The Lusitania Murders (2 page)

“You may not be aware, sir,” McClure said to me, his voice a gruff baritone, “that I’ve lost control of my own magazine . . . to my ‘loyal’ partners, and various investors.”

“I had not been so informed,” I said. But I did know that S.S. McClure’s reputation was that of a man of innovative, grandiose ideas. . . who lacked in business sense.

“Part of the buyout of the magazine that still bears my name,” McClure said, “is a ten-year noncompetition clause.”

“That applies to magazines,” Rumely put in, in his knife-blade tenor, “not to newspapers. . . . Meaning I’ve bagged one of the biggest names in publishing to edit the
News
.”

The line between McClure’s eyes tensed—the bluntness of Rumely’s expression understandably offended him.

“If I’m not overstepping,” I said, “surely you don’t
need
to work, Mr. McClure. . . .” He was approaching sixty and most certainly was comfortably wealthy.

“I
want
to work, sir,” McClure said. “I need to work. Money has never been my objective—communicating progressive ideas to the public, that, sir, is my calling.”

“I understand the impulse,” I said. “I’ve hoped to educate the unwashed masses myself . . . not in political areas, where I admit a certain lack of knowledge and even interest. But in the arts—painting, literature.”

“That’s why we’re considering you,” McClure said, “for our literary editor.”

“Book reviews, short essays,” Rumely explained, “publishing announcements, gossip. . . .”

In those days, “gossip” meant reporting the books
writers were working on, or travels they might be taking for research purposes—not peccadilloes, sexual or otherwise.

“I’m the man for the job,” I said with no modesty. “I feel an affinity with you, Mr. McClure—in our shared desire to make a difference in the world. If I could persuade readers to turn from romance novels to Joseph Conrad, if I could move them to protest censorship, as pertains to Dreiser and others—”

“All well and good, sir,” McClure cut in. “But you have a reputation for a sharp tongue—for sardonic, even sarcastic condescension.”

“Guilty,” I said with a shrug.

“I would not censor you, but I would insist that you strive to abandon any mean-spiritedness in your psyche.”

“I was younger then,” I said, referring to my controversial tenure at a
Smart Set
, as well as my biting
Los Angeles Times
writings, which had put me on the map.

McClure’s eyes appraised me unblinkingly. “How old are you, sir?”

“Thirty-three,” I said.
*

He nodded, obviously glad to hear I was no longer a young pup. “This
Lusitania
voyage will be a test of your new maturity, then.”

“I consider it a golden opportunity, Mr. McClure.”

“Your journalistic sense of fair play will be tested.”

“How well I know it. I wrote a fairly vicious piece on Hubbard in
Smart Set
.”

The homespun philosopher Elbert Hubbard was booked on the
Lusitania
; I was to ingratiate myself with him and
do “the definitive interview” with the so-called “Sage of East Aurora” (New York). That I considered him a boob and a fraud apparently was not to get in the way of this non–mean-spirited effort.

“Though you’ve written of him,” McClure said, “you have never met Hubbard . . . ?”

“I’ve been spared that pleasure thus far.”

McClure’s eyes tightened. “You should understand that I admire Elbert Hubbard—consider him a sort of roughhewn genius. . . and I’m not alone. Clarence Darrow, Henry Ford, Booker T. Washington, even Teddy Roosevelt, have sat looking up at him.”

Which only meant that even the best among us have our foolish streaks.

“Impressive,” I said.

“Keep an open mind, sir. And do your best not to alienate your subject.”

To McClure, Rumely said, “That’s why we’ve arranged for our friend here to travel under a pseudonym. His true identity is known by Staff Captain Anderson, and he will of course carry a proper passport to present at journey’s end, in Liverpool.”

McClure was frowning, the line between his eyes like an exclamation point. “I dislike such deceptions.”

“Modern journalism requires bold methodology,” I opined. “If I were to travel under my own name, Hubbard would surely recognize it, and never grant me an interview.”

“Several of the other prominent passengers,” Rumely put in, “might react similarly, if they happen to know of our man’s acid reputation.”

McClure said to Rumely, as if I were not present, “Is he aware of the other potential interviewees?”

“I thought we would discuss that after you’ve taken your leave, Sam,” Rumely said.

McClure had already announced that his attendance at our little gathering would be abbreviated, as he was meeting with his wife and a group of theater-goers to attend D.W. Griffith’s new moving picture,
Birth of a Nation
, at the Liberty Cinema on Forty-second Street. It was said the show elevated that nickelodeon novelty to the level of art—which I sincerely doubted, though I did relish the thought of the theater’s new cooling system, as stifling summer months lay ahead.

“Just so we understand each other,” McClure said, his hard gaze travelling from Rumely to me. “I suppose you know that I consider myself a Progressive.”

“I do,” I said, and I did—from backing Teddy Roosevelt to extolling the virtues of health foods, McClure was if anything a freethinker.

“So is my friend Edward here,” McClure went on, and placed a hand on the bulldog’s shoulder. “We share many interests. . . . We met when my son was attending the Montessori school Edward ran for a time in LaPorte, Indiana . . . Edward agrees with my current campaign, for example, to form an international organization that would guarantee peace among all nations, world round.”
*

“How interesting,” I said, not really caring. Politics were anathema to me.

“You see, my sympathies in the current struggle are with Great Britain . . . and Edward’s are with Germany. As reasonable men who can agree to disagree, we have
struck a bargain—the
News
will air both points of view, but ban the propaganda of both.”

“I wish more newspapers would take a neutral position on the war,” I said. “I’m appalled by these crude British-slanted atrocity stories—Belgium children mutilated, women raped, shopkeepers murdered . . . tasteless rabble-rousing trash.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” McClure said. “But I will not tolerate a pro-German point of view, either . . . is that understood, sir?”

So that was the real heart of tonight’s matter.

“I will take the same neutral stance as the
News,
” I assured him.

He took a final sip from his stein. Too casually, he said, “I have learned that a book of yours is about to be published.”

I shifted in my chair. “That is true.”

“
The Teachings of Nietzsche
? Huebsch is bringing it out, I take it.”

“Actually, sir, it’s entitled
What Nietzsche Taught
 . . . and much in your tradition, I seek only to guide the general reader to a better understanding of an important philosopher’s much-maligned, much-misunderstood writings.”

He dabbed a napkin at himself, cleansing his mouth and mustache of beer foam. “There are those who say Nietzsche is to blame, in some degree, for this war—that he was the Prophet of the Iron Fist and the Teutonic Superman . . . the enemy of common, decent people.”

“Which is why my book is so important, Mr. McClure. Nietzsche wasn’t interested in the acquisition of land for the state, or glory for the Kaiser . . . but in each man’s ability to find within himself strength, confidence,
exuberance and affirmation in life . . . a life intensified to its highest degree, charged with beauty, power, enthusiasm. . . .”

I didn’t realize it, but I was sitting forward now, my voice raised somewhat, and what seemed at first an awkward silence followed . . . until McClure’s grim countenance broke into an unexpected grin.

“I like the sound of that,” he admitted. “And I like your spirit . . . and your mastery of the English language.” He gathered his coat and hat, stood and offered me his hand, which I shook. He shook hands with his publisher, and then pressed through the bustle of waiters and patrons, on his way to see D.W. Griffith’s eighteen thousand actors and three thousand horses.

We didn’t even have time to rise, and Rumely smiled on one side of his rumpled face, rumpling it further, saying, “He’s a rather brusque fellow, our McClure.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I do admire his frankness.”

“Shall we have the Luchow’s fabled sliced pancakes?”

“Certainly.”

And we did. While we ate them, my squat companion pointed out a sort of celebrity to me—a stocky, square-jawed man in his sixties, wearing an unprepossessing black suit with string tie and a bowler hat which he left on while he ate at his solitary table.

“That’s the captain of the
Lusitania
,” Rumely said. “Bowler Bill himself.”

“That’s this Anderson I’m to check in with?”

“No. Turner’s the captain, the top man, but his second in command, Staff Captain Anderson, really runs the ship. Turner’s an old salt some say is past his prime . . . bit of a martinet, a taciturn type who dislikes socializing with the passengers.”

“But doesn’t that come with the job?”

“It does, and you’ll see him from time to time—but Anderson will be your contact. The Cunard people themselves recommended we deal with him.”

“We have their full cooperation?”

“Oh yes,” Rumely said, and there was something sly in that smile into which he was currently shoveling pancakes, and a twinkle in his eyes that wasn’t fairy-like. “We have their full cooperation for a fine set of articles—pure puffery about their famous passengers.”

I was willing to write such tripe, particularly under a pseudonym. One’s pride takes second place to the need for nutrition. In recent months I had, for the first time, lowered myself to the hackwork of popular fiction writing, churning out made-to-order adventure stories for pulp magazines. I had even “novelized” (what an abhorrent word) a putrid play,
The Eternal Magdalene
, into a passably literate work.

After the pancakes came snifters of Courvoisier. The sweetness of the dessert didn’t really suit this follow-up, but I could never resist that particular cognac, even when ill-advisedly served.

“Who else besides the estimable Hubbard will feel the feathery brunt of my pen?” I inquired.

“Well, you’ll be rubbing shoulders with some interesting passengers, there in Saloon.”

“Saloon Class” was the Cunard line’s designation for first class . . . ah, first class . . . if one were to be a prostitute, let it be on a soft mattress between sweetly-scented sheets. . . .

“After Hubbard,” Rumely said, “your prime candidate will be Alfred Vanderbilt . . . probably the richest man on earth.”

“I’ll offer to take his suits to the ship’s cleaner for him,” I said. “Perhaps a million or two will turn up in his pockets.”

The owner of the restaurant, August “Augy” Luchow—a robust gentleman whose considerable girth was matched only by his bonhomie and perhaps his handlebar mustache—was making a fuss over Captain Turner.

Rumely said, “This Madame DePage—have you read of her?”

I sipped my snifter, tasted the cognac, let its warmth roll down my gullet. “The Belgium relief fund woman? She’s been too conspicuous in the press to miss, even for an apolitical lout like myself. Is she travelling the
Lusitania
?”

“Yes, she and the one hundred fifty thousand dollars in war relief cash that she’s raised in recent weeks. Her motives seem sincere—she could rate a good human-interest piece.”

“Anyone else?”

“Frohman’ll be aboard. He’s always good for a story. People love show business, you know.”

Charles Frohman was the leading theatrical producer of the day—the man who brought
Peter Pan
to the stage, and Maude Adams to
Peter Pan
.

Rumely handed me a manila envelope. “There are your tickets and other materials—using the pseudonym you requested. Is the ‘S.S.’ a reference to steamship, or to Mr. S.S. McClure, your benefactor?”

“Both,” I said. “As for Van Dine, I believe it suggests in an elegant manner the less than elegant need for nourishment.”

The bulldog smiled. “Another Courvoisier?”

“Certainly. And is there anything else we need to discuss, where business is concerned?”

Rumely seemed almost taken aback. “Why, certainly—you don’t think I sought you out to merely do the conventional bidding of my editor.”

“Well, I—”

The publisher held up a stubby hand. “We’ll have another round of cognacs, and then I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He chuckled. “Why, the real reason you’re boarding the
Lusitania
tomorrow, of course . . .
Waiter!
”

TWO
The Big Lucy

Before we get on with the tale at hand, in order to illuminate the nature of various deeds (dastardly and daring), some background seems advisable, regarding the Cunard steamship line’s unusual partnership with the British government.

By the time the nineteenth century dragged itself reluctantly into the twentieth, German liners had become the standard for speed and luxury, which offended the sensibilities of Great Britain, that self-proclaimed “greatest seafaring nation on earth.” Further, collusion between J.P. Morgan (whose White Star Line was Cunard’s greatest rival) and various non-British lines (including Holland-Amerika) set the stage for domination of North Atlantic tourist trade by the upstart American line and its foreign business allies.

Lord Inverclyde, chairman of Cunard, invoked patriotic pride to convince the British government to lend the line better than two and a half million pounds for the building
of a pair of new ships designed to restore Cunard—in terms of both speed and luxury—to a position of pre-eminence in the North Atlantic. Those ships, the sisters
Mauretania
and
Lusitania
, were in effect co-owned by the British government.