The Titanic Murders (20 page)

Then the old man rose, nodding to his audience, bidding them pleasant good-byes individually, and exited from the Smoking Room like a tugboat with legs.

Futrelle followed him through the revolving door.

“Where are you headed, sir?”

“Ah, Mr. Futrelle! Jack! To my stateroom on C deck.”

“I’m on C deck, as well. I’ll walk with you, if you’ve no objection.”

“Pleased and proud to be in your company, young man.”

Soon they were on the staircase, and Futrelle said, “I witnessed you, on the boat train, in a brief altercation with John Crafton.”

Stead frowned and paused. “Are you unfortunate enough to know the sorry specimen?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Surely you don’t call him your friend!”

“No! He, uh… if I may be frank, sir, he tried to blackmail me.”

Stead continued on up the stairs. “Why, in God’s name? Forgive me… it’s none of my business.”

They were in the reception area of B deck, now, and the chairs were deserted.

“Could we sit for a moment, Mr. Stead? I’d like to share something with you.”

Stead seemed a little surprised by the request, but he said, “All right,” and they took chairs at a small table.

“I hope it’s not another ghost story,” Stead said.

“No,” Futrelle grinned.

Then, once again, Futrelle told of Crafton’s attempt to expose the mystery writer’s supposed “mental aberrations.”

“He is a man without conscience, without morals,” Stead said, shaking his head bitterly. “You see, I’m to speak at the Men and Religion Forward convention, at Carnegie Hall, this April twenty-first—I go on between Booker T. Washington and William Jennings Bryan—and Crafton threatened to besmirch my appearance by making public, in the more scurrilous publications, my jail sentence.”

Futrelle could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You were in jail?”

“You’d have no reason to know of it, Jack—you were a child when it happened, and it was news in England, not America.”

“What were you jailed for, if I might ask?”

“Abduction of a thirteen-year-old girl for immoral purposes.”

Futrelle could find no words to respond.

Astonishingly, Stead was beaming. “It does sound bad, doesn’t it? But it’s an experience of which I am inordinately proud, I must admit. You see, in order to demonstrate how easily young girls could be sold into white slavery, I arranged with several ‘accomplices’ to buy a child from her mother. This despicable deed done, we took the child to a house of ill repute, where she was accepted by the proprietress, and taken to a room where the next client would surely deflower the child—but, my point made, I then spirited the girl off, before any harm had been done to her. We sent to her France, where she was given a good life away from a mother willing to sell her into prostitution.”

“So this was a… stunt?”

Stead frowned at that characterization. “Much more than that, sir. Thanks to my efforts, the law was changed in England—the age of legal consent raised from thirteen to fifteen—and my book
The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon
exposed to one and all, for once and for all, this criminal vice, this foul child prostitution.”

“Why did you go to jail?”

He shrugged and half a smile could be seen in the thicket of beard. “The mother brought charges. I’m sure we could have bought her off, Jack—but I chose instead to go to jail for three months. I wore my jail uniform proudly thereafter—until it fell to pieces.”

Futrelle could only laugh and say, “Sir, you are a remarkable man.”

“Perhaps, from this, you can extrapolate my reaction to a blackmail attempt from the likes of John Crafton.”

“I witnessed your reaction—fairly strong for a pacifist.”

Stead shrugged. “He hasn’t contacted me since. I have not seen him since I came aboard, but then I’ve chiefly confined myself to my stateroom, going over the proofs of my new book.”

“Sir, I feel it only fair to make you aware of another unpleasant action of Mr. Crafton’s: he’s told certain other ‘clients’ of his on this ship that you and he are partners.”

The clear blue eyes widened. “What? That’s a damned lie!”

“I know, sir. But you can see the cunningness of it—your presence on the ship, your reputation for exposing crime and corruption…”

Stead was, after all, the author of such works as
If Christ Came to Chicago
and
Satan’s Invisible World Displayed: A Study of Greater New York.

“Jack, do you know who this fabrication has been foisted upon?”

“I know of Mr. Straus and Mr. Astor, only.”

He laughed harshly. “They’ll see through him. They know of my association with the Salvation Army. I would tarnish the name of neither of these good charitable families.”

This was neither the time nor place to bring it up, but Futrelle could only wonder how this crusader could in good conscience overlook John Jacob Astor’s wretched history as a slum landlord.

Then Stead unexpectedly answered the unposed question: “The Astors of this world did not create the class that is the poor. My enemies are those who are mandated to serve society, but who choose instead to profit from the misery of others: crooked police, the corrupt politicians, those Tammany Hall villains.”

Futrelle rose. “Well, I think we can go on up to bed now, sir. I appreciate your hearing me out.”

And Stead rose, as well. “I appreciate the information, Jack.”

On C deck, Futrelle bid the old man good night.

“It’s a monstrous floating babylon, this ship,” Stead said, heading down the corridor, “isn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes it is.”

But as Futrelle entered his stateroom, where his wife was asleep with the light on and
The Virginian
in her arms, he wasn’t sure whether Stead meant to compliment the
Titanic
or insult it.

And he wasn’t sure if Stead knew, either.

DAY FOUR

APRIL 13, 1912

NINE

STEERAGE

E
VEN ON THE
T
ITANIC
,
A
vessel whose motion was at best barely detectable, Futrelle found that the subtle pulse of steaming engines and rushing waters conspired to make shipboard sleep particularly restful, satisfying, deep and dreamless. The unexpected and unwelcome alarm of the shrill ringing phone awakened him instantly, nonetheless, and he snatched the receiver from its cradle before the gently slumbering May, beside him, was similarly disturbed.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“Jack, it’s Bruce—Bruce Ismay.”

At least he didn’t say “J. Bruce Ismay.” But Futrelle sat up, reading the signal of the frazzled edge in the White Star director’s voice.

“Yes, Bruce,” Futrelle said thickly, wedging his glasses onto his nose, as if seeing better would help clear the cobwebs from his mind and ears.

“Did I wake you? If so I apologize, but it’s urgent that we see you, the captain and I.”

“Certainly. Your suite?”

“No, Captain Smith’s. It’s on the boat deck, starboard side, near the wheelhouse. There’s a gate separating the First-Class promenade and the officers’ promenade.”

“I know where that is.”

“Good. Second Officer Lightoller will be waiting there for you.”

“Give me five minutes,” Futrelle said, hung up, and rolled out of bed.

May turned over and her eyes slitted open. “What was that?”

Her husband was at the closet, selecting his clothes. “Ismay again. Probably wanting to know how my inquiries went yesterday.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

Climbing into his pants, he said, “Only what I see fit. I’m not getting Hoffman or Navatril or whatever-his-name-is into hot water. It’s not my place.”

She smiled sleepily at him. “You have a soft heart, Jack. That’s one of the few hundred reasons why I love you… What time is it, anyway?”

Slipping into his shirt, he walked over and checked the nightstand clock, an ornate gold item that would have been at home on a palace mantel. “After nine… I guess we slept in.”

She sat up, covers in her lap, her breasts perky under the nightgown. “Shall I get dressed? Shall we have breakfast when you get back, in the Dining Saloon? Or call room service again?”

Futrelle, otherwise clothed, was sitting on a chair, tying his shoes. “Why don’t you call room service, darling. Then we can talk frankly, about whatever it is Ismay and Smith want me for.”

Waiting at the forward end of the First-Class promenade on the boat deck, at the accordion gate, was crisply uniformed
Second Officer Lightoller, a tall man (though not as tall as Futrelle) with dark close-set eyes, pointed features and a jutting jaw.

“Mr. Futrelle?” The voice was deep, resonant.

“Officer Lightoller, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

Futrelle stepped through, and Lightoller closed and locked the folding gate behind them: a near slam followed by the click of the key in the lock; there was something ominous about it. Then the businesslike Lightoller led Futrelle down the officers’ promenade to a door marked
CAPTAIN—PRIVATE
, which in military terms seemed a contradiction, and the second officer knocked.

Smith himself answered, in his navy-blue uniform today, graced with the usual ribbons; but he was not wearing his hat, and the lack of it was somehow disturbing. So were the eyes in the comfortingly stern white-bearded visage: they seemed cloudy, troubled.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Futrelle,” Smith said, the soothingly soft voice touched with, what? Melancholy? Distress?

The captain motioned Futrelle in, instructing Lightoller to wait outside the door.

These quarters, with their white-painted walls and oak wainscoting, harbored the no-nonsense, spartan style characteristic of a naval man, leaving luxury to the First-Class passengers; maple and oak Colonial furnishings gave the spacious sitting room a New England air, as did the handful of modestly framed nautical prints. This sitting room was also a sort of office, as in one corner, by a porthole, sat a heavy Chippendale desk with many compartments, and a brass captain’s-wheel lamp atop it. A doorway stood half-open for a glimpse into the bedroom.

In the midst of the room, Ismay was seated at a round table—a captain’s table—and there it was, the captain’s hat, crown down, like a centerpiece bowl awaiting flowers or fruit.

The White Star director—in an undertaker’s black suit and tie—was pale as milk, if the milk had gone as sour as his expression, anyway; dark pouches lingered under bloodshot eyes and even his mustache seemed wilted.

Captain Smith gestured to a chair at the round table and Futrelle sat, and so did he.

“Would you be so kind,” Ismay said, and despite his cadaverous appearance, there was nothing rude or anxious in his voice, “to provide an informal report as to the results of your ad hoc investigation, yesterday, Mr. Futrelle?”

Futrelle glanced sharply at Captain Smith, who said, almost sheepishly, “It became necessary to acquaint Mr. Ismay with our arrangement.”

After a sigh and shrug, Futrelle said, “Well, as you both can guess, I had to be indirect in my questioning, and in my approach. Most of our suspects, if indeed that’s what they are, are distinguished, notable individuals. If you are expecting a detailed list of alibis and denials of guilt, I have none.”

“What did you learn?” Ismay asked politely. “What did you observe?”

“What,” the captain added, “are your suspicions?”

“I spoke with Mr. Straus, Mr. Astor, Mr. Guggenheim, Mr. Rood, Mr. Stead, even Mrs. Brown. And I’d spoken frankly about Crafton with Major Butt prior to the blackmailer’s death. I also spoke with Mr. Hoffman. By being frank with them about the nature of how Crafton intended to blackmail me, all but one of them was equally frank with me. Now, my friends, I see no reason to share with you what these reasons are; suffice to say,
that while every one of these gentlemen, and the one lady, did have something in their past or present that Crafton conceivably could attempt to blackmail them over, none of these people seemed agitated enough to kill, none of their skeletons-in-the-closet seemed worthy of murdering the man over.”