The Titanic Murders (21 page)

“Any one of them could have been lying,” Ismay pointed out. “Any one of them could have withheld the true nature of the blackmail, substituting something else, something more trivial.”

Futrelle removed his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. “That’s certainly true. But I am an experienced newspaperman, Mr. Ismay, and while I do not claim infallibility, I feel I know when an interview subject is evading the truth or outright lying to me.” He snugged his glasses back on. “These men—and again, the one lady—seem to me to be telling the truth. None of them, in my at least somewhat informed opinion, had sufficient motive to kill the man.”

“But someone did,” Ismay said.

Futrelle cast another sharp look at Captain Smith, whose expression was unreadable. Then to Ismay, the mystery writer said, “You seem to have changed your opinion about Mr. Crafton dying of natural causes.”

“You have no suspicions, then, sir,” Ismay said, without addressing Futrelle’s statement.

“I asked each of them if they’d seen Crafton aboard the ship yesterday—knowing, of course, that he was already dead, and hoping to catch the killer in a lie, or at least get some indication, some nervous flash in the eyes, some tic or gesture that might indicate I’d touched a raw nerve.” He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You said, ‘with the exception of one man,’” the captain pointed out.

Nodding, Futrelle said, “Yes, Mr. Rood wasn’t very forthcoming. His reaction was the most consistent with someone who had something to hide—perhaps Crafton
was
blackmailing Rood over something worth killing for. And I suppose, if pressed, for the sake of argument, I would have to say our leading suspect is Mr. Rood.”

“I would say that’s highly unlikely,” Ismay said, dryly.

“And why is that?”

The captain sighed heavily. “Mr. Rood was murdered last night.”

“The devil you say!” In a quick chilling flash, the mummy’s curse Stead had recounted filled his mind, but Futrelle still managed to ask, “What are the circumstances? Another bedroom entry, and smothering—”

“No,” Ismay said. “He was struck a blow to the back of the head.”

Nodding toward the outside, Captain Smith said, “He may have been shoved hard, backward, into the side of one of the lifeboats, here on the boat deck.”

“What makes you think that?”

Ismay said, “His body was discovered, having been stuffed rather rudely into lifeboat seven… not terribly far from where we sit right now.”

“A hasty, clumsy job of concealment,” Captain Smith said. “One of Mr. Rood’s arms, dangling from the side of the tarp-covered craft, caught the attention of a deckhand.”

Futrelle sat forward. “My God, gentlemen. Has the word gotten out? This will cast a terrible pall across the ship.”

“Mr. Rood’s body was discovered before dawn,” Ismay said, “and, after Dr. O’Loughlin approved it—the good doctor believes
the murder took place sometime between midnight and five
A.M.
—the body was moved into the cold cargo hold, where Mr. Crafton’s remains also currently reside.”

“The lid, as they say, is still on,” Captain Smith said. “Only a handful of crew know about this, including the master-at-arms, and all have been given strict orders to speak to no one of the affair, at peril of loss of their jobs.”

“The lifeboat in question has been tidied up,” Ismay said.

“Maybe so,” Futrelle said, “and I would also like to see the ‘lid’ kept on, at least for the time being… but we’ve gone well beyond a death in a stateroom that could possibly have been written off as a heart attack. We have a murderer aboard, gentlemen… a violent one.”

“You’re correct, sir,” Captain Smith said. “We have a new set of concerns, now, for the safety of our passengers.”

Futrelle stood, and began to pace. “We understand why John Crafton, in all probability, was killed; he was a damned blackmailer. But why Rood?”

Ismay said nothing, but shot a telling look at Captain Smith, who was also mute and expressionless.

“Gentlemen,” Futrelle said, sensing something was up, “did you conduct a complete search of Mr. Crafton’s room, yesterday?”

After a few moments, Ismay nodded.

“Did you turn up anything of interest? Any documents pertaining to our late friend’s blackmail victims, perhaps?”

“No,” Ismay said.

“All right. Has Rood’s cabin been searched?”

Again, Ismay paused but finally said, “Yes.”

“And?”

“We found a room key that was not Rood’s own.”

“Really? Whose room key was it?”

“… Crafton’s.”

Futrelle’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Rood had a key to Crafton’s room? If he weren’t dead, I’d say he was still our best suspect. What about blackmail documents?”

Ismay said nothing, and he avoided Futrelle’s gaze.

But Captain Smith frankly said, “We did find certain documents, pertaining to our First-Class passengers.”

Ismay, rather petulantly, added, “Yourself included, sir.”

Futrelle sat down heavily. “Specifically, what?”

“Various items,” Captain Smith said. “Statements from witnesses… photostatic copies of various records… in your case, of a hospital admissions book. Frankly, we haven’t examined them closely.”

“Good God, man—you haven’t destroyed them, have you?”

“No!” The captain seemed rather offended by the suggestion. “These documents are evidence. When we reach port, the material will have to be read, have to be handed over to the authorities.”

Ismay shook his head, moaning, saying, “The embarrassment to our passengers… On a maiden voyage, a catastrophe like this, it’s unimaginable.”

Futrelle didn’t bother pointing out that the embarrassment Ismay was concerned about was his own, and his company’s.

Instead, he said, “Where are the documents now?”

“In the purser’s safe,” the captain said. “Mr. Futrelle, as bizarre as the proposition might sound, could we have
two
murderers aboard? If Mr. Rood had obtained the extra key, and used it to enter and slay Mr. Crafton, it would explain the presence in Rood’s room of these sensitive documents.”

Futrelle smiled but he wasn’t happy. “Rood wasn’t Crafton’s blackmail victim, gentlemen—he was his accomplice.”

Captain Smith’s eyes widened and he shook his head, no. “Have you forgotten that Rood assaulted Crafton in the Smoking Room!”

“Conveniently staged by the two of them,” Futrelle said, “to cloak their collaboration.”

The eyes of both men seemed to light up as they grasped the implications.

Futrelle continued: “And Rood was unforthcoming to me, yesterday, because he alone of those I spoke to knew that Crafton was dead, or was at least in a bad way. Rood may have entered his partner’s cabin and seen the body, before that housekeeping stewardess discovered it; or he may have realized that the guard posted on Crafton’s room meant that either his partner was in custody, or dead.”

“So the motive remains the same,” Captain Smith said. “Another blackmailer has been murdered.”

“And probably by one of your First-Class passengers,” Futrelle said.

Ismay thought about that briefly, then said, “Your suspect in Second Class—Mr. Hoffman—might have made his way to the boat deck, in the middle of the night. That is when our crew members would be most susceptible to a bribe from a Second-Class passenger who wanted to see how the other half traveled.”

“What are we going to do, gentlemen?” Futrelle asked.

Ismay’s eyes narrowed and his voice cut like a knife. “You, sir, are going to do nothing. You will cease and desist, where your investigation is concerned, and you will speak to no one of this, including your wife.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”

“I apologize for the harshness of my tone. Perhaps, if you and your delightful wife were moved to Second Class, it would remove the temptation of talking about this matter with the First-Class passengers.”

“Why not put us in steerage? Then I couldn’t even talk to Hoffman.”

Ismay smiled and half bowed. “Very gracious of you. Shall I make the arrangements?”

“Mr. Ismay,” Captain Smith said sharply, “I don’t appreciate any attempt to intimidate Mr. Futrelle. As you damn well know, his investigation was at my request. He’s generously helped us, and I won’t condone your rudeness to him. Must I remind you that I’m still the captain of this ship?”

Ismay nodded. “I apologize, gentlemen. The captain is quite right. Mr. Futrelle, I do thank you for what you’ve done, and request your cooperation.”

Futrelle offered half a smile to the White Star director. “I was just about to say yes to your idea of writing a murder mystery set on the
Titanic.
I believe we have the right subject matter, now.”

Ismay sighed, his eyes going to half-lidded. “Perhaps I deserve that. Can I count on your cooperation, Jack?”

“Bruce… Captain Smith… I’m at your service. Will you be launching an official inquiry? Perhaps by the master-at-arms?”

The captain shook his head. “No. But we will be heightening ship’s security. These murders both happened after dark. Let’s hope the daylight is safe.”

“I don’t think our passengers are in any danger,” Ismay said. “The only victims have been blackmailers, and unless a third accomplice is aboard, who would be at risk?”

“I tend to agree,” Futrelle said, rising, “but I applaud the captain’s precautions nonetheless.”

“I have suggested,” Ismay said, “that we proceed with all possible speed into port. The sooner we have our passengers safely on shore, the better.”

“With the extra boilers lit, we may be able to reach New York as early as Tuesday evening,” Captain Smith said, rising, adding, “I’ll see you out, Mr. Futrelle.”

The captain walked with Futrelle down the officers’ promenade, Second Officer Lightoller walking behind, keeping a respectful distance.

Staring out at the gray sea under the gray-blue sky, the captain asked, “Do you think there’s anything we’ve overlooked, sir?”

Futrelle considered that for a few seconds, then admitted, “The only thing that comes to mind… and it’s probably nothing… is the Allison family.”

“The Allisons.” Captain Smith nodded. “I’ve spoken to Hudson Allison; nice fellow. What connection could he have to any of this?”

“You wouldn’t think anything… but I know for a fact Crafton sought the Allisons out, was friendly to them. If you were to ask Hudson and Bess Allison about John Bertram Crafton, they would tell you what a friendly, charming fellow he is. Of course, their nanny was giving him the evil eye….”

Captain Smith stopped dead. “Their nanny? A woman named Alice something?”

“Why, yes…”

Why in God’s name would the captain of a ship the size of the
Titanic,
carrying thousands of passengers, remember or even ever know the name of one family’s nanny?

The captain turned to Lightoller and asked, “Do you have that note, Mr. Lightoller, that came up from Third Class a day or two ago?”

“I believe I know where it is, sir. We didn’t do a thing about that, though, sir.”

“I know. Fetch it, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lightoller clipped off, toward the wheelhouse, and Futrelle said, “I’m afraid, Captain, you’ve got me thoroughly confused.”

“A note came up from Third Class, I don’t remember the name of the fellow, but the gist of it was that he knew something about the Allisons’ nanny and wanted to know what it was worth.”

“Sounds like you have a blackmailer in steerage, too.”

Captain Smith twitched a frown. “We didn’t follow up on it—it seemed just a crank note, and unclear as to its purpose at that. If the Allisons are satisfied with their nanny, why should the opinion of some lout in steerage be of any interest or concern?”

Lightoller was on his way back, a small piece of paper in hand.

The captain said, “Give that to Mr. Futrelle, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” Lightoller said, and did.

“That will be all, Mr. Lightoller. I’ll see Mr. Futrelle to First Class.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the captain and the mystery writer were alone on the promenade.

“Mr. Futrelle, would you do me the favor of looking into this for me? Mr. Andrews will see that you get down to steerage…
and
back again, despite Mr. Ismay’s wishes.”

“My pleasure. Does this mean I’m back on the case, Captain?”

A glorious smile appeared in the impeccably trimmed snowy beard. “It’s my last crossing, Mr. Futrelle. What’s Ismay going to do—fire me?”

The captain said he had alerted Mr. Andrews that Futrelle would be stopping by, and the writer made his way to the shipbuilder’s suite on A deck, on the port side of the ship just off the First-Class aft reception area. Along the way Futrelle read the note, written in pencil, in a legible cursive hand and, despite a few misspellings, fairly literate, seeming to speak less of blackmail than Captain Smith had implied:

To the captain

       I have notice on your fine shipp Miss Alice Cleaver nurse to young children of man and wife in first class who’s name I don’t know. Details on Miss Cleavers past history is of value to parents.

       Untill I hear from you sir I remain your servant

Alfred Davies

Futrelle folded the note and dropped it in his pocket, then knocked on the door of A36. He was just ready to knock again when Andrews appeared, wearing coveralls, a distracted expression and the baggy-eyed look of a man who wasn’t getting enough sleep.

“Good morning, Tom,” Futrelle said. “Are those the required togs for Third Class?”

“Pardon?” Then he looked at himself. “Oh, this boiler suit… no, after I’ve put you and your Mr. Davies together, I have to go down to the stokehold, to speak to the chief engineer.”

Beyond the gentle-faced man with the rugged build in the doorway, a glimpse of the sitting room of A36 showed it had been given over to an office: blueprints were pinned to a drafting table near a desk arrayed with charts rolled up like treasure maps, piles of paper bearing calculations and sketches, and a half-eaten breakfast roll.

As they went down the stairway to C deck, Futrelle said, “You must be the only man in First Class not having a good time, Tom.”