“Did you search the pantry,” she asked Anderson rather sternly, “before confining them?”
“No,” he said, taken aback by the query. “Should I have?”
“There is no telling,” she said, her manner as coolly professional as a doctor examining a patient whose symptoms were troubling, “how long this trio had been left to their own devices in there.”
She meant the pantry.
“That’s true,” Anderson admitted.
“They had plenty of time to secrete a weapon or even an explosive device. You may have just thrown Brer Rabbit into the briar patch, Captain.”
I have to give Anderson credit: Some men wouldn’t have taken such criticism, coming from a woman; but the staff captain was a bigger man than that.
“You’re correct,” he said, shaking his head. “I was a fool. . . . Williams!”
The master-at-arms, short but sturdy with dark eyes and dark thick eyebrows, snapped to; he had the confiscated camera in hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Get your revolver.”
The dark eyes flared, but the man said, “Yes, sir.”
“Handcuffs, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Vance was nodding approvingly.
We were clustered in the compact hallway, a group of men providing a court for this commanding woman. In addition to myself and the staff captain (and the now absent Williams), steward Neil Leach—a brown-haired, blue-eyed, pasty-white fellow in his middle twenties with crooked front teeth and an eager manner—stood on the periphery.
“Who is allocated to this pantry?” Miss Vance asked.
Leach spoke up. “I am, ma’am. . . . Actually, I’m in charge of the children’s dining saloon—this is their pantry.”
She nodded. “And do you keep a supply of stewards’ uniforms in there, along with foodstuffs?”
The hint of sarcasm-laced accusation in her tone was not lost on Leach, who blushed and began to fluster. “Why, no, ma’am, of course not . . .”
Anderson stood up for the lad. “A supply closet is a few steps from here, Miss Vance. And various stewards’ offices are all in this area of the ship.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Leach said, still flushed. “And our sleeping quarters, all of us stewards, are only one floor down . . . just forward of where we stand.”
“Mr. Leach,” Anderson said to the shaken steward, “perhaps you should get back to your duties.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sound of children making their usual squall indicated Anderson’s decision was a wise one.
When Leach had gone, Anderson said to Miss Vance, “I can vouch for Mr. Leach. His uncle is a good friend of mine.”
Miss Vance seemed unimpressed.
Anderson went on: “The boy’s a law student—he got stranded on vacation in New York, and I’m helping his uncle, or rather young Neil, to get to England to take his final examinations.”
“That’s all well and good,” she said. “But these stowaways were waiting in your trusted steward’s pantry, wearing stewards’ uniforms themselves.”
“For pity’s sake, Miss Vance,” Anderson said, clearly exasperated. “His father’s an English judge.”
Anderson could not understand that Americans like Miss Vance (and myself) were not as impressed with pedigrees as the English.
“Is Mr. Leach an experienced hand?” she asked.
“No—this is his first voyage.” Anderson explained to her what he had to me: that he was short-staffed, that many able-bodied seamen had been shanghaied, in effect, by the Royal Navy.
“Then we’ll keep an eye on young Leach,” she said. “After all, these three got aboard somehow. . . . Where’s your brig?”
“On this deck, aft,” Anderson said. “Down near the hospital rooms.”
“How many cells?”
“One large cell, four bunks.”
She nodded her approval.
“What did you mean,” I asked, coming in off the sidelines, “they may have explosives?”
“It’s entirely possible,” she said, “that spies such as these, in addition to using their camera to take pictures, say, of the rumored guns aboard—”
“There are none,” Anderson interrupted, obviously peeved.
“They wouldn’t know that, Captain,” she said. “In any case, spies who had taken their incriminating pictures, with the aid of greedy crew members, might well plant a bomb aboard a ship like this one, and then—stowaways and crew conspirators, alike—jump ship.”
“What, in the middle of the Atlantic?” Anderson asked, as if all of this seemed patently preposterous.
“No,” she said calmly. “Just off the shore of Ireland . . . close enough to be picked up by rowboat, or even to swim for it.”
Anderson had nothing to say to this all too plausible theory.
“They could have already placed their explosive,” I pointed out.
She brushed a blonde tendril from her face, as if she were impatient with it—or was that with me? “Yes—but I doubt they’ve engaged any timing device, as yet. Too many uncertainties about exactly when we might arrive.”
It was obvious Anderson was taking all of this seriously now. He said, “You omit one rather dire possibility, Miss Vance.”
“And what would that be?”
“Perhaps they aren’t planning to wait until they near shore. Perhaps they have already planted their device, and set their timer . . . because they intend to go over the side in a lifeboat, and be plucked from the seas by a U-boat.”
I frowned. “That’s a bit romantic, isn’t it?”
But both Anderson and Miss Vance gave me sharply sober looks that said otherwise.
“With all due respect,” I said, “surely you’re leaping to unfounded conclusions.”
“These are not conclusions, Mr. Van Dine,” the female private detective said. “They are possibilities . . . all too credible, I’m afraid.”
“But this is a passenger ship,” I insisted. “I’ve seen for myself that there are no guns aboard.” I looked imploringly at Anderson. “Please tell me the Lusitania is not transporting munitions!”
“We are not,” he said. But then he added, “We do have limited materials that might be considered contraband, by some . . .”
That was a fascinating admission; under other circumstances, I would have been grateful for it.
“. . . but the point is, the Germans are desperate to halt the export of munitions and other war supplies to Britain and her allies. Just because this ship is not at this moment doing so, that doesn’t remove the threat of such in the future . . . or of the Lusitania’s ability to be easily converted into a battle cruiser.”
“Disabling a British steamer of this size,” Miss Vance said, shaking her head somberly, “would be most desirable for the Germans . . . making this ship an obvious target for saboteurs.”
I was pondering that disturbing fact—and it seemed a fact to me now, not just an opinion—when Master-at-Arms Williams returned with his revolver. He seemed nervous, his forehead beaded with sweat.
Miss Vance held out her hand, and smiled sweetly at him, as if accepting a dance at a ball. “May I?”
Williams looked curiously at the staff captain, who said, “Go ahead—she’s the ship’s official detective, after all.”
She took the revolver into her graceful, ungloved hand, and the bulky weapon seemed shockingly at home there. She even smiled down at it, as if welcoming an old friend.
“When I have the drop on them,” she said to Anderson softly, almost a whisper, “I’ll stay in the doorway. You and Mr. Williams and Mr. Van Dine rush in and quickly search the men, head to foot—pat them down for weapons.”
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.
The Lusitania Murders Page 6
