The Lusitania Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  Williamson cocked his head, folded his arms. “Have you written anything on the subject I might have read?”

  I retreated behind my pseudonym: My extensive body of criticism had been published under my real name, of course. “No—my interest in art is strictly as one who loves it. My writing for the News is rather more prosaic, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad. Perhaps some day you’ll honor us with your views on the subject. What is your chief area of interest?”

  “Modern art, I would say.”

  “Fauvism, perhaps? Or Cubist works? Picasso? Braque?”

  “Actually, I prefer the Syncromists.”

  He frowned, almost if I’d said something distasteful. “Really? Well, to each his own . . . I much prefer the Orphist color abstractions of the Delaunays, if such things are to be taken seriously at all.”

  “I prefer Synchromism,” I said rather stiffly.

  “Well, perhaps the work of that fellow Morgan Russell could be said to have merit. But that hack Stanton MacDonald-Wright . . .” And he shuddered.

  The artist he had just insulted, of course, was my own brother . . . but what could I—that is, S.S. Van Dine—say?

  So I echoed his own statement: “To each his own.” And hoped my irritation didn’t show, though I could a feel a flush in my cheeks.

  “At any rate,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to have even a brief discussion of art with another devotee. . . . Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He had turned back toward the bedroom, when I called out gently, “Oh, Mr. Williamson . . .”

  He turned, his patience clearly tried. “Yes, Mr. Van Dine?”

  “Would you mind sitting in on the interview? I would appreciate your presence, both as a calming one for your friend, and to ask you the occasional question about your views on this ship, and the voyage.”

  He nodded another sort of bow. “Certainly. That would be my pleasure.”

  When he had disappeared into the bedroom, Miss Vance turned to me with a grin and glittering eyes. “Nicely done.”

  “How so?”

  “Getting Williamson to stay. We need him just as much as we need Vanderbilt.”

  And this was true, of course—Williamson had also been on the late stowaway’s list.

  When Vanderbilt entered, followed by his art dealer friend, he was obviously not at his best. His complexion seemed gray, his eyes laced with red, and the expression he wore when introductions were made—and I stood to shake his hand—seemed fraught with melancholy, despite his polite smile.

  “Forgive my informal attire,” he said, referring to his brown silk dressing gown.

  He and Williamson were in chairs facing us as we sat on the comfortable settee.

  “We understand you’ve received sad news,” I said, “and we would like to express our condolences.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Vance said, sitting forward, hands clasped. “We would certainly understand if you wished to put this interview off—”

  “No,” the millionaire said, raising a hand in gentle interruption. “The distraction is a welcome one—and I’m sure you’ll make pleasant company . . . more pleasant than I, I’m afraid. I beg your patience.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Would you like to say anything about Mr. Davies, for the readers of the News?”

  “You may quote me that I have known no finer, kinder man.” His eyes looked into memory. “We were classmates at Yale . . . travelled extensively together. He and my sister Gertrude were almost married . . . but that’s not why you came.”

  “Nor do we mean to pry,” I said, and I began with unoffending queries about the Lusitania, and what it was about the ship that made it a favorite of his. I scribbled this pap down into my notebook, dutifully, for perhaps five minutes, before venturing into more significant waters.

  “I take it you’re making a point of it,” I said, “travelling to attend the International Horse Show Association meeting in London . . . despite the war, I mean.”

  “You may be misinterpreting my actions,” he said patiently. “This war is a very real thing—we can’t pretend that our lives can go on, unaffected.”

  “I understand last year’s annual meeting was cancelled, due to war concerns.”

  “Yes. Last year’s show was cancelled, also, as you may know. But the general feeling over there, now, is that the war is going well enough to resume the fall event.”

  “You must agree with that view, if you’re attending, sir.”

  “I respect it.” He paused, and seemed to be mulling something over; then he glanced at Williamson, who shrugged. “As a favor to my friends at Cunard, I could give you a small piece of news . . . if you would agree not to wire it home, until after the association’s meeting next Tuesday.”

  “Certainly.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “I will be announcing, at the annual meeting, that I will not be racing this season. There’s a war on, after all—and while perhaps giving up four-in-hand racing doesn’t compare to the sacrifices of some, it is a symbolic gesture I can make.”

  I nodded, and put on an expression of admiring seriousness; but in truth, I felt him a silly ass—how typical of the rich to take their petty passions so seriously as to think giving up horse racing had any significance to either the average man or the war effort itself.*

  “This of course hardly compares to my sister Gertrude’s contribution,” he admitted. “She’s really a tireless philanthropist, Gertrude is. At her urging, we’ve established a hospital unit in France, to care for wounded soldiers. . . . Miss Vance, I believe you’re travelling with Madame DePage—she can confirm my sister’s contribution to the Allied cause.”

  Miss Vance nodded, indicating she already knew of this.

  But I said, “Doesn’t that put you at risk, Mr. Vanderbilt, travelling to Europe through the war zone?”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “If the Vanderbilts are aiding the Allies, mightn’t the German side wish to make an example of you?”

  Vanderbilt snorted a laugh. “I could not care less. Let that bunch of damned Huns try.”

  Glancing first at Miss Vance, and then back at him, I said, “Mr. Vanderbilt, we are here for two reasons.”

  Another frown. “Really?”

  I explained Miss Vance’s role as ship’s detective, and our concern for the prominent passengers who had received warning threats via telegram at the dock.

  “That would include you as well, Mr. Williamson,” I said to the art dealer.

  Williamson said, “My reaction is the same as Alfred’s—those telegrams were the work of a jokester.”

  “A jokester with damned poor taste,” Vanderbilt put in. Then to the lovely Pinkerton agent he said, “You’ll forgive my deplorable language, Miss Vance.”

  “Understandable in these times,” she said, “and in your personal situation.”

  Vanderbilt thanked her for this consideration, and asked me, “You don’t think the Germans would target this ship for destruction simply because I’m on it? To make an example out of me?”

  Well, it seemed to me to make more sense, as symbolic gestures went, than a millionaire quitting horse-racing; but I kept this thought to myself, saying, “Perhaps not you alone, Mr. Vanderbilt. But we also have Elbert Hubbard aboard . . . you’re familiar with his widely published anti-Kaiser article?”

  “Oh yes,” Vanderbilt said. “And I suppose Madame DePage, as well, could be viewed as a personality associated in the public’s mind with the Allied cause.”

  “Yes. And the Lusitania herself has potential military applications—has even been rumored to carry munitions—and certainly could be viewed as a symbol of Britain’s supposed mastery of the seas.”

  Vanderbilt was smiling, a little, nodding, too. “You have a sharp mind, Mr. Van Dine. I must say I admire your intellect.”

  “Thank you, sir. . . . You should also be aware that Miss Vance and I have reason to believe a band of thieves may have boarded the ship, as well.”


  Williamson sat forward. “Thieves? Does that even make sense? Where could they run, how could they hide, in such an enclosed space as this? How could they hope to take their booty off the ship with them?”

  “They might go over the side,” I said, “in a lifeboat.”

  Vanderbilt said, “Well, these potential robbers will find precious little in these quarters to make their efforts worthwhile.”

  Miss Vance’s brow was knit as she asked, “You’re not travelling with valuables of any kind?”

  “Not in particular, no.”

  “What about money? Understand, sir, I ask this in strictest confidence as a representative of the line.”

  The millionaire shrugged. “A few hundred pounds. No need for more—I maintain a residence in Park Lane, an apartment, and a furnished houseboat at Henley. So I have bank accounts to draw upon, for time I spend there.”

  Williamson offered, “I’m not travelling with valuables, either.”

  I asked him, “How about paintings or art objects for clients?”

  “No—and I, too, maintain a London residence. I’m travelling with less than a hundred pounds.”

  Miss Vance was clearly trying to reckon with this shift from pattern, but I felt I knew the answer. “Mr. Vanderbilt, the thieves would assume you have money. . . . Mr. Williamson, they may well assume you have art objects.”

  The art dealer’s air of superiority was nowhere to be seen now. “Should we be concerned?”

  We asked them if they had observed anything suspicious—either a steward who didn’t seem to be where he belonged, or overly friendly strangers among the passengers, seeking to create an “in” with them.

  Neither man could recall anything of that nature.

  “I appreciate your interest,” Vanderbilt said, “and we will stay alert, and report to you anything suspicious we might observe. . . but as to this German threat—why worry about submarines? The Lucy can outdistance any submarine afloat.”

  Shortly after that, we took our leave, and Vanderbilt walked us to the door, a gracious and friendly host whose melancholia had diminished as we had been drawn into our conversation and these other matters of import.

  Before we left, Williamson said to me, “We must have a drink, and talk art at more length.”

  In the corridor, as we walked back to our side of the ship, I asked Miss Vance what she had made of all that. She said she was still troubled by the fact that Vanderbilt and Williamson did not fit the motif of the others on our list.

  “Unless they’re lying,” she said, “and are carrying cash and, perhaps, valuables from the world of art.”

  “I don’t know, Vance,” I said, as we strolled into the Promenade Deck’s Grand Entrance area. “Vanderbilt seems straightforward enough.”

  “What about Williamson?”

  “He’s a patronizing bastard, but otherwise . . .”

  “There’s something you don’t know about him.” She glanced about, and several other passengers were waiting in the wicker-dominated entry area, for the elevators. “Let’s go to my room, Van . . .”

  That was an invitation I hadn’t yet turned down, on this voyage; but as we sat on the bed, making love was not on the beautiful detective’s mind.

  “I trust you are aware of the Ruiz incident,” she said, “which Williamson referred to—saying it was off limits for questions?”

  “Of course. Vanderbilt’s mistress who committed suicide in London.”

  “That’s open for debate. The Pinkertons were investigating that matter, for one of the late Mrs. Ruiz’s relatives . . . but the case was dropped, when client funds ran out.”

  “It was not a suicide?”

  “That may never be known. What we do know is that Charles Williamson was also a friend of Mrs. Ruiz—had apparently been something of a go-between in the years of the affair. It was Williamson who closed up her house on Grosvenor Square, after her death; it was he who took charge of her belongings and dismissed the servants. It was he who paid fifteen thousand dollars to a pair of reporters to spike their copy about the night of her death . . . the night Williamson discovered the body of Mary Ruiz.”

  THIRTEEN

  A Tinge of Blue

  Mid-morning Tuesday, Philomina Vance and I requested a meeting with Captain Turner and Staff Captain Anderson. This elicited little enthusiasm from Anderson—apparently anticipating even less enthusiasm for the idea from Turner—but Miss Vance was insistent.

  “We have important new information to report,” she told Anderson, when after breakfast we had caught up with him on the starboard side of the Promendade Deck, where he’d just concluded another of his ineffectual crew-members-only lifeboat drills.

  The morning was warm and bright, the sea smooth and free of whitecaps. The throb of the engine, the swish of water, the ship-sea smells, were lulling; but we would not be lulled.

  “I know he’ll be available in his dayroom at ten-thirty,” Anderson said, mildly frowning. “But I must warn you, Miss Vance, to Captain Turner, this affair is over.”

  “Then I must warn you, Mr. Anderson,” Miss Vance said crisply, “that your captain is misinformed.”

  And she was not bluffing or even boasting—Miss Vance had received significant new information by cable from her home office. The Pinkerton agents in New York had come through for us splendidly.

  So it was, at just after ten-thirty, that we had reconvened in the captain’s white-walled, oak-wainscotted dayroom. We sat again at the round maple table, Turner and Anderson, in their blue gold-braided uniform jackets, seated opposite each other, with Miss Vance—typically fetching in pale blue linen with white Bulgarian-embroidered trim and, as was frequently her wont, no hat—seated across from me. I must have been wearing some suit or other.

  “I suppose you have that fingerprint information for us,” Turner said gruffly, and incorrectly. He had a pipe in his right hand, and the fragrance of its smoke seemed to me singularly unappealing.

  “Actually, no,” Miss Vance said, with the sweetest smile. “That knife—our murder weapon—was stolen from my room.”

  Anderson sat sharply up. “What?”

  Jaw jutting, eyes hard, Turner demanded, “When was this?”

  “That first night—or I should say, Sunday morning, in the wee hours, after we first met here in your quarters, Captain Turner.”

  Through his teeth, Turner asked, “And why have you not reported this before?”

  “The only person who could have taken it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “was a crew member. For that reason, I felt it only judicious to keep the information to myself, for the time being.”

  Anderson seemed less irritated than Turner, but he too was unhappy with her. “Your implication is insulting, Miss Vance—we have said before that we stand behind the integrity of our crew.”

  I said, “You’ve also said before that you scraped the bottom of the barrel to find them.”

  The staff captain’s eyes flared at me. “I won’t put up with that, Mr. Van Dine! You are here at our discretion and under our sanction, I must remind you.”

  Straightening, Turner said, “A passenger might have got hold of a key somehow—either a spare room key, or a passkey. You seem quick to impugn the integrity of our staff.”

  Anderson shifted in his chair. “We’ll conduct a search of the ship for that knife, immediately.”

  I said, “Why waste the effort? It was surely tossed overboard, long ago.”

  Neither captain had any reply to that.

  “Absent fingerprints,” she said, “I do have new developments to share. Mr. Van Dine and I have successfully completed our interviews with those passengers named on the stowaway ringleader’s list.”

  “We believe that several of them,” I picked up, “may be identified strongly enough with the Allied cause to inspire assassination attempts.”

  “In particular,” Miss Vance said, “Madame DePage and Alfred Vanderbilt are involved with aiding the Allied wounded. And Elbert Hubbard�
�s inflammatory anti-Kaiser position makes him particularly vulnerable.”

  “On the other hand,” I continued, “we can see no reason why the German secret service would single out Charles Frohman, George Kessler and Charles Williamson for punishment. Frohman is producing a pro–German-American play, Kessler is simply a businessman who views the war as an inconvenience and Williamson is an art dealer of less prominence than these other celebrated passengers, included among them chiefly because of his close ties to Vanderbilt.”

  Turner was listening, but his eyes had that blankness one sees in a dog monitoring human speech for the word or two he recognizes—“bone,” “outside.”

  “So the scrap in the stowaway’s shoe,” Miss Vance said, concluding this phase of our presentation, “would not seem to be a list of potential assassination targets.”

  “However,” I said, “we have learned that a majority of these passengers are in possession of disturbingly large amounts of money or negotiable stocks. Elbert Hubbard has five thousand dollars with him, to purchase leather and other materials for his arts-and-crafts colony. Frohman has much more than that, with which he intends to secure theatrical properties. Madame DePage, of course, has one hundred fifty thousand dollars in war relief funds. And Kessler—I’m glad you’re sitting down, gentlemen—carries around two million in stocks and bonds in that briefcase of his.”

  Turner and his staff captain stared across the table at each other in wide-eyed disbelief at this unbridled foolishness among such supposedly superior human beings as their first-class passengers.

  “As for Vanderbilt and Williamson,” I added, “they do not seem to have undue amounts of cash or valuables with them . . . both men maintain London residences . . . but it would be a reasonable assumption on the part of thieves that such men would be worth robbing.”

  “Then the stowaways were a robbery ring,” Anderson said, eyes narrowed, nodding slowly. “Their purpose was plunder, not sabotage.”

  “They may have pursued a dual purpose,” Miss Vance said, reminding them of a theory she had proposed earlier. “Stealing Allied war relief money is a blade that cuts two ways, after all—and if these stowaways had planned to do their robbing late in the voyage, they would probably have fled to Ireland . . .”