The Titanic Murders (15 page)

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?”