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?”
“Most likely not,” he said casually, face bland, legs churning. “He claimed this fellow Stead was going to publish an exposé about the conditions of certain of our buildings.”
Futrelle knew very well that the Astors—who owned much of Manhattan—numbered among their ample holdings not only the opulent Astoria Hotel but block upon block of notoriously wretched slums.
“Do you think Stead could be an accomplice of Crafton’s?” Futrelle asked. This time he kept to himself Stead’s vigorous rebuff of the ferrety little man on the boat train.
“Very doubtful. You see, Mr. Stead is aligned with the Salvation Army…”
And as Astor caught a breath, Futrelle—fresh from hearing Isidor Straus sing so similar a song—finished for him: “Which is high on the list of those on the receiving end of the Astors’ many charitable contributions.”
“Quite so. Also, several other charities designed to aid former prostitutes and unwed mothers, pet causes of Mr. Stead’s; my family, my mother in particular, has long been a supporter of these causes.”
“So, this Crafton—you refused to pay the bastard.”
“No. I paid him. He only wanted a pittance—five thousand.”
Futrelle, on his bike ride to nowhere, was feeling light-headed; whether it was this exercise, which he wasn’t used to, or encountering Astor’s nonchalant attitude toward paying off a blackmailer, he couldn’t be certain.
“Tell me, Colonel, have you seen Crafton around the ship at all today?”
“No.” Astor suddenly stopped pedaling. His forehead was beaded with sweat but he wasn’t breathing hard. “I can’t say I was looking for him, either. He’s rather disagreeable company, don’t you think?”
Futrelle had stopped his pedaling, too. Astor was headed over to the rowing apparatus; he paused there and glanced at Futrelle, saying, “You mind if I have the first go, Jack?”
“It’s all yours, Colonel,” Futrelle said. “I’ve done all the traveling I care to, for the moment.”
In his stateroom, Futrelle took a warm relaxing bath, and lounged in his robe, returning to the chaise lounge and the novel Futility, the title of which seemed to him to reflect his efforts. Trying to see beyond Astor’s diffident mask was a hopeless task; like Straus, John Jacob Astor was a harder man than he might appear. Futrelle could well imagine the millionaire casually dispatching a manservant to smother a blackmailer with a pillow.
But he could also imagine Astor peeling off hundred after hundred from a fat wad of bills, to remove an annoyance, swatting the fly with money.
While Futrelle had been in the gym chasing Astor on a bolted-down bicycle, his wife had been sharing hot tea and buttered toast with Madeline Astor—and the Astors’ mascot Maggie Brown—in the luxurious First-Class Lounge on A deck.
The extravagantly ornate lounge, modestly based on the Palace of Versailles, was primarily the province of ladies, the distaff equivalent of the Smoking Room, sans smoking of course. The high-ceilinged oak-paneled room—with its carved scrollwork and glowing overhead bonfire of a central chandelier—had boundaries defined by a fireplace (too grand to ever light) at one end and a bookcase (too elegant to ever open) at the other. The green color scheme of the lush carpeting and richly upholstered chairs was soothing, undermined by the busy nature of their rococo designs. Scattered games of bridge and canfield were under way at the most exquisitely carved tables ever used for card playing.
But May and Madeline and Maggie weren’t playing cards; they were gossiping—or at least the latter two were… May was secretly playing detective.
The women had already discussed how the becoming, “but in no way young” Mrs. Helen Candee had attracted a harem of middle-aged men, while all agreed that a certain handsome young Swede in the Candee coterie was the likely candidate for the one having the shipboard affair.
And it had been noted that Ben Guggenheim and his mistress had given up on the pretense of traveling separately, and a number of stewards had been heard to address her as “Mrs. Guggenheim.”
“Have either of you seen this John Crafton around the ship?” May asked them casually.
“You mean that rat-faced little bastard with the gold-top cane?” Maggie Brown asked. She was bundled into a pale gray silk dress with black silk cuffs and trim, and a large wide-brimmed black velvet hat with ostrich feathers.
May, who had decided to be amused rather than disgusted by Maggie’s dockworker vocabulary, laughed and said, “I think it’s safe to say we’re talking about the same party.”
Madeline Astor—lovely in a pink silk suit with lilac satin bindings that matched the band and big bow of her wide-brimmed straw hat—leaned close and said, almost whispered, “You know, the little beggar tried to blackmail Jack and me.”
Mrs. Astor meant her Jack, not May’s. (Apparently John Jacob Astor did not require his wife to address him as “Colonel.”)
“No!” May said, sounding genuinely shocked, thinking, This detective work is easy. “He must be trying to blackmail everyone on the ship! He did the same to my Jack and me.”
And May quickly told them about the confrontation between Jack and Crafton, including her husband’s “breakdown,” and how he’d dangled the blackmailer over the balcony—which made Madeline titter, and Maggie squeal with delight.
Maggie, unabashed, turned to Madeline and said, “What d’he have on you, honey? I suppose he was threatenin’ to tell the world that that bun was in your oven ’fore you walked down the aisle.”
Madeline, who seemed quite
used to Maggie’s outrageous outbursts, tittered again, saying, “Exactly right. Oh, there was some nonsense about some of Jack’s family’s tenement properties… I didn’t follow that. But this Craft character—”
“Crafton,” Maggie corrected.
“Crafton,” Madeline said, nodding. “Well, he claimed to have documents from the hospital in Paris, where I was examined, that would prove our supposed indiscretions. But it was just a bald-faced fabrication.”
“Crafton was runnin’ a bluff?” Maggie asked.
Madeline nodded. “Maggie, I’m five months pregnant… John and I were married seven months ago. Our child was conceived in wedlock, much as that will disappoint the good people of Newport.”
“So,” Maggie said, eyes glittering with interest, “did the Colonel give the son of a bitch the boot?”
“No, I think he paid him, or anyway is going to.”
“Why?” May asked, astounded.
“It’s just easier that way. Jack is very sensitive right now to criticism, particularly about us. He very much wants to reenter society, and see me accepted… I don’t really care, myself, but it means a lot to Jack.”
“Bunch of snooty high hats,” Maggie snorted, though her apparent disdain for high society didn’t jibe with her obvious desire to join it.
“Do you know Crafton?” May asked Maggie. “Frankly, it sounds like you do.”
Maggie shrugged. “Slick little shrimp approached me, first night I come aboard. Said he wanted to talk to me about a ‘business proposition.’ I didn’t like the look of him, but I said I’d try and work him into my dance card.”
May narrowed her eyes. “But that meeting hasn’t taken place.”
“No, honey, not yet… and I haven’t seen ’im in a while—not today, anyway. How about you, Madeline?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Madeline said, with a little shrug. “I don’t really ever care to see him.”
“Y’suppose he was gonna try to blackmail yours truly?” Maggie asked, pointing a thumb to her formidable bosom.
Teasingly, May asked, “What have you done that you could be blackmailed over?”
Maggie roared. “What haven’t I done?”
Dirty looks from nearby bridge players did not sway Maggie’s enthusiasm, or her volume.
She continued: “Maybe he’s got the goods on me sleeping with a younger man or two… What he doesn’t know is, my husband doesn’t give a ding dong damn. We’re separated, and we like it that way. I don’t look in or under his bed, and he does me the same service.”
An hour later, in their stateroom, May reported all this to her husband, who said, “It doesn’t sound like Maggie Brown would’ve paid Crafton his dirty money.”
“She’s a tough old girl, Jack. I could see her doing it.”
“Smothering Crafton with a pillow?” Futrelle smirked. “Or maybe her bosom.”
May elbowed him, playfully; they were sitting on the couch together in the stateroom parlor.
“You know, I didn’t like her at first,” May said. “But Maggie Brown is a true eccentric, and about as genuine a person as you could hope to meet.”
“In First Class on the Titanic, I’d have to agree with you… Darling, you did well. Very well indeed.”
“Thank you.”
“Better than I did. Madeline Astor told you everything; her husband lied to me.”
May shook her head, no. “Not really. He told you the truth, just not all of it—he was protecting his wife. Don’t you think that’s a noble objective?”
“People have been known to kill for noble objectives.” Futrelle yawned. “We should be freshening up for dinner, soon. I think I’ll run down to the barbershop for a shave.”
“All right—just remember, we’re meeting the Harrises at six-thirty.”
The barbershop, which had two chairs, was right there on C deck, a short stroll from their stateroom, near the aft staircase. The small shop also served as a souvenir stand, offering pennants, postcards and toy life preservers; display cases showed off overpriced pipes and watches and wallets. Stuffed dolls of the Katzenjammer Kids, Happy Hooligan, Buster Brown and other cartoon characters hung from the ceiling, strung up like a comics-page lynching.
Both chairs were filled as the two white-smocked barbers attended their customers; Futrelle settled in on the black leather couch, to wait his turn. There was one patron ahead of him: Hugh Rood.
Crafton’s Smoking Room adversary still had a distinguished look, his dark brown herringbone suit set off nicely by a brown-and-gold striped silk tie with diamond stickpin.
Futrelle introduced himself, and Rood—somewhat warily, it seemed—gave his name and accepted a handshake.
“I’d like to compliment you, sir,” Futrelle said. He spoke softly; the barbers were chatting with their customers, in the time-honored way, and Futrelle could—by keeping his voice down—keep their conversation private.
The handsome, reddish-haired Rood smiled, but his eyes, which were as green as money, seemed wary, confused. “What have I done to deserve a compliment from you, Mr. Futrelle?”
“You did what a lot of us wanted to do—you slapped that bastard Crafton.”
Rood’s face went curiously blank for a moment, then his brow tightened and, scowling, he said, “Nothing less than he deserved.”
“He’s a blackmailer, you know.” Quickly, he told Rood what Crafton had threatened to reveal about him.
“The man’s a cad,” Rood said.
“Might I ask why you slapped him, Mr. Rood? Did he have similar extortion designs, where you were concerned?”
The blank expression returned; then, rather coldly, he said, “Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?”
“Certainly. Forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to be rude… Mr. Rood.”
Then a chair became available and Futrelle sat down for his shave. When Rood finally took the chair next to him, for a haircut and shave, Futrelle asked, “Say, have you seen him about the ship today?”
“Who?”
“Crafton.”
“No.”
“Funny. I haven’t either. Where do you suppose he’s gotten to?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
And that was the end of their conversation; and of Futrelle’s shave. He paid the barber, tipped him well, said good-bye to Mr. Rood, who curtly said good-bye to him.
In the stateroom, as they dressed for dinner, Futrelle reported the encounter to his wife.
“Finally,” she said, “we’ve got someone who’s acting suspiciously.”
“In a way,” Futrelle said, frustrated, “Rood is behaving the least suspiciously of all… That is, like a blackmail victim with something to hide, something he doesn’t want to talk about.”
“You mean like murdering John Crafton?” May suggested.
And they went down to dinner.
SEVEN
SECOND-CLASS CITIZEN
IN THEIR EVENING CLOTHES, FUTRELLE and shipbuilder Thomas Andrews—who was leading the way—might have seemed to have wandered astray, winding through the elaborate galley on D deck.
But no one bothered the pair, not a single question met them, as they threaded through the seemingly endless array of glistening white cabinets and stainless-steel fixtures, mammoth ranges, grill after grill, oven upon oven, a bustling domain of aromas and steam, of clatter and clang. Every member of the culinary army—cooks specializing in sauces, roasts, fish, soups, desserts, vegetables; bakers and pastry chefs; busboys and dish-washers—recognized Andrews as a frequent visitor.
In fact the only comment they received was from a cook who informed Andrews, “That hot press still ain’t workin’ worth a damn, sir. Playin’ bloody hell with our sauces.”
Andrews assured the cook he was aware of the problem and working on it, as the shipbuilder and Futrelle pressed on.
“I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day,” Andrews told Futrelle. “The captain said, should you need passage to any restricted areas o
n the ship, I’m to provide it.”
The ceiling above them was arrayed with hundreds of handle-hung water pitchers.
“I’ll try not to impose—I know you’re busy, Mr. Andrews.”
“My friends call me Tom.”
“Mine call me Jack.”
They were passing by an immense open cupboard of stacked china.
Gently, Andrews asked, “Do you mind telling me what this is about, Jack? If I’m not overstepping my bounds.”
The builder of the Titanic asking this of Futrelle seemed at once absurd and extraordinary.
“I’m not allowed to say,” Futrelle said. “But it does have to do with a matter of ship security.”
“Then this is more along the lines of your criminologist expertise than newspapering or fiction writing.”
“I really shouldn’t say any more, Tom.”
“Understood.”
After dinner in the First-Class Dining Saloon, Futrelle had excused himself from May, the Harrises, Strauses and their other tablemates to approach the captain’s table. Futrelle and Smith had stepped away—out of Ismay’s hearing, if not his sight—and the mystery writer had a word with Smith about his need to speak to a certain Second-Class passenger. The captain had immediately put Andrews and Futrelle together, and sent them on this mission, through the huge galley that served both First and Second Class—the First-Class Dining Saloon was forward of the kitchens, the Second-Class Dining Saloon aft.
Not seeking to collide with waiters or busboys, Andrews and Futrelle avoided the central double push doors into the Second-Class Dining Saloon and entered through a door to the far right. They stood in the corner, looking out over hundreds of heads of diners, well dressed but not in the formal attire that now made Andrews and Futrelle look like the restaurant’s headwaiters.
The pleasant, commodious dining room—with its unadorned, English-style oak paneling—was smaller than its First-Class brother, but not much—just as wide (the width of the ship) and a good seventy feet long. The windows, here, were portholes, undisguised, and the feeling of being on a ship was more prominent than in First Class. Endless long banquet tables with swivel chairs fixed into the linoleum floor gave the dining room an institutional feel, but that was a seating style common in First Class on other liners. White linen tablecloths and fine china made for typical Titanic elegance, and the food itself—baked haddock, curried chicken and rice, spring lamb—looked and smelled wonderful.
The Titanic Murders Page 12
