The Lusitania Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  A terrible clash and clatter echoed across the water as everything within her collapsed and scattered itself, as if a giant box of broken glass and spare metal parts were being shaken by a playful, nasty god.

  Hundreds were mountain-climbing the slanted deck, seeking handholds, some falling into the sea, as the dying beast that was the Lusitania made its final agonized death cries—a boiler exploding, a funnel crashing, one last great moan of tortured steel.

  Then she was gone—slipping under the water with no significant suction, no boiling vortex, foam flecking the last glimpse of her superstructure and decks, a few boats still swinging like toys from their davits . . . a finger snap, and the big Lucy had disappeared.* She left behind a wide white ring glimmering on the surface of an otherwise smooth sea in the afternoon sun. Within that ring was a snarl of floating wreckage and bodies, on and under the surface, some of them alive, gaggles of men and women and children twisting like flies on some giant fisherman’s hook.

  For a while I swam around and helped those I could by pushing pieces of wreckage to them, to which they might cling. After some fifteen minutes of this, I was getting tired, and cold, and was just realizing I was in trouble, when arms hauled me up out of the water and into a collapsible boat, a shallow thing with its folded canvas sides up.

  The boat was filled with people—twenty or more, men enough to row but mostly women and children. A voice called out my name to me, and either I was dreaming a sweet dying dream, or had unpredictably enough gone to heaven.

  Because the voice was Miss Vance’s, and I was soon, half-conscious, sheltered within the embrace of her damp but wonderful arms.

  “I hope Williamson drowned in his cage,” she said, sometime later.

  “Oh,” I said, “it was much better than that.”

  Not much else is worth the telling. Our lifeboat had a good crew, which included that fellow Lauriat, and we might have headed for land but instead stayed out and, for two hours or so, picked up those who seemed in the most helpless of conditions. I will spare you the tragic images, involving women and children, particularly mothers and their babies. Some of the babies in their nursery baskets, thanks to Vanderbilt and Frohman, were retrieved from the sea.

  When we had as many aboard as we dared—thirty-two was the final count, I believe—we finally rowed toward shore, but first encountered a fishing smack. Though they had already taken on two boatloads of survivors, they made room for us, as well.

  The old fishermen gave us the blankets from their bunks, started a fire and made us tea; it was a wretched vessel, slippery with fish scales and the filth of fishermen, and no man or woman could wish finer accommodations. The steamer Flying Fish took us to Queenstown, where the rest of this tale is well-known and would only serve to depress the reader, and the book’s author.

  Suffice to say, of the key figures involved in the mystery, only Miss Vance, George Kessler (minus his briefcase) and myself survived. The psychic Miss Pope also came through, and Dr. Houghton; so did Captain Turner, who on the rescue ship Blue Bell was bitterly chastised by a mother who had lost her child.

  I suppose I would sound like Elbert Hubbard if I were to point out that a disaster brings out the best and the worst in us. The millionaire and the theatrical producer died bravely, helping the helpless; so did the noble doctor’s wife who had sought to raise money for hospitals. The Bard of East Aurora and his bride apparently went down to their cabin to die together, whether to make room for others in lifeboats, or to glorify themselves, who can say? Miss Vance, the heroine of the piece, was rescued in the midst of aiding others.

  And the villain died, as he’d lived, a villain.

  “It is what we think, and what we do,” Hubbard once said, “that makes us what we are.”

  Perhaps, by that sweet fool’s yardstick, all I am is a survivor . . . but we need survivors, don’t we? Who else would tell the tale?

  A Tip of the Captain’s Hat

  As in the previous novels in what others have called my “disaster mystery” series, I have in this book combined the factual with the fanciful. Unlike the first of these books, The Titanic Murders (1999), the mystery herein relates directly to the disaster itself, tied as it is to the political and historical context of the tragedy, and its causes. Nonetheless, some liberties have been taken, though precious few; and what may seem to some readers mistakes may be a reflection of the sometimes contradictory source material.

  Before discussing the sources of my research, I would like to share a few historical afterthoughts that I did not feel appropriate to the body of the book.

  Contrary to popular belief, the sinking of the Lusitania did not lead to America’s participation in World War One. Of the approximately 1,200 men, women and children lost in the sinking, only 124 were Americans—not enough to go to war over, but plenty to turn sentiment in the U.S. against the German side, undoubtedly paving the way for this country’s entry into the conflict.

  Numerous theories have been posited as to the nature of the second—and far more damaging—explosion that followed the undoubted single torpedo that hit the ship, courtesy of the German submarine U-20. Among these are munitions (specifically gun cotton) blowing up, the boilers exploding, coal dust combustion, a second torpedo or even a British sub sinking the ship, to prime the war pump for Winston Churchill. This novel proposes yet another possibility, based upon the factual presence of German saboteurs on the Lusitania.

  Captain Bill Turner, incidentally, suffered through several Lusitania investigations but still was given a new command—he lost that ship to torpedoes, as well, and wound up sailing a desk. Whether he was a scapegoat or just an idiot remains a point of conjecture, and—like the reason for that second explosion—a subject much discussed in the reference sources I used.

  The cast of characters in what I intend as a traditional, closed-environment mystery—somewhat in the Agatha Christie manner—consists primarily of real people. (Only Philomina Vance is fictional, and she takes the place of a real detective aboard the ship, one William Pierpoint of Scotland Yard.) The background material about all of these characters is as accurate as possible, though in some instances, with minor figures—Staff Captain J.C. Anderson, for example, or Master-at-Arms Williams—precious little is known.

  Warning telegrams were in fact sent to Frohman, Vanderbilt and a number of other prominent passengers. Although in reality they were not murdered, the three German stowaways existed, as did Neil (sometimes “Neal”) Leach, who several authorities believe had been in league with these probable saboteurs and other German agents.

  Charles Williamson, of course, was not in real life their murderer—since these murders happened only in my imagination—but he was indeed involved in the suspicious “suicide” of Alfred Vanderbilt’s mistress, and did seem to have blackmailed the millionaire with art investment as a front. Williamson seemed, then, fair game to be this novel’s villain. The incident of a passenger with a gun trying to force the launching of a lifeboat, only to be crushed by it, did happen—sources vary as to the identity of that passenger.

  I have again used a real-life writer of detective fiction as my protagonist. Unlike Jacques Futrelle (The Titanic Murders), Leslie Charteris (The Hindenburg Murders), and Edgar Rice Burroughs (The Pearl Harbor Murders), S.S. Van Dine was not a favorite author of mine. I did read his Philo Vance novels as a young man—when I was devouring any mystery that wasn’t nailed down—and was fascinated by the pseudo-reality of his memoir technique, including his use of footnotes to achieve verisimilitude; the style of this novel has, in that regard at least, been an attempt to present a pastiche of his work. I reread one Vance novel in preparation for this novel—The Benson Murder Case—and, while the writing itself seemed highly competent, could not remember encountering a more irritating or less appealing detective character than Philo Vance.

  Van Dine has always fascinated me, however, because of his rise and fall—that he was a spectacularly popular mystery writer who, within ten years of h
is prime, was largely forgotten. The eccentric egotist behind the pseudonym, Willard Huntington Wright is the subject of Alias S.S. Van Dine (1992) by John Loughery, a compulsively readable biography that I wholeheartedly recommend. Loughery’s portrait of Wright was the chief influence on my portrayal of S.S. Van Dine, although I turned to numerous references in the mystery field as well, including Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection (1976) by my friends Otto Penzler and the late Chris Steinbrunner, and Twentieth-Century Crime and Mystery Writers—Second Edition (1985) by John M. Reilly. Wright was not on the final voyage of the Lusitania, but he did sail three months prior, bringing his artist brother, Stanton, safely home; this real-life connection to the Lucy inspired his use in this novel.

  My two longtime research associates came through for me in a big way—the sinking of the Lusitania made for a particularly challenging and exhausting research job. George Hagenauer read every book on the subject he could find, and pointed me to the best and most pertinent material; in addition, he spent hours on the phone and in person with me, discussing which real people on the voyage would make interesting characters, probing the historical issues and ramifications, and generally “spitballing” the plot. George in particular helped examine the complicated figure of Elbert Hubbard, a man who was a household name in his day and is largely forgotten now (not unlike S.S. Van Dine). He also helped develop the backstory of Pinkerton agent Philomina Vance. I always thank George for his work, but this time I really couldn’t have done the job without him—he dug into ancient newspapers and magazines, and prepared files on a dozen Lusitania passengers, and prepped me beautifully for this voyage.

  Lynn Myers—a real-life Pinkerton agent himself, if not as attractive a one as the fictional Miss Vance—did an incredible job for me, too, finding articles and books, and in particular leading me to (and locating a copy of) the single most important source—“Lusitania”: The Cunard Turbine-driven Quadruple-screw Atlantic Liner, a 1986 reprint of a 1907 Cunard volume that features deck plans, photos and detailed descriptions of everything on the ship. Introduced and expanded upon by Mark D. Warren, this book was an indispensable tool, as most books on the Lusitania—unlike those on the Titanic—tend to focus less on the ship and the voyage and more on the sinking and the politics.

  Four other books provided the bulk of the information I drew upon, and all are quality works, any one of which would be worthwhile for a reader who’d like to know more about this subject (most also tell the story of the U-boat that sank the Lusitania, which is absent from this novel): Exploring the Lusitania (1995), Robert D. Ballard with Spencer Dunmore; The Last Voyage of the Lusitania (1956, 1996), A.A. Hoehling and Mary Hoehling; The Lusitania (2000), Daniel Allen Butler; and Seven Days to Disaster (1981), Des Hickey and Gus Smith.

  Also useful were Lost Liners (1997), Robert D. Ballard, Rick Archbold and Ken Marschall; The Lusitania (1972), Colin Simpson; The Lusitania Disaster (1975), Thomas A. Bailey and Paul B. Ryan; The Lusitania’s Last Voyage (1915), Charles E. Lauriat, Jr.; and The Military History of the Lusitania (1965), Louis L. Snyder. Of these, Simpson’s book is probably the best known and most widely circulated, and provided me with information about Leach and the stowaways, as well as some nice details about the sinking. Some of Van Dine’s movements during the sinking are drawn from Lauriat’s experiences.

  I also viewed two documentaries, Sinking the Lusitania (2001), written by its director John Booth with David Davis; and National Geographic: Last Voyage of the Lusitania (1994), directed by Peter Schnall and written by Patrick Prentice. The latter follows Robert Ballard’s exploration of the shipwreck, which dispelled some theories about the cause of the sinking. Both documentaries were helpful.

  My portrait of Elbert Hubbard drew upon Elbert Hubbard of East Aurora (1926), Felix Shay; “Elbert Hubbard: Warrior with Words,” an article by Norman Carlise in the April, 1955 issue of Coronet; and various Roycrofters publications, in particular issues of The Philistine. Much material on Hubbard is available on the Internet, including several pages of his aphorisms. Most of what Hubbard says in this novel comes from his writing and speeches and other quoted sources; his feelings about Mr. and Mrs. Isador Straus, the tragic couple who died on the Titanic, are from an article he wrote, rather presciently. Alfred Vanderbilt material was drawn in part from Who Killed Society? (1960), Cleveland Amory, although Vanderbilt—like Hubbard—was covered in detail in various Lusitania books. Ideas for period apparel were aided by Maryanne Dolan’s Vintage Clothing 1880–1960 (1987). The material on S.S. McClure and Edward Rumely came from Loughery’s Van Dine biography and the excellent Success: the Life and Times of S.S. McClure (1963) by Peter Lyon.

  The government opened postwar reparations hearings that enabled businesses and individuals to make claims for losses caused by Germany’s actions during the war, including the Lusitania sinking. Various government publications of the United States and Germany Mixed Claims Commission and other reparations tribunals served as perhaps the most useful source of information on Lusitania passengers. Here we found the information on Charles Williamson’s shady deals, which came to light when his relatives made claims on papers of his describing art and other assets that, under investigation, proved not to exist.

  Also used were various issues of The New York Times from right before and after the tragedy. Times coverage provided the background on Madame DePage and the dock scandal that grew out of the German blockade.

  This was a difficult novel for many reasons, not the least of which was my writing much of it in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001, tragedies. Such an event calls into question the value of entertainment—and for a number of days, I did not feel much like playing the role of entertainer—and proved particularly troubling to a writer in the process of creating a confection based around another tragedy of war.

  That the Lusitania prefigured so much of the September 11 tragedies—one of my references reported a survivor comparing the swift sinking of the ship to “the collapse of a great building on fire”—made this task both more distressing and, finally, rewarding. Through the distance of history, in the guise of entertainment, I could explore some of the same issues that plague us almost a century later. I hope I have provided not only escape, but a morsel or two of food for thought, and that this mystery novel is in no way disrespectful to the gravity of such dire events.

  I am grateful to my editor, Natalee Rosenstein of Berkley Prime Crime; when I was drowning in research materials, Natalee—who had in the first place suggested the Lusitania as a “disaster mystery” subject—threw me a life preserver by extending my deadline. My friend and agent, Dominick Abel, lent his usual support, and also helped buy me valuable time. And my wife, Barb—in a stressful period—was as always the best first mate a skipper could hope for. Unlike Elbert Hubbard’s wife, Alice, however, she always had plenty to say.

  About the Author

  Max Allan Collins has earned an unprecedented eleven Private Eye Writers of America “Shamus” nominations for his historical thrillers, winning twice for his Nathan Heller novels, True Detective (1983) and Stolen Away (1991).

  A Mystery Writers of America “Edgar” nominee in both fiction and nonfiction categories, Collins has been hailed as “the Renaissance man of mystery fiction.” His credits include five suspense-novel series, film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets and movie/TV tie-in novels, including In the Line of Fire, Air Force One and the New York Times–best-selling Saving Private Ryan.

  He scripted the internationally syndicated comic strip Dick Tracy from 1977 to 1993, is co-creator of the comic-book features Ms. Tree, Wild Dog and Mike Danger, has written the Batman comic book and newspaper strip, and the mini-series Johnny Dynamite: Underworld. His graphic novel, Road to Perdition, is the basis of the DreamWorks feature film starring Tom Hanks and Paul Newman, directed by Sam Mendes.

  As an independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, he wrote and directed the suspense film Mommy, starring Patty McCormack, premiering o
n Lifetime in 1996, and a 1997 sequel, Mommy’s Day. The recipient of a record five Iowa Motion Picture Awards for screenplays, he wrote The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere; and wrote and directed the award-winning documentary Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane (1999) and the innovative Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000).

  Collins lives in Muscatine, Iowa, with his wife, writer Barbara Collins, and their teenage son, Nathan.

  *Van Dine refers here, obliquely, to a drug addiction that he battled, off and on, throughout his younger years, when opium and marijuana were weaknesses of his artistic temperament. He wrote of his problem only once, in a 1917 essay for The Medical Review of Reviews, in which he rather farsightedly made the statement, “Drug addiction is a disease. The fact that it is self-imposed does not alter its status.” M.A.C.

  *Frohman was forty-seven.

  *Twenty-four-by-fifty.

  *The pair of Regal Suites, on either side of the Promendade Deck, catered to the crème de la crème of transatlantic travellers; each suite offered a dining room, two bedrooms, a bath and toilet, and sitting rooms for maids and valets.

  *Of the seventy-seven positions he had attempted to fill, Staff Captain J.C. Anderson managed only forty-one.

  *As he reports it, Van Dine has organized the tour in a fashion that suits his literary intentions; but he perhaps gives a false impression of the geography of the ship. The upper decks, A and B, were shared by the first and second classes, and Decks C and D were shared by the first, second and third classes. Only Deck E was exclusively third class (cabins only). Segregation of classes was accomplished in various ways; the Saloon dining room on D Deck, for example, was separated from the Second Cabin dining room by a network of galleys and pantries.