The Lusitania Murders (8 page)

Startled by my inclusion in this raiding party, I asked, “And if I should find any?”

She beamed at me and the blue eyes sparkled. “Why, remove them.”

I nodded dutifully.

“Unlock the pantry, Captain,” she said, so lightly it didn’t seem the command it was. “Stand aside, everyone. . . .”

Anderson positioned himself nearest the door, Williams fell in after him along the corridor wall and—at Miss Vance’s gestured command—I tucked myself next to the door along the wall on the opposite side. The staff captain used his key in the lock, then pulled down the handle and shoved the door open.

Miss Vance was smiling—something delightfully demented in that smile, I might add—as she stood at the open doorway, aiming the gun in at them, like a stickup
artist robbing a stagecoach, an image that suited what she said: “Put ’em up, boys!”

Then she took a step back and, almost imperceptibly, nodded in a manner that sent Anderson and then Williams and, yes, me scrambling into that cramped pantry.

The three stowaways stood crowded together, but with their hands high and their eyes on the fierce, pretty (and pretty fierce) woman in the doorway. I took the one nearest me, the dark-blonde average fellow, and “patted him down” (as Miss Vance had put it), finding no weapon. Anderson did the same with the brawny blonde one, whom I’d earlier tripped up; and Williams was checking the skinny tall dark-haired stowaway, who seemed the youngest of the trio, and the most anxious.

No guns or knives or anything resembling a weapon was found.

Nor was any identification or even personal items, for that matter.

Williams handcuffed the stowaways—hands behind their backs, Miss Vance suggested, to prevent any “Houdini nonsense”—and Williams (to whom the distaff detective had returned the revolver) and Anderson led them off, the captain saying he would return, shortly.

That left Miss Vance and myself alone in the corridor, just outside the now-vacated pantry.

“And here I was, so terribly impressed with your deductive powers,” I said.

She arched an eyebrow, smiled half a smile. “Aren’t you, anymore?”

“No. You didn’t deduce I was a writer—you’ve known my identity all along! You’ve been working with Anderson from the start.”

“I have been working with the staff captain,” she
admitted, “but he hadn’t told me about you. I didn’t learn your identity until I went to ask him about you . . . when we were on deck together, remember, eavesdropping on that conversation regarding the threatening telegrams?”

“I see . . . but that took place
before
you dazzled me with your deductions. And you told Anderson where he could find me—that’s how he knew I’d be in the Verandah Cafe, because that’s where you led me, by the ring in my nose.”

She wasn’t at all chagrined; her laughter was gay—the woman was really enjoying herself!

“You’re not a bad detective yourself, Van,” she said. “I think we’ll make a good team.”

“Really? And what if I have no desire to play Watson to some liberated female’s Holmes?”

Her smile softened. “I don’t need a Watson, Van—but I could use a partner.”

I was still slightly miffed. “Is that so?”

“Yes—you have Anderson’s ear, and his trust. I’m a woman . . .”

“I noticed.”

“. . . and that limits my sphere of influence, no matter what my expertise. He did well at first, but ultimately he became defensive . . . you agree?”

I nodded. “He doesn’t like to have the reliability of his crew challenged.”

“Yes, because it calls his judgment into question.”

Again I nodded. “His ego, his vanity . . . you might say his
male
ego and vanity. It’s not a rational response, because the good staff captain as much as admitted to me he’s had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, putting this particular crew together.”

“Right. So I would ask you to cultivate your friendship
with the captain. And in the meantime, I will cable back to New York for my home office to check up on some of these crew members.”

“The Leach boy, you mean.”

Her eyes tightened, but her brow remained satin smooth. “Yes—and Williams, too. Both arrived at the scene almost instantaneously, I gather.”

“That’s true. And the apparent ringleader, that blonde with the camera, said ‘About time,’ when Anderson barged in on them.”

She thought about that. “As if,” she said, “they were expecting someone . . .”

“A crew member?”

“That would seem a strong possibility. They spoke in German, Van?”

“Yes.”

“And you speak the language?”

“I do.”

“What else did you hear?”

“ ‘We should hide the camera.’ The same speaker, I should say.”

She nodded, then glanced at the pantry. “I’ll need to search this cubbyhole of theirs.” She turned to me. “You’re a journalist, and you speak German. I would like you to conduct the interrogation of the prisoners.”

“Isn’t that Anderson’s call?”

“Yes—but, with your permission, I’ll request that of him, and I’m sure he’ll comply.”

I shrugged. “Certainly. I’m all too glad to be of service—particularly if will help keep me from being blown to particles.”

She offered up a tiny, dimple-inducing half-smile. “That does seem a worthwhile incentive.”

“May I ask you a question, Miss Vance?”

“Of course, but, please, there was nothing false about our friendship—I am still ‘Vance,’ and you are still ‘Van.’ ”

“All right, Vance . . . are you or are you not Madame DePage’s companion?”

“I am her bodyguard, you might say. She’s travelling with a great deal of money.”

I frowned. “Isn’t it in the ship’s safe?”

“There is no ship’s safe—accommodations for valuables are available in the cargo hold, but Madame DePage considers that inadvisable. She believes. . . and I must say, so does the Pinkerton agency . . . that Cunard’s offices harbor German spies.”

“And what is the source of this information?” I asked, picturing Pinkerton’s usual rabble of street-corner informers.

“The British Consul General.”

“Oh. . . . You don’t mean to say Madame DePage’s hundred and fifty thousand in war relief funds are in . . . your suite?”

“I believe I’ve said quite enough . . . but I hope I’ve demonstrated my belief and faith in you, Van.”

She had; I was complimented and, as far as it went, she could trust me.

“Then how is it,” I asked, “that you’re also the ship’s ‘official’ detective?”

What she said next confirmed something Anderson had mentioned earlier.

“Cunard has no ship detectives,” she said, “in the manner, say, of a ship doctor. . . . Instead, they’ve found a way to conserve on this expense. Their policy is to subcontract a detective already planning passage, sometimes trading
the cost of tickets for the detective’s willingness to be on call. I believe on the last passing, a Scotland Yard man filled the bill . . . but frequently, it’s a Pinkerton man.”

“Man?” I asked.

“So to speak,” she said.

Anderson was approaching. He was still a few feet away when he said, “I have another favor to ask, Mr. Van Dine.”

“Anything to help.”

As he reached us, the staff captain was slightly out of breath; had there been a tussle? “We aren’t travelling with a translator, and I don’t know of any crew member who speaks German.”

Or at least one who would admit to it. . . .

“So,” Anderson continued, “I wondered if you’d be so kind as to serve in that capacity. We need to question these blokes, after all.”

I glanced at Miss Vance, who said, “What a splendid idea, Captain.”

He smiled, liking her approval, enjoying the illusion that he was in charge.

“In the meantime,” she said, “I will investigate here.”

“Investigate how, Miss Vance?” he asked, perhaps a touch suspicious.

“Well, I’ll begin by searching this pantry,” she said, “to see if they’ve cloistered any weapons or explosive devices.”

Anderson frowned. “If you find any of the latter, how do we proceed?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have an explosives expert on board? Anyone on the crew with experience along those lines?”

“I can check, Miss Vance, but I don’t believe so.”

“Well, then we’ll have to settle for my limited expertise in that area.”

Anderson’s eyes frowned. “And if your expertise isn’t sufficient?”

“Then you might wish to cover your ears,” she said pleasantly.

After an exchange of wide-eyed expressions, the captain and I repaired aft to the brig, on the starboard side. As we walked, we conversed.

“I’ve demanded their names,” Anderson said, meaning the stowaways, “and their intentions . . . but either none of them speak English, or they’re feigning ignorance.”

“What will you do with them?”

“Well, we could hand them over to the next inbound ship. . . we should be reaching the
Caronia
any time now.”

That was the blockading cruiser, with whom a customary mail stop was made.

“Is that wise?”

He shrugged as he walked. “I must admit I would prefer to take them to England for interrogation . . . we’re on English soil, legally speaking, making them spies in a war that America is not fighting.”

“Excellent point. And I would suggest holding on to them has yet another benefit . . .”

And I shared a particularly nasty, crafty thought with Anderson, who grinned.

“Excellent thinking,” he said. “When you question these rotters, be sure to drop that little bomb on them.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

The brig was next to the separate hospital rooms for males and females. The chamber was about twice the size of my cabin, and the entry area of the white-walled
glorified cubicle included a desk and chair (the confiscated camera was on the desktop), with a wall of bars with a jail door separating the rest off into a cell. Two bunks were on either side, with an exposed toilet and a little sink giving them running water but no privacy, or for that matter dignity—not that they deserved either.

Still in their stolen stewards’ whites, the three stowaways were not taking advantage of the bunks—two of them milled about, the tall skinny one and the fellow of average build, both tossing the occasional wary glance at their apparent leader, the burly blonde one, who stood staring at us sullenly.

“This is Mr. Van Dine,” Anderson said to them curtly. “He speaks your damn language, so there will be no excuses now.”

Anderson told me he would leave me to them—he wanted to see how Miss Vance was coming along with her investigating—and he departed. Williams sat at the desk, swivelled toward the prisoners in their cell, the revolver in his hand—a melodramatic touch, it seemed to me, with our spies under lock and key, but a certain point was made.

Positioning myself a foot or so from the wall of bars, I spoke to them in German. “Who are you, and what is your purpose?”

The blonde leader shook his head when the other two seemed eager to reply to the comforting sound of their own language.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I’m not a member of the crew—I am merely a journalist who speaks your mother tongue.”

The burly blonde perked at this, and said, “We are impoverished tourists.”

“Tourists?” I asked.

“Yes—college boys who came to America looking for a good time.”

They seemed a little old for that and I said so.

The blonde said, “We were foolish. We spent all our money on girls and whiskey. Now to get back to Europe, we have to sneak aboard. And we were caught.”

“Wearing stewards uniforms.”

He shrugged. “We found them and put them on. We hoped to blend in.”

“Speaking nothing but German?”

Another shrug. “We are foolish boys out on a lark. We made a mistake. You have heard the expression, ‘reckless youth’?”

I smiled. “Do you really think this story will hold up under British interrogation?”

The blonde said nothing, but his two cell mates stared at him with anxiety oozing from their pores.

“You see, Staff Captain Anderson has to quickly decide,” I said, “whether to bundle you boys back to the U.S.—for the next few minutes that remains an option—or to deliver you into the hands of the British secret service.”

The blonde shrugged. “You imply we would prefer to return to America. But we boarded to go to Europe. We will explain ourselves when we arrive. We’re not spies.”

“No, no, you’re college boys . . . and I’m just a journalist who doesn’t even know how Britain executes saboteurs. Do you happen to know—for my story? Is it the rope, or firing squad?”

The skinny one turned pale; he staggered over and sat on the lower bunk and put his face in his hands.

“We are foolish college boys who stowed away,” the
blonde leader said. “We have nothing else to say.”

“Fellows,” I said amiably, “I told you I’m a journalist. What you don’t know is that I work for a pro-German publisher. I was sent here to ascertain whether there are guns and munitions aboard this ship.”

That got the blonde’s attention; the other two, as well, the skinny one lifting his face from his hands.

“If you have discovered that information,” I said, “I will report it to my editor . . . and if you are frank with me about your identity, I will do my best to convince Captain Anderson that you should be sent back to America.”

The skinny one was on his feet, moving toward his leader. “Listen to him, Klaus!”

Klaus, the blonde, shot his skinny comrade a look that froze the man.

Then the blonde said, “If we were spies, we would not have had time to find out such things.”

“I see. What about explosives?”

This startled even the blonde, though he showed it less than the other two.

“Have you had time to deploy an explosive device?” I amplified.

The average fellow said, “Klaus, he’s friendly . . . he is on our side.”

“Shut up,” Klaus said. Then to me: “We are college boys. We are not who you assume us to be.”

I shrugged, and dropped my bomb, as promised. “All right. But this is what my recommendation will be to Staff Captain Anderson: Keep these three imprisoned; if they
have
set an explosive device, with a timer, they may decide to talk, after all . . . as the clock ticks away.”