The Titanic Murders Page 4

  “You sold The Hidden Hand for filming,” René reminded him.

  “Yes, and they butchered it.”

  After a while the landscape rolling by the boat-train window shifted from idyllic rural to harsh urban, sprouting not flowers but corrugated-iron factory roofs, the forests not trees but smokestacks of textile mills and steelworks. Much as he admired the captains of industry, like those on this train, Futrelle could not reconcile their capricious leisure with the quiet desperation of workers such as those who dwelled in the dingy rabbit warren of squalid red-brick row houses gliding by the window like an admonishing vision courtesy of one of Scrooge’s ghosts.

  Henry, with that good heart of his, must have felt a twinge himself, because he suggested they repair to the smoking car, where shortly Jack was lighting up a tailor-made Fatima from a gold-plated cigarette case and Harris a Cuban cigar.

  “It’s that unpleasant fellow again,” Henry said, waving out a match, nodding toward a table by the window where indeed the ferrety Crafton was seated with none other than that great unmade bed of a man, William T. Stead. The two men had their heads together, Stead listening intently, frowning, Crafton whispering, his smile lifting the ends of the handlebar mustache into black angel wings.

  “Not interested, sir!” Stead said suddenly.

  Banter in the smoke-filled car fell to a hush, as the white-bearded, massively bellied Stead stood and berated his fellow passenger in a bellow.

  “To the dogs with you, sir! The dogs!”

  Embarrassed, Crafton smiled nervously, shrugging to the other men in the smoking car and nodding toward Stead, with an expression that encouraged their common knowledge that the old man was mad as a March hare.

  Stead understood this patronizing gesture and grabbed Crafton by the front of his striped sack suit and lifted him from his chair like a naughty child.

  “Fortunate for you, sir,” Stead said, nose to nose with the frightened little man, “that I am a pacifist!”

  And then Stead tossed him back onto the chair, storming out of the car, leaving a smoldering stogie and a chagrined Crafton behind.

  “Fella seems to make friends everywhere he goes,” Futrelle said to Henry.

  “Maybe I should follow him around with a motion-picture camera,” the producer said.

  Soon they were back in the compartment with their wives. The train had begun its long downhill ride to Eastleigh, doing better than sixty miles per hour, shooting like a bullet through the hill tunnels of Hampshire Downs, past Winchester, into Southampton, sailing like a ship through Terminus Station and across Canute Road.

  Finally, just before 11:30 A.M., the boat train moved down the side of Central Road and took a slow turn to the right onto the track flanking the platform built on the White Star Line’s ocean dock. Nearby loomed the massive pair of long, narrow sheds, their corrugated steel painted green, where Second- and Third-Class passengers and cargo were processed.

  But the boat train delivered its First-Class passengers dockside; they stepped out into the crisp sea air, where the port side of the giant ship towered before them, filling their sight like a vast cliff of steel.

  May squeezed her husband’s hand, craning her neck back, still not able to see the sky: just the freshly painted black hull and, straining, the gold-trimmed white band above. To left and right, the Titanic filled their eyes. Around them fellow passengers were swarming about the pier, parents struggling to keep track of children, porters and deckhands lugging luggage. But May seemed oblivious to this chaos, her attention seized by the Promethean vessel that was making scurrying ants of them all.

  “Jack—it’s endless….”

  “Four blocks wide, dear. Eleven stories tall—not counting the four funnels. The literature says you could drive twin locomotives through one of those glorified smokestacks… but who’d want to?”

  “I can’t even see the funnels….”

  “Step back, just a little.”

  “There! There they are—they’re golden, Jack! Oh, and there’s the sky, at last.”

  Futrelle, overwhelmed by its looming enormity, was nonetheless impressed by the vessel’s racing-craft-like sleekness.

  “I think that’s the way!” Henry Harris, a giddy René on his arm, was pointing to the gentle slope of a gangway that led to the main entrance on B deck. They trundled that direction.

  “Shall we go aboard, dear?” May asked.

  “Why not?” Futrelle responded.

  TWO

  A CLOSE CALL

  INTO THE ENTRYWAY OF B deck, with its gleaming white walls and gleaming white linoleum, trooped the elegant army of First-Class passengers. They were met by a gaggle of ship’s staff—the chief steward and his assorted minions, and the purser’s clerk, who saw to it that tickets were quickly processed, names jotted in a ledger book, keys dispensed, directions to staterooms given, with smiles and courtesy and efficiency that boded well for a pleasant voyage to come.

  In the entrance hall beyond, the opulence of the ship first made itself known to the Americans: gold-plated crystal teardrop light fixtures, polished oak paneling, gilt-framed landscapes in oil, Oriental carpet, horsehair sofas, silk lampshades, caneback chairs with red velvet cushions….

  The abundance of it all assaulted their senses, stopping them in their tracks. May gasped, René began to laugh, and both women did pirouettes, looking all about with the wide, innocently greedy eyes of children in a lavishly stocked toy store.

  To the right rose a magnificent marble staircase enclosed by a grand framework of wood sculpture, its carved walnut flowers running floor to ceiling, with exquisitely sculpted oak balustrades bearing wrought-iron and gilt-bronze scrollwork.

  Henry put his hands on his hips and laughed. “And I thought I was a producer! This makes the Lusitania look like a garbage scow.”

  Futrelle was admiring a beautiful bronze cherub perched on a pedestal at the center of the foot of the flight of stairs. “Well, I heard White Star planned to leave speed to Cunard, and concentrate on luxury—apparently it wasn’t just the bunkum.”

  Only the relative lowness of the ceilings in this reception area provided a hint that this was anything but the finest land-based hotel. Behind them, the next group of First-Class passengers was traipsing in, to be similarly bowled over by this opulence.

  The two couples made their way around and down the staircase to C deck, and were soon padding along a wide, blue-carpeted, brass-railed white corridor on the port side of the ship, where other First-Class passengers were following the path to their staterooms, as well. Up ahead was that family from the boat train, the handsome couple with the lovely little golden-haired girl, shapely blunt-nosed nanny with babe in arms and plump maid. They had paused and the young husband was speaking to someone.

  John Crafton.

  “Is your friend making friends again?” Henry whispered, walking just behind Futrelle and May.

  Actually, he seemed to be. Crafton’s pearl-gray fedora was in his hands and he was smiling pleasantly, or at least as pleasantly as possible for him, and both the husband and the wife were returning the smile, with no apparent strain.

  Only the nanny was frowning, and seemed nervous, but then again the baby in her arms was squirming and fussing.

  As the Futrelles and Harrises approached where the little group clustered, blocking the way, Crafton noticed and said, “We seem to be holding things up… I’m so pleased to have run into you, Mr. Allison, Mrs. Allison. Until later, then.”

  Crafton tipped his hat and—the Futrelles and Harrises standing aside for him—swaggered past, cane in hand, nodding and smiling as he did.

  René twitched her nose. “Why does a smile from him make me crave a bath?”

  This required no answer, and anyway, they were up even with that family, now.

  “I’m afraid we always seem to be in the way,” the young husband said, turning toward the two couples with an embarrassed grin. “I’m Hudson Allison, this is my wife Bess, our daughter Lorraine… Alic
e, there, has little Trevor.”

  Introductions were made all around, hands shaken (though of course the maid was not mentioned, and nanny Alice only that once in passing); but more passengers were coming up the corridor and the baby was crying, so further information, getting better acquainted, would have to wait. It was time for everyone to move on.

  Heading aft, making a left turn down a hallway (for all its length, the ship wasn’t all that wide—perhaps ninety feet), the Harrises finally found C83, their cabin. Before pushing on to find their own quarters, the Futrelles peeked in at the lovely little room with its graceful, even dainty Louis XVI styling, exemplified by walls of white-and-green-and-gold brocade with whitewashed waist-high walnut trim.

  “Oh, René,” May said. “It’s simply beautiful!”

  “Step inside, you two,” René said.

  A gilt-adorned carved walnut bed with silk-damask-upholstered head- and footboard dominated the room, that same upholstery carried to a plump sofa and a padded walnut armchair. A basket of fresh flowers adorned a rosewood-and-walnut dressing table, and more flowers waited on the marble-topped mahogany nightstand. A small black fan was ceiling-mounted, perching like a big out-of-place bug in all this elegance.

  “I guess our baggage will be delivered later,” Harris said, taking in the posh little room with a big grin.

  “Wrong again, Henry B.,” René said—she’d been exploring. “Here it all is!”

  In a spacious trunk closet, as if they’d materialized magically, were neatly stacked the array of steamer trunks and bags.

  “Can all the rooms be this marvelous?” May wondered.

  “Let’s find out,” Futrelle said, and to the Harrises added, “We’ll probably head up on deck to take in the departure.”

  “We’ll find you up there, or see you at luncheon,” Henry said. René waved, saying, “Toodle-oo, you two!”, and the Futrelles pressed on.

  The numbering of the rooms was confusing and inconsistent, and by the time they found theirs—C67/68—the Futrelles were not far from where they’d started, the area near the C-deck entrance hall and the grand stairway.

  “We’re going in circles already,” Futrelle said, working the key in the door, not sure if the size of this ship was to his liking.

  But May’s eyes glittered with girlish anticipation. “Let’s see if our accommodations measure up to Henry and René’s.”

  They did, and then some.

  The Futrelles found themselves in a suite that made the Harrises’ quarters seem like a plush closet: awash with the elegance of Louis Quinze stylings, the oak-paneled suite consisted of a sitting room adjoining a bedroom (off of which were both a bathroom and a steamer-trunk closet—their things, too, had been delivered). The carpeting was a deep blue broadloom.

  “Oh Jack,” May said, breathlessly. “This is too much….”

  “The last time I saw a room like this,” Futrelle said, “a velvet rope was keeping me back, and a tour guide was nudging me on.”

  The sitting room was almost cluttered with fine furnishings with their typical Quinze cabriolet legs and ebony wood—replete with rococo carvings, in a shell motif—and upholsteries of delicate shades of blue: a sinuously contoured sofa, a round table with a damask cloth, corner writing desk, assorted formal chairs. A large gilt-framed mirror leaned out over the white-and-gold sham fireplace with an ornate gold clock on the mantel; on either side of the mirror were windows—not portholes—blue-striped satin curtains gathered back for ocean views.

  “How can I make myself at home in this showroom?” Futrelle asked May, thinking she was beside him, but she wasn’t.

  Glowing, she leaned out from the adjacent room. “Jack, come take a look at this bedroom—”

  “Now this is starting to sound like a second honeymoon,” he said, joining her, but she wasn’t paying any attention to his flirtation. She was caught up in the grandeur of their sleeping quarters.

  Ebony woods and the rococo shell motif continued, but shades of rose had taken over the fabrics, and the carpeting was a cream-and-rose floral that Futrelle hesitated to set foot on with his lowly shoes. Like a child in a flower garden, May flitted from furnishing to furnishing—mirrored dresser, table with lamp and chairs, pink-and-white striped chaise lounge—touching each as if to test its reality. A four-poster brass bed with plump pillows and pink quilted bedspread nestled to the right of the adjoining room’s door.

  “I wonder what we did to deserve this,” Futrelle muttered, mostly to himself.

  May was peeking in the bathroom, saying, “Before we go up on deck, I’d like to freshen up.”

  He checked his pocket watch. “We’re supposed to shove off at noon—that’s fifteen minutes from now.”

  A shrill ringing caught both their attentions.

  Futrelle, frowning, turned in a half circle, as the ringing continued. “What the hell… is that some kind of ship’s signal?”

  “What do you think it is, silly?” She smirked prettily and pointed to the marbletop nightstand, and the telephone there, from which the ringing emanated. “Some detective you are.”

  “Telephones?” Futrelle said, going there, not sure whether he was impressed by the extravagance or offended by it. “The cabins on this ship have telephones? Amazing… Futrelle, here.”

  The voice in his ear said, “Mr. Futrelle, J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the White Star Line.”

  Futrelle had to smile; as if Ismay needed to identify himself as such…

  “Yes, Mr. Ismay. To what do I owe this pleasure? I refer to both this call, and this sumptuous suite we find ourselves in.”

  “The White Star Line believes that celebrities like yourself should travel in style. If you could spare me five minutes, in my suite, I can explain further, and properly welcome you to my ship.”

  May was already in the washroom.

  “Certainly,” Futrelle said. “Can I get there without a taxicab?”

  Ismay laughed, once. “You’ll find all the First-Class cabins and facilities on the Titanic are rather conveniently grouped together. I’m just a deck above you, sir—almost directly above you, in B52, 54 and 56.”

  “That’s even one more number than we have.”

  Another laugh. “You know what they say about rank and its privileges. Can you come straightaway?”

  “Delighted.”

  A minute later, more or less, Futrelle knocked once, at the door of Suite B52, and almost instantly, the door opened. Futrelle had expected a butler or valet to answer, but it was J. Bruce Ismay himself, a surprising figure, in several ways.

  First, he wore a jaunty gray sporting outfit—Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers and heavy woolen hose—where Futrelle had expected something more pretentious of the man.

  Second, Ismay was the rare human who towered over Futrelle, a man who himself had been described by one reporter as a “behemoth.” Ismay topped six feet four, easily, although the narrow-shouldered man lacked Futrelle’s massive build; in fact, he looked slight and soft, for as tall as he was.

  But Ismay did cut a fine figure in his sports clothes: a handsome devil, in his late forties or early fifties Futrelle judged, trimly mustached, with bright dark eyes in a heart-shaped face, his healthy head of dark hair touched here and there with gentle gray.

  In a tenor voice, confident and cutting, his host announced himself: “J. Bruce Ismay.”

  Somehow Ismay had resisted the urge to add: “Chairman of the White Star Line,” and somehow Futrelle had resisted the smart-aleck urge to utter it, himself.

  “Mr. Ismay,” Futrelle said, with a little nod.

  Ismay was extending his hand; and Futrelle took it, shook it—a firm enough grasp. “Bruce, please, call me Bruce.”

  “Jack Futrelle. Call me Jack.”

  “Do come in. I had hoped you’d bring your lovely wife along.”

  But of course Ismay hadn’t mentioned to Futrelle that he should bring his wife; and Futrelle already had the firm idea that Ismay wasn’t the sort for such an over
sight—this was meant to be a private meeting between the two men, as the absence of any servant or secretary augured.

  “May’s settling in, in our suite, before we go up on deck for the waves and cheers.”

  “Mustn’t miss that.”

  Ismay’s sporting attire—apropos for the great ship’s departure as it might be—seemed suddenly absurd in the ostentatious suite with its French Empire decor. If the Harrises’ cabin had paled next to the Futrelles’ stateroom, Ismay’s suite of rooms reduced them both to shanties.

  The parlor into which the two men had entered was white-painted oak with a beamed ceiling and built-in fireplace, an oblong gilt-framed mirror over its mantel. The mahogany and rosewood furnishings, sometimes ebony-punctuated, reflected the straight and curved, ponderous and heavy, construction of a style dictated by the Little Corporal himself: the Napoleonic paw and claw feet, the brass and ormolu mounts, carved winged griffins and pineapples. No sissy stripes or floral patterns adorned the rich, heavy upholstery: strictly royal blue, like the carpet and sofa, or deep red, like the gathered curtains on the windows that looked out not onto the ocean, but a private, enclosed promenade deck.

  A door stood open onto a similarly grand bedroom, and a door in that room onto another.

  “Impressive digs,” Futrelle said. “Remind me to acquire some rank so I can get privileges like these… not that I’m complaining about my own accommodations, mind you.”

  “Sit, please,” Ismay said, gesturing to a round, blue-damask-clothed table in the center of the parlor. Futrelle did, and Ismay, not sitting yet, asked, “Too early for a drink? Some lemonade, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Ismay sat across from Futrelle, and smiled shyly, a smile Futrelle didn’t fully believe. “Normally I wouldn’t travel in such a highfalutin fashion… not on my company’s dollar, at any rate.” Ismay gestured about him. “This parlor suite was reserved for Mr. Morgan, but he took ill at the last moment… so why let it sit empty?”

  By “Mr. Morgan,” Futrelle took that to mean American financier J. Pierpont Morgan, the Titanic’s titanically wealthy owner, the man who’d acquired the White Star Line from the Ismays a decade before.