Ismay tells me, I gather you may have flushed out our murderer.”

And here Futrelle and the captain shared a secret: Smith had been aware of Futrelle’s scheme and had agreed to it, arranging the use of the Reading and Writing Room for the séance. But Ismay wasn’t aware of that, and Futrelle was happy to cover for the captain.

Who was saying, “Yet Mr. Ismay says you refused to confirm your discovery, last night, when he confronted you, afterward.”

“That’s right.”

The captain frowned. “You mean you did flush out the killer?”

“I mean, that’s right, I did refuse to confirm Bruce’s suspicions.”

Ismay slapped the table and cups of coffee and tea jumped, spilling a little. “If we do have a murderer on this ship, we must act, and act at once!”

Futrelle sipped his coffee and smiled above the rim of the china cup. “Why? Because now that Astor, Guggenheim and the other nobs are in the clear—and it’s just a servant girl in question—this won’t be so embarrassing?”

Ismay scowled, folding his arms in disgust. “I won’t stand for your insults, Futrelle.”

“Well, then,” Futrelle said, setting down the cup, starting to rise, “why don’t I just leave and go on about my business?”

“Sir,” the captain said, reaching out to touch Futrelle’s arm. “Please. Sit down, sir. Let’s dispense with personalities and concentrate on facts.”

“All right.” Futrelle sighed, shrugged, sat back down. “The fact is, if there’s been any murder on this ship—even if the culprit isn’t part of the Smart Set—it’s going to blacken your great ship’s maiden voyage, Bruce… and your final crossing, Captain.”

“Be that as it may,” the captain sighed, “we have two murders, and there’s no sweeping them under the carpet.”

Futrelle leaned forward, dropping his casual, offhand tone, suddenly forceful. “This girl, Alice Cleaver, acted in self-defense. Crafton tried to rape her…”

“What?” Ismay cried, eyes widening.

“… and, later his partner Rood began to manhandle her in a similar fashion.”

Furrows carved into the captain’s brow. “Details, man,” he said.

Futrelle provided them, leaving out only that Alice Cleaver had helped herself to the cash on Crafton’s dresser, some of which may have been payoff money Ismay gave the blackmailer, Futrelle surmised.

“I sympathize with this woman,” Ismay said, and his concern seemed genuine enough. “But it’s not our place to judge. In any case, with these mitigating circumstances, she’ll probably get off.”

“I don’t think so,” Futrelle said. “Not with her past. Can you imagine the sensationalist press having at this? ‘Baby Killer Kills Again—on the Titanic!’ There’s some nice publicity for you.”

“Good Lord, man,” Ismay said, “there are children entrusted to her care, even as we speak!”

“She’s pledged to leave the Allisons’ service, upon reaching port.”

“Mr. Futrelle—why do you want to see this woman go free?” the captain asked.

“Because it’s the Christian thing to do. I realize this is a British vessel, but we’re in the middle of the North Atlantic, gentlemen. We’re a jurisdiction unto ourselves, out here. Let’s serve justice, not serve this girl up to corrupt New York coppers and hungry yellow journalists. Let’s give this unfortunate girl the opportunity my country gives anyone: a second chance.”

“I don’t see how we can,” Ismay said, obviously wishing he could, wringing his hands. His bleak expression indicated he’d begun to gather the extent of the devastatingly bad press guaranteed his ship if this came out.

“Whatever you decide,” Futrelle said, “I’m going to advise that you destroy that packet of blackmail documents.”

Ismay laughed once, without humor. “Damn it all, man! Earlier you were adamant that they not be destroyed.”

“Earlier I thought they’d be needed as evidence.”

“They are evidence,” the captain reminded both men.

“Precisely,” Futrelle said. “And into the hands of the police, those New York police I mentioned earlier, you will have placed defamatory material on the cream of your First-Class passengers. Have you read this material, gentlemen?”

Ismay avoided Futrelle’s gaze. “We, uh… glanced at the distaseful tripe.”

Captain Smith said, “We didn’t dignify the bilge with a close examination.”

“Well, if you had, you’d know that, at the very least, some of those involved will be embarrassed… others, like Major Butt, a fine man, would be ruined.”

Captain Smith reared back; his eyebrows were climbing his forehead. “Sir—would you have us sweep this entire affair under the carpet?”

“Why don’t you dump it to the bottom of the sea?”

Ismay was amazed. “Including the two corpses in our cold-storage hold?”

Futrelle nodded. “Exactly what I’d suggest.”

Captain Smith said, “Sir, you were the one who warned that these men, however vile, had associates, families….”

“Mr. Crafton died of a heart attack, in his sleep—natural causes. Mr. Rood, apparently despondent over his friend’s death, drank rather too much and took a spill on deck, taking a fatal fall. Dr. O’Loughlin fills out the reports, you bury the bodies at sea, and… if you can trust the handful of crew who know about this unfortunate situation… sit back and wait to see if the White Star Line gets sued by any family members for negligence. If they do, settling with them will be a small price to pay for the large embarrassment you avoid.”

Ismay’s expression—a mixture of confusion and irritation, mixed with dismay—melted into blankness; but his eyes were moving with the rapidity of his thoughts.

Captain Smith wore the faintest frown and his eyes moved not at all—unblinkingly so—but it was clear he too was considering Futrelle’s suggestions and the various ramifications.

A knock at the door prompted the captain to say, “Come!”

Second Officer Lightoller stuck his head in. “Sir, my apologies for interrupting, but even if we begin our inspection immediately, we’ll be seriously late for church services.”

Rather dismissively, Smith said, “Well, then, cancel the boat drill.”

“Sir?”

“It’s just a formality, after all; we’ve got a calm Sabbath day at sea for our passengers, and we won’t interrupt it.”

Lightoller didn’t seem to like the sound of this order, but he said, “Yes, sir,” and disappeared.

Captain Smith stood. “Mr. Futrelle, I appreciate the manner in which you’ve aided us in this unfortunate matter. Mr. Ismay and I will take your suggestions under advisement.”

Futrelle rose. “I would appreciate it if you’d inform me of your decision. We should, as they say, get our stories straight.”

“We have another full day of travel,” the captain said. “Mr. Ismay and I will discuss this further, and you’ll have our decision tomorrow, by mid-afternoon.”

“I hope at the very least you follow my advice to burn those blackmail documents—including that torn list found in Crafton’s cabin.”

Ismay and Smith exchanged glances, then the captain said, “I believe you may be assured of that, sir.”

Futrelle sighed heavily. “I admit I’m relieved—not for myself; the documents aren’t so damning in my case. But you’ll do a great service to a number of people undeserving of such aspersions.”

Ismay stepped forward. “Mr. Futrelle… I apologize if I seemed rude. This has been an unusual situation, to say the least, and we do appreciate your generous counsel.”

“Do I assume correctly that you’ve changed your mind about commissioning me to write a murder mystery on the Titanic?”

“That is a fair assumption, sir,” Ismay said wearily.

And the White Star director offered his hand, which Futrelle shook; then the mystery writer and the captain shook hands, and the meeting was over.

With the boat drill canceled, church began on time—eleven A.M.—and though there were several pastors aboard, Captain Smith himself conducted the nondenominational Christian service himself. Held in the First-Class Dining Saloon, it marked the only occasion when Second- and Third-Class passengers were allowed into the First-Class area.

This rare instance of Titanic democracy meant that, present in the same room at the same time, were the Astors, Maggie Brown, Dorothy Gibson, Ismay, the Allisons with their children and nanny Alice, “Louis Hoffman” and his two cute boys and even the smelting-works lad, Alfred Davies.

And, of course, the Futrelles.

Captain Smith made a fine fill-in pastor, reading psalms and prayers, including “The Prayer for Those at Sea,” leading hymns accompanied by Wallace Hartley’s little orchestra.

Afterward, Futrelle—moving quickly to the rear where the Second and Third Class had been seated—managed to talk briefly to both Hoffman/Navatril, and Davies, filing out.

To the former he whispered, “You are in no danger of discovery if you do as I suggested previously, and on leaving this ship, promptly disappear.”

Hoffman gratefully clutched Futrelle’s arm and whispered, “God bless you, sir.”

“Good luck to you—and your boys.”

To Davies, Futrelle merely said, “I’ve passed your information along.”

The strapping lad seemed concerned. “I seen her sittin’ up front. She’s still with them kids, sir.”

“Only until crossing’s end. All is well.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “See you in the promised land, Fred.”

Davies grinned his crooked yellow grin, which suddenly seemed almost beautiful to Futrelle. “See you in the promised land, sir.”

The tranquillity, the reflection, of Sunday-morning service was already dissolving in the clatter of dishes and silverware and the scraping of chairs and tables, as stewards rushed to set the room up for luncheon at one. The noon siren prompted Futrelle to temporarily abandon May—who was on her way back to their suite—so that he could hie to the Smoking Room, to see how he made out in today’s pool.

The figures for yesterday’s run—though Futrelle came up a loser—were impressive: 546 miles.

A familiar voice behind him said, “Twenty-two and a half knots—impressive for a vessel this size.”

Futrelle smiled at his friend Archie Butt, one of many in the crowd of men checking out the bulletin board. “Are you a winner, Archie?”

“Hell no. But I hear the engines are turning three revolutions faster today… you may wish to figure that into your bet for tomorrow’s pool.”

For all his joviality, this military man—who, with his jutting, dimpled jaw and erect carriage might have walked off a recruiting poster—had the saddest eyes Futrelle had ever seen.

“Archie—a private word?”

“Certainly.”

And, taking the major to one side, Futrelle told him that Crafton was dead, and that his blackmail documents were to be destroyed. He also told his friend that he could give him no details, and he must not repeat this to anyone, except Frank Millet.

Major Butt said nothing, at first. Then a smile appeared under the trim mustache and he swallowed, rather thickly, and said, “Jack, you’ve given this old soldier a new lease on life.”

“I’m sure May would like an invitation to the White House.”

Archie laughed, and the laughter carried to his eyes, where a veil had been lifted. “I’ll pull some strings.”

Luncheon was the usual feast, a buffet beyond imagination, and Futrelle took the opportunity to whisper into regular tablemate Isidor Straus’s ear the same information he’d shared with Archie Butt. Straus merely smiled and nodded.

Early afternoon, a cold snap made a ghost town of the open decks. Even in the open promenades, passengers who’d taken to deck chairs were bundled up, often warming themselves with cups of beef broth, courtesy of the ever-attentive stewards. In the public rooms and cafés of the great ship, passengers took to letter writing, cardplaying, reading, and conversation.

Throughout the long, lazy afternoon, Futrelle gradually talked to the other Crafton “clients,” passing along the same gratefully received information about the blackmailer and his documents, gently refusing any details or explanations regarding the séance of the evening before.

His remark to Ben Guggenheim was typical: “For the rest of your life, you can brag about sitting at a séance on the Titanic, with none other than W. T. Stead as the medium. Isn’t that enough? Must you also understand what it was about?”

Guggenheim—who’d been walking the enclosed promenade with the lovely Madame Aubert, when the Futrelles came upon them—accepted Futrelle’s terms, gladly.

“My only condition,” Guggenheim said, “is that Crafton remain dead.”

Only Maggie Brown, having a light dessert in the Parisien café, gave the writer a hard time.

“You can’t tell me that séance wasn’t a put-up job!” she said. “You coached that little Gibson girl! You wrote her damned lines, didn’t you, Mr. Thinkin’ Machine?”

“You’re right…”

“I knew it!”

“… I can’t tell you that.”

“Jack, nobody likes a wiseacre!” But she was grinning at the time.

Futrelle found Alice Cleaver, as usual, in the Verandah Café, watching golden-haired Lorraine playing with a top that was mesmerizing baby Trevor.

The nanny sat so somberly, her black livery might have been mourning clothes. Then she noticed him approaching, and smiled nervously as Futrelle took the chair at the wicker table next to her.

Almost whispering, Futrelle said, “I’ve spoken to the captain. I believe your chances are good.”

“Oh, sir…”

“No tears. No scene. And no guarantees—we’ll know tomorrow, sometime. Until then—everything as usual, my dear.”

The beautiful eyes in the blunt-nosed face welled with tears. “Mr. Futrelle… I owe you everything.”

He patted her hand. “You owe me your best efforts toward making a better life for yourself.”

The writer and the nanny sat quietly and watched the two lovely Allison children capering. They were served tea and scones by the good-looking young steward who, days before, had been exchanging winsome glances with the broken-nosed beauty. He had a small bruise on his jaw—maybe she’d slapped him for his freshness, the shipboard romance foundering on the rocks. At any rate, the towheaded boy remained businesslike, and Alice didn’t bother acknowledging his existence.

Suddenly the nanny blurted, “Mr. Futrelle, do you think God will ever grant me another child of my own?”

“I don’t know, Alice. Do you want Him to?”

She was pondering that as Futrelle took his leave.

Once Futrelle had made the rounds of the Crafton clients, he and May retreated to their stateroom, where fully dressed they flopped onto the bed to read their respective novels—May, The Virginian, her husband, Futility. Futrelle had a shorter book to finish, and drifted off into a nap; May, the Western saga finally completed, slammed the covers shut and woke him, on purpose.

“For having nothing to do,” she said, “the days certainly go by quickly.”

“Nothing to do?” he muttered sleepily. “I only solved two murders.”

“I thought we solved them.”

“You’re right. That was ungracious. We.”

“I’m starting to think of this suite as home.”

“Dangerous thinking—this is nicer than home.”

She laughed a little. “Oh, Jack, this has been a wonderful second honeymoon… exciting… romantic…”

“Especially romantic,” he said, and he kissed her.

They were still kissing when the nightstand telephone rang; it was Henry Harris, wanting them to join him and René for some cards before supper.

“How ’bout we meet on the Grand Staircase balcony?” Henry suggested. “Half an hour?”

“All right. But make it an hour… we’ll need to dress for dinner.”

“It takes you an hour to dress for dinner?”

“Not me. You know how women are.”

Then he hung up and went back to what he and May had been doing.

Dorothy Gibson joined the two couples for poker on the balcony; dressed in their evening clothes and looking like a million dollars, they played penny-ante stakes and had a wonderful time. And it gave Futrelle the opportunity to thank the young actress.

“You were superb last night,” Futrelle told her, shuffling the cards.

May pretended to misunderstand and said, “Would you care to explain that remark?”

There was general laughter, and Dorothy said, “I was afraid I was overdoing the deep ‘man’s voice.’”

“No, it was splendid,” Futrelle said, dealing. “Henry, I think you may have your next Broadway star on your hands.”

“Henry B. will kindly keep his hands to himself,” René said.

Miss Gibson was embarrassed by that, but everyone else laughed.

Henry said, picking up his cards, “Why don’t you write a movin’-picture script for Dorothy, Jack?”

“Henry B.,” René said, “quit hounding the man. Jack, why don’t you?”

The bugler announced dinner.

“There’s nothing to do on these damned ships but eat,” René said. “So—shall we?”

Everyone agreed with her on both counts, but as they were going down the stairs, René’s high heel caught her dress and she went tumbling down half a flight of stairs. Futrelle’s first thought was that Crafton’s ghost had tried to shove him and caught René instead.

Everyone rushed to her side, and found her laughing and crying and swearing, all at once.

“First critical thing I’ve said about this ship,” she said, “and the damned thing decides to break my arm.”

Her arm indeed was broken, her self-diagnosis confirmed by Dr. O’Loughlin, and a Dr. Frauenthal—a joint specialist who was traveling First Class—agreed to set it in plaster. Dorothy Gibson went off to join her mother in the First-Class Dining Saloon, but the rest of the group decided to wait to eat until René could join them, agreeing to meet for a late dinner in the à la carte restaurant, the so-called Ritz.

Just before nine P.M., the Futrelles were the first to take their seats at the table in the luxurious restaurant, which—with its Louis Seize decor, from its floral-pattern plaster ceiling to the gilded, finely figured French walnut paneling, from its crystal chandeliers to the rose-hued Axminster carpet—might have been the dining room of some fine hotel in Paris.

The passengers dining at the spacious Ritz were dressed to the nines, as traditionally the second-to-last night out was the final opportunity to dress up (last night out was for packing and formal dining attire was set aside). The men in their white tie and tails, the women in the latest Parisian gowns, pale satins and clingy gauze, arrayed in glittering jewelry, were in high spirits, the air ringing with giddy laughter and wafting with the sweet aroma of flowers.

“You know, Jack,” May said, admiring the vase of American Beauty roses that was their table’s centerpiece, “something has been troubling me.”

None of the rich, fashionable women around them had anything over May: she was ravishing in her gold silk-satin gown, its short sleeves decorated with strands of glass beads, her hair up and adorned with bird-of-paradise plumes.

His wife’s beauty made him light-headed; or was it the wine he was sipping? “What, darling?”

“It’s about the Cleaver girl.”

Futrelle smirked. “Whatever could you find troubling about a nice girl like Alice?”

“That fellow—Rood? He was a big man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, well, tall, anyway. Not heavyset.”

“But, still… how could she have lifted him into that lifeboat?”

“She’s got considerable strength, dear.”

“Perhaps, but—”

“Here are the Harrises.”

René was making a rather dramatic entrance, in a short-sleeved gown showing off her new cast, Henry following dutifully after. Word of her accident had traveled around the ship, and the passengers in the restaurant applauded her.

As Henry pulled out a chair for his wife, Futrelle said, “I thought the show-business expression was ‘break a leg’?”

“I believe in setting trends,” she said, though she was obviously suffering.

A private party in honor of Captain Smith’s approaching retirement was under way, and both the captain and Tom Andrews stopped by to compliment René on her “spirit” and “spunk,” respectively.

Futrelle chatted briefly with Andrews, who looked surprisingly fresh.

“Tom, what’s wrong?” Futrelle asked. “You actually look like you’ve had some sleep!”

Andrews grinned, leaning a hand on the writer’s chair. “Well, it’s just that I’ve finally caught up with all the problems on this little rowboat. I believe she’s as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.”

“Judging by the human brains I’ve encountered,” Futrelle kidded him, “that’s not much of a testimonial.”

Andrews laughed at that, graciously, and went back to the party honoring his captain.

The dinner was eight amazing courses, trundled over by the usual succession of white-jacketed waiters, bearing exotic dishes with French appellations that translated to quail eggs with caviar, spring pea soup, lobster thermidor with duchess potatoes, filet mignon with wild mushrooms, mint sorbet, quails with cherries, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and fresh fruit salad.

Familiar faces were dotted around the elegant restaurant: Archie Butt and Frank Millet were among the jovial guests at the Widener family’s party for Captain Smith, who had long since retired to the bridge; John and Madeline Astor, at a table for two, the expecting couple huddling romantically; and Ismay and Dr. O’Loughlin, in a side alcove, huddling in a different manner, a serious, businesslike fashion at odds with the gaeity all around. Futrelle could only wonder if the good doctor was being enlisted to carry out the mystery writer’s suggested course of action, i.e., the signing of certain documents, specifically death certificates for the late Crafton and Rood.

The Futrelles and the Harrises took their time with the endless meal, sipped their wine, told stories on each other, filling the air with laughter and forgoing the evening concert for each other’s company. By the time the night was over, Futrelle had agreed to write both a Broadway play and a cinema script for the producer, and René—who had been holding court throughout the evening, as virtually every passenger dining in the Ritz stopped by to celebrate her pluck—grandly announced that having a broken arm was a definite social asset.

Despite the now bitter cold, Futrelle and May took one last stroll on the boat deck, in their elegant evening wear, without their coats; it was now eleven o’clock, but they were warmed by wine and each other.

“It’s been a wonderful second honeymoon,” he told her, as they paused at the rail, the sky was again flung with stars, the preternaturally calm ocean stretching out like the skin of a vast black pudding.

“You were wonderful, Jack,” she said, not very drunk. “Brilliant as Professor Van Dusen himself—and braver than Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, you’re a much prettier Watson, my darling. Also, smarter.”

Her laughter was brittle yet musical, like a wind chime echoing in the sea air.

“The only thing missing is the children,” he said.

“We’ll be with them soon enough. Maybe next crossing, we’ll bring them along.”

“Capital idea, my love. Are you freezing? I’m freezing.”

“Walk me home.”

They entered the Grand Staircase balcony, being careful to watch their step, avoiding René’s fate (and Crafton’s ghost), and the sounds of the orchestra playing their medley from Tales of Hoffmann, with its romantic echoes of Venetian gondolas and lantern-lighted balconies, floated up the stairwell from several decks below. On the next landing, they waltzed briefly, laughing like young lovers, then stopped and embraced and kissed the same way.

He walked her to their stateroom door, and said, “Do you mind if I go to the Smoking Room, for a cigarette before bed?”

“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to be awake when you get back… that wine went straight to my head.”

“I love you, darling,” he said lightly, and they shared a peck of a kiss.

The Smoking Room was lightly attended, the concert tonight going a bit long, apparently; the usual card games were under way, and smoke floated like blue fog. Archie and Millet were playing bridge with young Widener and Hays. Nearby, in a leather armchair, in the glow of a table lamp, reading a book, sat a bewhiskered oversize gnome in yellow brown, rumpled tweed: W. T. Stead.

Futrelle pulled a chair around. “May I join you for a moment, Mr. Stead?”

Stead looked up, pleasantly. “Certainly, sir. I’m rereading Angell’s The Great Illusion, that magnificent antiwar tract; it may provide inspiration for my speech at Carnegie Hall.”

“I didn’t see you about the ship, this afternoon, Mr. Stead. You were even missing from morning services.”

“No, I’ve been indisposed.”

“Indigestion?”

“Conscience… I ill used my powers of mediumship last night, Mr. Futrelle.”

“Toward a good end.”

“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “But the ends do not justify the means.”

“I apologize if I coerced you into corrupting your sense of ethics.”

Stead managed a small grin, patting his belly. “I’m a big boy, Mr. Futrelle. No one forces me to do anything I don’t care to do.”

“Mr. Stead, what was that business last night with the message from ‘Julia’? You were padding your part, a bit, weren’t you?”

His response was matter of fact: “That was a real message from the other side, Mr. Futrelle—perhaps scolding me for my actions.”

“Ah.”

“ ‘Ah’ indeed.”

“Well, you should know soon enough, if helping me was right or wrong.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

Futrelle shrugged. “Your friend Julia said you’d be hearing a ‘clarion call,’ soon—and get all the answers you’ve been seeking. Doesn’t sound like a scolding to me.”

“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I hope you are.”

A steward leaned in and said, “Can I get you anything, sir? A brandy, perhaps?”

Futrelle glanced up; it was the boy from the Verandah Café, with the bruised jaw and the tow head.

“You know,” Futrelle said, rising, “you can. Would you mind stepping out on deck with me for a moment?”

“Sir?”

“Won’t take but a few seconds. The privacy will benefit both of us.”

The steward, smiling nervously, backed up. “Sir, I’m working….”

“And I’m a First-Class passenger, and I’d like some help out on deck.”

“… All right, sir.”

Futrelle smiled down at Stead. “Thanks for your assistance, last night; that was a service only you could have provided. Now, get back to your book, and see if you can’t come up with a formula for world peace.”

Half a smile blossomed in the white-thicket beard. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Futrelle.”

Futrelle motioned to the young steward to go through the revolving doors, into the Verandah Café, which they did.

Though the café was empty, the writer said, “Out on the boat deck, if you please.”

“Isn’t this private enough, sir?”

“The boat deck, if you please.”

The boy lowered his head, his eyes peering up like a beaten dog’s. “All right, sir. If you insist, sir.”

Out in the bitter cold of the still night, under a thousand stars but no moon, Futrelle lighted up a Fatima, smiled meaninglessly at the lad, who stood before him, with the blankly apprehensive expression of a teenager guilty of numerous infractions, wondering which one his parent knows about.

Smart in his white jacket with gold buttons, he was a handsome boy, with wide-set dark brown eyes, a strong nose and full, nearly feminine lips. He was shaking. It might have been the bitter cold. Futrelle doubted that.

“What’s your name, son?”

“William, sir. William Stephen Faulkner.”

“Do they call you Bill?”

“They call me William.”

“Where are you from, William?”

“Romsey Road, sir. Southampton.”

Futrelle exhaled a stream of Fatima smoke. “William, has Alice told you what I’m trying to do?”

The boy frowned. “What? Who?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. Your girlfriend—Alice. I’m trying to help her. Like you tried to help her.”

A nervous smile formed. “Sir, you… you must have me confused with someone else. If you’ll excuse me.”

The boy began to go, but Futrelle gripped his arm. “For God’s sake, son, don’t make me turn you in. Give me a reason not to.”

Their faces were an inch apart; the brown eyes were wide with alarm. “Sir! What… what do you want from me?”

Futrelle let loose of him, took a step back. “The truth, William. What happened on the boat deck, with Alice and Rood, that night? You were there, weren’t you? In the shadows, waiting to protect her. Surely you wouldn’t have allowed her to meet such a dangerous individual by herself, not after what she’d been through with Crafton.”

His mouth hung open in amazement. “How can you know this?”

“Alice told me,” Futrelle lied. “But I want to hear it from you, son.”

The young man stumbled toward the rail, held on. The boat well yawned below; beyond that, the poop deck. No one was out on such a chill night as this—just this boy and the mystery writer.

“He grabbed her arms,” the boy said numbly. “He was shakin’ her, shakin’ her…”

The boy demonstrated, grabbing the air.

“That’s when you stepped in?”

He nodded, swallowing. “I… I grabbed him, pulled him away from her—and he swung at me, got me here… that’s how I got this jaw, sir… and as I was gettin’ up, he pushed me down. I came up hard, rammin’ into him, shovin’ him back, and…”

“He hit his head.”

The boy sighed heavily and nodded. “There was a lot of blood; I sneaked back, later, with a bucket, and cleaned that up. Alice didn’t scream or nothin’. She was calm, almost like she was in a trance. She helped me hide ’im in the boat… it took the both of us to do it….”

“I know.”

“You know that?”

“That’s how I knew she had help, son. She couldn’t have lifted that body up into that hanging boat, not by herself. And you were her only friend on the ship, weren’t you?”

He shrugged, then nodded; hung his head. “She’s not a bad girl, sir. ’Tweren’t her fault, none of it.”

“Did you unlock Crafton’s door so she could go and smother him, and rob him?”

His eyes popped in horror. “No! Oh my God, no, sir—she come to me… my quarters is right in First Class, y’know—and she took me to that room and showed me what she’d done. Him all dead in bed…. She was cryin’….”

“Did you know she’d taken the money off that dresser?”

His gaze dropped. “Well… yes, sir, I did, sir… I figured she had it comin’, what hell he put her through.”

“What did you do, William?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just grabbed Alice and used my key to lock the door behind us.”

So much for the locked-door mystery.

Another swallow; then Faulkner looked up, pitifully. “Do we… do we go talk to the captain now, sir?”

“I don’t think so.”

He seemed on the verge of crying. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

“The story you just told me?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Never tell it again.”

The boy’s eyes tightened, then they widened, and his face exploded into a winning smile. “Yes, sir. You’re a hell of a bloke, sir.”

“One other thing…”

“Sir?”

Futrelle pitched his Fatima into the sea; it arched and spit sparks, like a tiny flare. “I’m going back into the Smoking Room. I’ll have a brandy.”

So, nestled into a comfortable armchair, Futrelle sat and smoked a Havana cigar Archie Butt offered him, and sucked the rich smoke into his lungs, and enjoyed the snifter of brandy the attentive young steward brought him. He had nearly nodded off when something jarred him awake—an unexpected jostle that was the first sign since he’d boarded that he was on a ship, not in a hotel. The muffled sound of agitated voices, like distant cannon fire, drifted in from outside.

Wondering idly what that had been, Futrelle rose, stretched, took one last sip of brandy, crushed out the remainder of his cigar in a White Star ashtray. Perhaps he’d go out on the cold deck, before going back to his warm wife in their warm bed, and see what the fuss was about.

He certainly couldn’t have felt more at ease, or frankly more self-satisfied. A pair of damned blackmailers were dead, a mystery or two solved; the young lovers responsible would likely meet a merciful fate at the hands of Captain Smith. All was right with the world, the little city on the big ship safe once again, with naught but the promise of calm seas and smooth sailing ahead.