The Titanic Murders

SIX


INFORMAL INQUIRY





AT LUNCHEON, THE CAFÉ PARISIEN tended to be lightly frequented, and today was no exception.

The Titanic’s approximation of a sidewalk café on a Paris boulevard was designed more for a between-meal snack or perhaps an after-dinner aperitif; with sumptuous feasts available in the Dining Saloon and the à la carte Ritz, few passengers were willing to settle for the dainty sandwiches of the café’s circular buffet.

The younger set had largely appropriated this sunlight-streaming trellised café on the starboard B deck—with its unobstructed ocean view—making it one of the livelier areas aboard ship. But right now the café held only a modest scattering of passengers, seated on the café’s green wicker chairs at the festive round and square green-topped tables, taking advantage of the casually continental ambience, as the gently muted strains of the string trio playing in the reception room next door floated in.

Among this handful of passengers were the Futrelles and the Strauses, seated at a square table by the windows onto the ocean, tiny plates with tiny sandwiches before them all, accompanied by iced tea.

The Strauses had not selected their sandwiches from the buffet, however; a French waiter saw to it that they received kosher variations (the deviled ham Futrelle was nibbling at being wholly inappropriate). The waiter also made sure that the iced tea was sweetened, in the Southern style, as the two couples had Georgia backgrounds in common.

“What a good idea, getting away like this,” Ida Straus said. She wore a black-and-white dress (mostly black) with fancy beadwork, typical of her conservative elegance. “They feed us so much on this ship! This makes a nice change…. Don’t you agree, Papa?”

“Oh yes, Mama,” Isidor Straus said, idly stroking his gray spade beard as he contemplated the minuscule sandwiches on his plate. His suit was dark blue, his shirt a wing collar with a tie of light blue silk; he too had a quiet elegance. “I only hope the Harrises and their friends don’t mind eating alone.”

“I invited Henry and René,” Futrelle said, “but they declined—seems they exercised in the gym this morning, and worked up too much of an appetite.”

Actually, Futrelle had explained to the Harrises that he needed to speak to the Strauses in private, supposedly to gather information for a story with a department-store setting.

“If you need an expert on department stores,” Henry had said, “you’re goin’ to the wrong party…. Talk to René.”

And René had added, “Henry B. is right—I probably spend more time in Macy’s than Isidor Straus.”

But nonetheless the Harrises graciously deferred, with no prying questions.

So far it had all been small talk. For such different couples, the Futrelles and Strauses had much in common, from Georgia to New York (Macy’s was on Herald Square, after all, and Futrelle had worked for the Herald). Both couples agreed that the maiden voyage on the Titanic was proving a perfect way to top off their respective European trips. The Strauses had been taking a winter holiday at Cap Martin on the Riviera; the Futrelles had decided to cut their trip short when Jack, with his birthday looming, had gotten homesick for their two children.

“We plan to take Virginia and John traveling with us,” Futrelle said, “when they’re older, and out of school.”

Straus nodded at the wisdom of that. “Let them be an age when they’ll appreciate what you’re giving them.”

“We have six children,” Ida said, “and as for grandchildren, we lose count.”

It went on like that, with an excursion into mutual admiration. Straus—with no college education, an inveterate reader—was impressed by Futrelle’s success in the writing field (though no mention was made of the Macy’s magnate ever having read a Futrelle story or novel). Futrelle found it fascinating that Straus—who, with his brother Nathan, had started out with a china shop in Macy’s basement and within ten years owned the store—had gone from the department-store business to Congress, becoming a close confidant of President Cleveland.

Straus was not a boastful man, and in fact downplayed his accomplishments. “I’m not interested in politics or business anymore. I’m at a stage in my life where my hobbies and traveling are more important.”

“You’re too modest,” May said. She looked youthful in a boyish leisure outfit of white shirt with blue-and-green striped silk tie under a knitted green-and-brown waistcoat; her hat was a large-crowned light brown felt number with a curled brim. “After all, everyone knows your ‘hobby’ is helping people.”

“You’re too kind,” Straus said, but he clearly liked hearing it.

Both Futrelles were well aware of Straus’s philanthropy, particularly in the areas of education and aiding Jewish immigrants. Everything Futrelle knew about Straus made the man out a saint, albeit a Hebrew one; what in God’s name could Crafton have had on this paragon of virtue?

It was time to find out; Futrelle caught his wife’s gaze and narrowed his eyes in a signal imperceptible to all but her. May immediately began to dig in her purse.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve forgotten my medicine in our stateroom… I need to take my pills with lunch.”

The only medication May was taking was aspirin, but of course the Strauses didn’t know that.

Futrelle began to rise. “Shall I go and fetch it for you, dear?”

“No, no, thank you, Jack—I’ll run and get it.” She turned to Ida with a smile. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into keeping me company?”

And of course Ida could only say, “I’d love to,” and soon the two women were winding through the mostly empty wicker tables and chairs.

Straus watched his wife depart with a fondness Futrelle found touching. “There goes as good a woman as ever a man was blessed with,” Straus said. The old boy turned toward Futrelle. “And hang on to that gem of yours, if you don’t mind a little advice.”

“Smartest move I ever made,” Futrelle said, “marrying that woman. Isidor… now that we’ll be alone for a moment, I need to ask you a question—in confidence.”

The eyes behind the pince-nez glasses narrowed. “Your tone is serious.”

“It’s a serious matter.”

Straus folded his hands, leaned forward. “Would it have to do with John B. Crafton?”

Straus’s perceptiveness amused and surprised Futrelle. “Now, how did you know that, sir?”

“I know there is a rumor drifting about the ship that the famous mystery writer Jacques Futrelle held a man over the balcony of the Grand Staircase, and shook the change from his pockets.”

Futrelle grinned. “That’s more than a rumor, Isidor.”

The old boy grinned back: the teeth weren’t his (or actually they were—he’d purchased them).

“I’d have paid good money for a front-row seat to that show,” Straus said. “You saw me give Crafton the heave-ho from our compartment, on the boat train, didn’t you?”

“Yes—I had a front-row seat for that one, and it didn’t cost me a dime.”

Straus raised an eyebrow. “So we have more than a love for the state of Georgia in common. We share a dislike for that foul little man.”

“We do. And I’d like to take the liberty of building on that common ground by asking a question or two… which if you do not answer, I’ll take no offense. I only hope you take no offense in the asking.”

“I’m sure I won’t take offense. As to whether I’ll answer your questions, I’ll have to hear them first.”

A waiter stopped by to replace their iced-tea glasses with fresh ones, and moved on.

Futrelle leaned in. “Is it safe for me to assume that Crafton approached you as one of his prospective ‘clients’?”

“Safe indeed.”

“My response to him was to hang him by his heels. Was your response, your full response, the one I saw on the train?”

The eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”

“I mean… forgive me… did you pay him, or just send him packing?”

Now Straus understood; he nodded. “The latter. Not one penny in tribute to that scoundrel.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Have you seen Crafton today, about the ship, anywhere?”

Without hesitation, Straus said, “No. Not a trace. It’s said another passenger slapped him last night.”

“Yes. A Mr. Rood. I witnessed that, in the Smoking Room.”

“Perhaps it’s safe to assume that Mr. Crafton is… what is the expression? ‘Lying low’?”

“You may be right, Isidor. I can tell you I’m personally not at all concerned by his threats to me, and my reputation.”

Briefly, Futrelle told Straus of the mental breakdown he’d suffered covering the war news at the Herald, and that he felt exposure of this ancient history could do him no professional harm whatsoever.

“The threat to me was equally trivial,” Straus said. “You may be aware that my firm has a… motto, you might say, used by Macy’s rather extensively in its advertising: ‘We never deal in old or bankrupt stocks…’”

Futrelle, nodding, finished the familiar slogan: “… ‘Macy’s sells new and desirable goods only.’ Yes, of course.”

Straus’s mouth pursed briefly, as if he were tasting something nasty, not sweetened iced tea. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Crafton claims to have documentary evidence that Macy’s has been buying at public auction, selling items we purchased at close-out sales at full price, and so on. Furthermore, Crafton says he has proof that our advertising claims of having the lowest prices are often inaccurate and deceptive…. This is all poppycock, and even if it weren’t, even if it were true, who would publish it? No one!”

Futrelle—newspaperman that he was—knew Straus was correct; Macy’s advertised heavily in every New York City paper, and there was no way on God’s green earth that those papers would expose a firm that was doing so much business with them.

“The only person who might do it is someone like that cantankerous crusader Stead,” Futrelle said.

Straus chuckled and nodded. “Crafton said that he was negotiating with Stead to write the book which would expose my store’s practices.”

“That’s nonsense! I saw Stead rebuff the bastard with a violence second only to my own.”

Straus seemed faintly amused. “Nonsense indeed. Stead is a Salvation Army man, you know, and that group is among the charities we support.”

Philanthropist Straus was as shrewd as he was generous: the Jewish philanthropist contributing to this Christian charity put the Salvation Army in the same position as the New York newspapers. Maybe the old boy wasn’t exactly a saint; just another capitalist, granted a smart, good-hearted one.

Suddenly there was strength in Straus’s face, and in his words, that belied his kindly demeanor: “I’ve known the likes of Crafton since I was a youth, running the European blockade for the Confederacy. He’s a cowardly snake, and I say let him do his worst.”

“I admire your attitude, sir,” Futrelle said, just as the wives were returning.

Later, in their stateroom, Futrelle reported the conversation to May, as she reclined prettily on the chaise lounge. Her husband was pacing.

“Well,” she said, “I think they’re very sweet.”

“They’re a nice old couple,” he granted. “But Isidor Straus is a tougher old bird than he appears.”

“Capable of murder?”

“Who knows what a man of his accomplishments is or isn’t capable of? And Crafton may have had something far worse on the old boy than false advertising.”

“Such as what?”

“Don’t forget Straus was in Washington politics—that’s not exactly a bastion of morality and ethics. Businessmen like Straus run for office, saying they have the public at heart, but often are thinking of their own vested interests.”

“You suspect him, then.”

“He’s a suspect. But if he did it, he’s a better actor than Henry Harris could ever afford. When I asked old Isidor if he’d seen Crafton around the ship today, I saw no sign that he might know the man lay dead.”

“Not to mention naked. But maybe that’s the solution.”

Futrelle frowned at his wife. “What is?”

She gazed at him with mock innocence. “He was naked because Mr. Straus was coming ’round to measure him for a new Macy’s suit.”

Futrelle laughed in spite of himself, and joined her on the chaise lounge; it creaked and squeaked under the weight of them—mostly, him.

“Careful, Jack! We might have to pay for this.”

He kissed her sweet throat, then drew away, saying, “Did you ever hear of the man who asked every attractive woman he met if he could make love to her?”

“No! What did they say?”

“Most of them said no.”

“Then why did he keep asking?”

“I said ‘most of them’…. And maybe that’s the kind of blackmailer we have here. Maybe there’s no elaborate ring; perhaps Mr. Crafton even worked alone. Maybe his threats were empty, and the little blackguard was just a petty swindler looking for the occasional payoff.”

“You mean, he’s a nuisance and, if you’re rich enough, it’s worth some money to make him go away.”

“Precisely. Think how many people were on that list of his! If he were getting big money out of any one of them, he wouldn’t have needed so many ‘clients’… If I’d only waited to see how much money he wanted out of me, before I…”

“Before you what?”

“Nothing.”

She studied him as they lay side by side on the chaise, then asked, “What if I told you René said someone saw you hanging Mr. Crafton over the balcony by his feet?”

“I’d say René was getting that information secondhand… because I definitely didn’t see her there.”

Her eyes widened and her grin was gleeful. “You did do it! Why, you reckless fool…”

“I’ll show you how reckless I am, if you’ll let me.”

She bounced off the chaise lounge. “I’m not about to spoil you with too much attention. Besides, I have a certain scrap of information I think you might like to have.”

Watching as she smoothed out her brown ankle-length wool-tweed skirt, he asked, “Are you going to make me ask?”

Now she was straightening the blue-and-green tie, checking herself in the mirror, adjusting the cock of her brown felt hat. “I just don’t want you to think you’re the only detective in the family.”

“What piece of information?”

She looked at him in the mirror. “When Mrs. Straus and I were fetching my ‘medicine,’ we ran into the Astors, and now Madeline is joining me for tea in the First-Class Lounge, in, oh… about fifteen minutes.”

“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get… reckless.”

“You’ve been reckless enough for one day. Besides, I think you could use a little exercise, dear….”

“What I have in mind is exercise, of a sort.”

“… After all, Jack, writing is such sedentary work. Would you be offended if I suggested you attend the gymnasium this afternoon?”

“There will be less of me to love.”

She shrugged, turned away from the mirror, perfectly pretty. “It’s your decision. I just thought you might enjoy having a spirited physical-culture session…. I know Colonel Astor will be there.”

Futrelle bounded up from the chaise lounge, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You are a detective, my love,” he said, and slipped out of the stateroom.

On the starboard side of the ship, near the First-Class entrance, was the modern, spacious gymnasium, its walls a glistening white-painted pine with oak wainscoting, the floor gleaming linoleum tile, its equipment an array of the latest contraptions of physical training, or (in Futrelle’s view) instruments of torture. With the exception of the white-flannel-clad instructor, the gym stood empty—morning was its busy time.

The instructor greeted Futrelle, who had met the robust little fellow on the purser’s tour—T. W. McCawley, perhaps thirty-five years of age, with dark hair, dark bright eyes and a military-trim mustache.

“Mr. Futrelle!” McCawley said. He had a working-class English accent as thick as a glass of stout. “Good to see you, sir! Decide to come in and try your strength, t’day, did you?”

“I’m surprised you remember my name, Mr. McCawley.”

“You First-Class passengers are my business, sir—and your health is my chief interest and concern.”

“That’s bully,” Futrelle said, without much enthusiasm. The room’s rowing machine, pulley weights, stationary bicycles, and mechanical camels and horses held no appeal for the mystery writer. His idea of exercise was sitting on the porch of his house in Scituate for a spirited session in his rocking chair. “Has Colonel Astor stopped by?”

“He’s in the changing room,” the instructor said, with a nod toward the door in question, “gettin’ into his togs. There’s a pair in there waitin’ for you, sir.”

“You sure you have my size?”

“And larger. No job is too big for T. W. McCawley.”

The instructor’s enthusiasm already had Futrelle worn-out.

But he headed for the changing room nonetheless, finding white flannels in his size, and John Jacob Astor, already bedecked in white flannel, seated on a bench, tying the laces of a pair of tennis shoes, and without the aid of valet.

“Colonel,” Futrelle said. “What a pleasure running into you.”

“Afternoon, Jack,” Astor said; his voice was friendly enough, but his sky-blue eyes were glazed with their usual bored, distracted cast. “Your company will be appreciated.”

Astor went on into the gym, while Futrelle climbed into the white flannels; he hadn’t brought tennis shoes—the bluchers he’d had on would have to do.

“Join me for a spin, Jack?” Astor called out. He was pedaling away on one of two stationary bicycles near a large dial on the wall that registered the speed and distance of each bike.

Futrelle said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and hopped on.

The instructor was headed their way—as if any instruction on riding a bike were needed—when a young couple entered and McCawley did an about-face and attended them. The gym, unlike the Turkish Bath, did not segregate the sexes, and for about five minutes, the instructor ushered the young couple (honeymooners) around his dominion, eventually sending them off to their respective changing rooms.

During that time, Futrelle and Astor, aboard their bikes, chatted; this time Futrelle didn’t bother with small talk, as the best way to deal with the remote millionaire was to directly engage his attention.

“I saw you talking to that fellow Crafton, in the cooling room yesterday,” Futrelle said, barely pedaling.

Astor, who was in good shape, his legs working like pistons, said, “Did you?” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“I wondered,” Futrelle said, “if you’d had as unpleasant an experience with the louse as did I.”

Astor kept pedaling, staring straight ahead; but he was listening, Futrelle could tell the man was listening.

“He tried to blackmail me,” Futrelle said, and briefly explained.

Astor, hearing Futrelle frankly expose the mental skeleton in his closet, turned his cool gaze on his fellow rider, and his pedaling pace slowed.

“He had a similar scheme where I was concerned,” Astor admitted. But he offered no clarification, and picked his speed back up.

“May I be so bold,” Futrelle said, “as to ask if Crafton presented any real threat to you, Colonel?”

“Most likely not,” he said casually, face bland, legs churning. “He claimed this fellow Stead was going to publish an exposé about the conditions of certain of our buildings.”

Futrelle knew very well that the Astors—who owned much of Manhattan—numbered among their ample holdings not only the opulent Astoria Hotel but block upon block of notoriously wretched slums.

“Do you think Stead could be an accomplice of Crafton’s?” Futrelle asked. This time he kept to himself Stead’s vigorous rebuff of the ferrety little man on the boat train.

“Very doubtful. You see, Mr. Stead is aligned with the Salvation Army…”

And as Astor caught a breath, Futrelle—fresh from hearing Isidor Straus sing so similar a song—finished for him: “Which is high on the list of those on the receiving end of the Astors’ many charitable contributions.”

“Quite so. Also, several other charities designed to aid former prostitutes and unwed mothers, pet causes of Mr. Stead’s; my family, my mother in particular, has long been a supporter of these causes.”

“So, this Crafton—you refused to pay the bastard.”

“No. I paid him. He only wanted a pittance—five thousand.”

Futrelle, on his bike ride to nowhere, was feeling light-headed; whether it was this exercise, which he wasn’t used to, or encountering Astor’s nonchalant attitude toward paying off a blackmailer, he couldn’t be certain.

“Tell me, Colonel, have you seen Crafton around the ship at all today?”

“No.” Astor suddenly stopped pedaling. His forehead was beaded with sweat but he wasn’t breathing hard. “I can’t say I was looking for him, either. He’s rather disagreeable company, don’t you think?”

Futrelle had stopped his pedaling, too. Astor was headed over to the rowing apparatus; he paused there and glanced at Futrelle, saying, “You mind if I have the first go, Jack?”

“It’s all yours, Colonel,” Futrelle said. “I’ve done all the traveling I care to, for the moment.”

In his stateroom, Futrelle took a warm relaxing bath, and lounged in his robe, returning to the chaise lounge and the novel Futility, the title of which seemed to him to reflect his efforts. Trying to see beyond Astor’s diffident mask was a hopeless task; like Straus, John Jacob Astor was a harder man than he might appear. Futrelle could well imagine the millionaire casually dispatching a manservant to smother a blackmailer with a pillow.

But he could also imagine Astor peeling off hundred after hundred from a fat wad of bills, to remove an annoyance, swatting the fly with money.

While Futrelle had been in the gym chasing Astor on a bolted-down bicycle, his wife had been sharing hot tea and buttered toast with Madeline Astor—and the Astors’ mascot Maggie Brown—in the luxurious First-Class Lounge on A deck.

The extravagantly ornate lounge, modestly based on the Palace of Versailles, was primarily the province of ladies, the distaff equivalent of the Smoking Room, sans smoking of course. The high-ceilinged oak-paneled room—with its carved scrollwork and glowing overhead bonfire of a central chandelier—had boundaries defined by a fireplace (too grand to ever light) at one end and a bookcase (too elegant to ever open) at the other. The green color scheme of the lush carpeting and richly upholstered chairs was soothing, undermined by the busy nature of their rococo designs. Scattered games of bridge and canfield were under way at the most exquisitely carved tables ever used for card playing.

But May and Madeline and Maggie weren’t playing cards; they were gossiping—or at least the latter two were… May was secretly playing detective.

The women had already discussed how the becoming, “but in no way young” Mrs. Helen Candee had attracted a harem of middle-aged men, while all agreed that a certain handsome young Swede in the Candee coterie was the likely candidate for the one having the shipboard affair.

And it had been noted that Ben Guggenheim and his mistress had given up on the pretense of traveling separately, and a number of stewards had been heard to address her as “Mrs. Guggenheim.”

“Have either of you seen this John Crafton around the ship?” May asked them casually.

“You mean that rat-faced little bastard with the gold-top cane?” Maggie Brown asked. She was bundled into a pale gray silk dress with black silk cuffs and trim, and a large wide-brimmed black velvet hat with ostrich feathers.

May, who had decided to be amused rather than disgusted by Maggie’s dockworker vocabulary, laughed and said, “I think it’s safe to say we’re talking about the same party.”

Madeline Astor—lovely in a pink silk suit with lilac satin bindings that matched the band and big bow of her wide-brimmed straw hat—leaned close and said, almost whispered, “You know, the little beggar tried to blackmail Jack and me.”

Mrs. Astor meant her Jack, not May’s. (Apparently John Jacob Astor did not require his wife to address him as “Colonel.”)

“No!” May said, sounding genuinely shocked, thinking, This detective work is easy. “He must be trying to blackmail everyone on the ship! He did the same to my Jack and me.”

And May quickly told them about the confrontation between Jack and Crafton, including her husband’s “breakdown,” and how he’d dangled the blackmailer over the balcony—which made Madeline titter, and Maggie squeal with delight.

Maggie, unabashed, turned to Madeline and said, “What d’he have on you, honey? I suppose he was threatenin’ to tell the world that that bun was in your oven ’fore you walked down the aisle.”

Madeline, who seemed quite used to Maggie’s outrageous outbursts, tittered again, saying, “Exactly right. Oh, there was some nonsense about some of Jack’s family’s tenement properties… I didn’t follow that. But this Craft character—”

“Crafton,” Maggie corrected.

“Crafton,” Madeline said, nodding. “Well, he claimed to have documents from the hospital in Paris, where I was examined, that would prove our supposed indiscretions. But it was just a bald-faced fabrication.”

“Crafton was runnin’ a bluff?” Maggie asked.

Madeline nodded. “Maggie, I’m five months pregnant… John and I were married seven months ago. Our child was conceived in wedlock, much as that will disappoint the good people of Newport.”

“So,” Maggie said, eyes glittering with interest, “did the Colonel give the son of a bitch the boot?”

“No, I think he paid him, or anyway is going to.”

“Why?” May asked, astounded.

“It’s just easier that way. Jack is very sensitive right now to criticism, particularly about us. He very much wants to reenter society, and see me accepted… I don’t really care, myself, but it means a lot to Jack.”

“Bunch of snooty high hats,” Maggie snorted, though her apparent disdain for high society didn’t jibe with her obvious desire to join it.

“Do you know Crafton?” May asked Maggie. “Frankly, it sounds like you do.”

Maggie shrugged. “Slick little shrimp approached me, first night I come aboard. Said he wanted to talk to me about a ‘business proposition.’ I didn’t like the look of him, but I said I’d try and work him into my dance card.”

May narrowed her eyes. “But that meeting hasn’t taken place.”

“No, honey, not yet… and I haven’t seen ’im in a while—not today, anyway. How about you, Madeline?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Madeline said, with a little shrug. “I don’t really ever care to see him.”

“Y’suppose he was gonna try to blackmail yours truly?” Maggie asked, pointing a thumb to her formidable bosom.

Teasingly, May asked, “What have you done that you could be blackmailed over?”

Maggie roared. “What haven’t I done?”

Dirty looks from nearby bridge players did not sway Maggie’s enthusiasm, or her volume.

She continued: “Maybe he’s got the goods on me sleeping with a younger man or two… What he doesn’t know is, my husband doesn’t give a ding dong damn. We’re separated, and we like it that way. I don’t look in or under his bed, and he does me the same service.”

An hour later, in their stateroom, May reported all this to her husband, who said, “It doesn’t sound like Maggie Brown would’ve paid Crafton his dirty money.”

“She’s a tough old girl, Jack. I could see her doing it.”

“Smothering Crafton with a pillow?” Futrelle smirked. “Or maybe her bosom.”

May elbowed him, playfully; they were sitting on the couch together in the stateroom parlor.

“You know, I didn’t like her at first,” May said. “But Maggie Brown is a true eccentric, and about as genuine a person as you could hope to meet.”

“In First Class on the Titanic, I’d have to agree with you… Darling, you did well. Very well indeed.”

“Thank you.”

“Better than I did. Madeline Astor told you everything; her husband lied to me.”

May shook her head, no. “Not really. He told you the truth, just not all of it—he was protecting his wife. Don’t you think that’s a noble objective?”

“People have been known to kill for noble objectives.” Futrelle yawned. “We should be freshening up for dinner, soon. I think I’ll run down to the barbershop for a shave.”

“All right—just remember, we’re meeting the Harrises at six-thirty.”

The barbershop, which had two chairs, was right there on C deck, a short stroll from their stateroom, near the aft staircase. The small shop also served as a souvenir stand, offering pennants, postcards and toy life preservers; display cases showed off overpriced pipes and watches and wallets. Stuffed dolls of the Katzenjammer Kids, Happy Hooligan, Buster Brown and other cartoon characters hung from the ceiling, strung up like a comics-page lynching.

Both chairs were filled as the two white-smocked barbers attended their customers; Futrelle settled in on the black leather couch, to wait his turn. There was one patron ahead of him: Hugh Rood.

Crafton’s Smoking Room adversary still had a distinguished look, his dark brown herringbone suit set off nicely by a brown-and-gold striped silk tie with diamond stickpin.

Futrelle introduced himself, and Rood—somewhat warily, it seemed—gave his name and accepted a handshake.

“I’d like to compliment you, sir,” Futrelle said. He spoke softly; the barbers were chatting with their customers, in the time-honored way, and Futrelle could—by keeping his voice down—keep their conversation private.

The handsome, reddish-haired Rood smiled, but his eyes, which were as green as money, seemed wary, confused. “What have I done to deserve a compliment from you, Mr. Futrelle?”

“You did what a lot of us wanted to do—you slapped that bastard Crafton.”

Rood’s face went curiously blank for a moment, then his brow tightened and, scowling, he said, “Nothing less than he deserved.”

“He’s a blackmailer, you know.” Quickly, he told Rood what Crafton had threatened to reveal about him.

“The man’s a cad,” Rood said.

“Might I ask why you slapped him, Mr. Rood? Did he have similar extortion designs, where you were concerned?”

The blank expression returned; then, rather coldly, he said, “Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. Forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to be rude… Mr. Rood.”

Then a chair became available and Futrelle sat down for his shave. When Rood finally took the chair next to him, for a haircut and shave, Futrelle asked, “Say, have you seen him about the ship today?”

“Who?”

“Crafton.”

“No.”

“Funny. I haven’t either. Where do you suppose he’s gotten to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

And that was the end of their conversation; and of Futrelle’s shave. He paid the barber, tipped him well, said good-bye to Mr. Rood, who curtly said good-bye to him.

In the stateroom, as they dressed for dinner, Futrelle reported the encounter to his wife.

“Finally,” she said, “we’ve got someone who’s acting suspiciously.”

“In a way,” Futrelle said, frustrated, “Rood is behaving the least suspiciously of all… That is, like a blackmail victim with something to hide, something he doesn’t want to talk about.”

“You mean like murdering John Crafton?” May suggested.

And they went down to dinner.