Now, more than anything, she dreaded being left alone and vulnerable to strangers, especially strange men…to their conniving looks and unwelcome advances. Was Matthew Vane really any different?
So far, Matt seemed dependable and straightforward. He was no drinker, at least; she’d seen him leave his one glass of wine unfinished at dinner. And as yet he hadn’t been forward with her, merely considerate.
But then he must, as a reporter, believe that she had something of value to him, likely in the form of information. To get it, how far would he go? And if she did yield to him, what then? If he managed to ferret out her whole story, would he still have any regard for her? Would he abuse her and try to take advantage? Or would he put things into print without considering her safety, which could be even worse?
The First Class women’s lavatory was suitably splendid, with its gold-plated fixtures and marble wash basins sculptured as seashells. Here was real luxury, though it wasn’t really hers. The ship’s electric lighting was strong and pitiless. But even so, and in spite of the sleep she’d lost, she came off looking fairly well in the mirror. This new formula hair dye, she decided, had altered her appearance markedly enough to hide behind.
Her looks still gave her considerable sway over men, so it seemed. But it was a risky power, she now understood–one that could enrich its holder, or imprison her like a gold bar in a vault. This fickle thing called beauty could also lash back and destroy her, as it had almost done in the jungle of the New York underworld.
Was she finally safe, even here in First Class? If she worried too much about being recognized, she could always pretend to be seasick and keep to her cabin. If, that is, she had a cabin. She faced uncertain times and had better have her wits about her.
Alma restored herself in the women’s room until she felt the gray-haired female attendant begin to notice her. Then she departed, unable even to leave a tip.
There was Matt by the door as promised, watching the dancers with his overcoat folded on a chair. He cut a fine figure in his tux, not stooped over or sucking on a cigarette like most reporters she’d seen. As she drew, near their eyes met and he smiled in his confident way.
Just then the tempo changed as the orchestra struck up the Blue Danube waltz. Matt stepped forward with a gallant gesture, and she must have looked as if she accepted, because an instant later his arm was about her waist and they were launched out across the floor.
It was alarming at first, but captivating too, because he could dance well and his encircling arm was assured. Her dress limited her steps, but he seemed to allow for it. His male strength, the scent of his aftershave and firmness of his limbs brought back feelings that thrilled and unsettled her. Without the odors of drink and tobacco, with the stately energy of the music and the extra lift of the ship’s gently rolling dance floor, she found that she could still bear a man’s nearness and enjoy it.
Even so, drawing attention to herself like this certainly hadn’t been her intent. So when the waltz ended–with a quick, spirited embrace from Matt–she turned and fled the dance floor.
* * *
A short while later Matt walked Alma arm-in-arm along the Boat Deck, which lay open to a sky of piercing stars.
“So, Alma, why is Hogan after you?” In the wake of his impulsiveness in the Grand Ballroom, and before natural urges tempted him any further, Matt thought they’d better get down to business.
The varnished deck planking was lit by puddles of yellow electric lamplight, spaced at intervals before the doors and windows inboard. Evidently there was no U-boat threat here, and no blackout. Ocean air flowed over them, chill and damp, but Matt wore his tux, and Alma his overcoat that reached down to her ankles. He took the outside, so with the gentle outward slope of the deck plus her inch or so of heel, they were almost equal in height. Except for occasional late strollers and a couple or two hugging the rail, they were alone.
“Why is Jim after me? He wants me back.” Alma’s sparse answer to Matt’s question made him understand that it might be a long walk.
“But really, why?” he asked. “I mean, aside from your obvious appeal.” She’d left herself open for that crack.
Alma still didn’t hurry to reply. “Well, Jim likes his things, you know. He likes his cigars and his yellow Stutz Bearcat. And he likes me…or he used to.”
“The feeling wasn’t mutual, I take it.”
Again, no hurry to respond. The setting was romantic, and the night’s chill drove them together, but he could tell that her thoughts were far away. “Jim can be very nice. A lot of people just love him and spend their time singing his praises. He’s been kind to his voters, to widows, orphans, job-seekers…”
“Yes, I know the story,” Matt said. “Jim’s one heck of a nice guy. He’s especially nice to people who don’t cross him.” He felt her presence close, the pressure of her arm on his, restrained but firm. “What I’m wondering is, how does somebody get on the wrong side of a nice, decent fellow like Jim?”
Another light pool passed before her voice murmured again. “Nice guys like Jim, they’re very giving.” Her tone was level, cautious. “They have a lot of friends. Sometimes they like to share the things they like, with friends that they especially like.”
Matt felt his stomach flip, as if a little sea wave had tilted the planks of the solid deck beneath them. Had she been passed around the gang? He doubted it, but it must have been tough on her holding out. He had to tread carefully, his steps barely hesitating. “Old Jim’s quite a generous fellow,” he came out with at last.
“Oh, yes. A real prince…I mean the Borgia kind.” Alma’s pace had also grown uneven, and for just a moment her arm bore in unsteadily on his, heavier and warmer.
But in a few steps Matt was back on track, his reporter’s meter ticking relentlessly. “When a person is as giving and generous as all that, you’d like to repay him. What would someone do, I wonder, to reward a terrific fellow like Jim Hogan?”
Alma too was back in stride. “Oh, maybe just tell the world. Have a record of all the great things he’s done, and make sure everybody knows about them.”
Matt couldn’t quite believe his ears. His feelings were in a jumble—professional zeal, compassion, attraction, and now this. “What a great idea,” he said. “But Jim would never go for that, would he–him being such a modest type.” Growing suddenly tired of the back-and-forth, he pressed her.
“Seriously, Alma, a lot of people could benefit from that kind of information, whatever form it’s in. The other side of political patronage is obstruction, graft and waste. Reform can open up opportunities for the little guy…”
“Why, Mr. Vane, are you a muckraker?” Alma suddenly seemed amused. “You sounded like one downstairs at dinner. But I’m surprised at you! I thought all big-city reporters were supposed to be cynical and hard-boiled.”
Matt was glad it was dark. He felt like she had him blushing. “The cynicism’s a part of it, yes,” he said. “But the other side is seeing the stacked deck, the hopelessness, and how different things could be.” He knew how futile his sudden idealism must sound. “The street reporter sees the corruption at the top and the confusion at the bottom. But the best ones see how they can change all that. Lincoln Steffens…now, there’s a writer who can set you straight, rake all the muck aside and build something solid. Frank Norris does likewise, I know, I’ve worked with him, and Ida Tarbell. Sinclair, too…I met Upton Sinclair on a trip to Chicago. If my work could accomplish one-tenth of what The Jungle did, I’d die happy.”
“And you mentioned Jack London, who’s in the magazines,” Alma said. “Big Jim doesn’t think much of newspapers. I heard him say once, ‘Reporters are just prostitutes, they write what they’re paid to write.’ Pardon my coarse language,” she added, “but I guess you’ve been around. And Jim certainly has.”
From her overly apologetic tone, Matt imagined she might now be blushing;
but he valued her frankness. He answered dryly, “Then I guess I’m not one of his favorites. My editor gives me a long leash…Jim didn’t ever mention me by name?”
“He did complain once about the Inquisitor being a Socialist rag. It was after they did an article about something called the Transit Gang, I think. What was it, crime on the subways?”
Matt laughed. “No, corruption in laying out the new streetcar lines, so as to favor insider land speculators.” He smiled, a warm glow spreading inside. “He knows my work, then.”
“So you’re not on the take?” Alma asked. “You don’t even take orders?”
Matt shrugged. “Just my city editor’s story assignments…the ones I don’t come up with myself. And he loves getting the goods on crooked bosses. We try to stick up for the common people.”
“How do you rate traveling Saloon Class, then, with the elite? Does your paper think that much of you?”
“I must admit, I have some money of my own,” Matt said. “Or had it. Not a lot, just a backstop. I had to press for this assignment, the front-line war reporting, and pick up some of the travel costs myself. So I thought, why not see the view from the top? If Flash and I are going to Hell, we’re going First Class!”
They paused then, having arrived at the front end of the promenade where it crossed from port to starboard under the captain’s bridge. Ahead their view looked out over the ship’s bow, across flat ocean shining silvery in the moonlight. The breeze here was chill and penetrating, making the two of them stand close together for warmth. The white-fringed cloud bank dead ahead made a dark fleecy cushion that seemed to pillow the full, rising moon.
“How lovely,” Alma breathed, taken out of their discussion for a moment. For once, she seemed content just to stand there just holding his arm.
Matt said nothing, not caring to voice his own thoughts. To him, the moonlit cloud ahead looked faintly ominous. It wasn’t really the smoke of cannonades and cities burning in far-off Europe, but it could have been.
“So,” he said as they resumed walking, “What would Hogan do if he caught you?” A rough question, but he hoped it might get at the precise nature of Alma’s offense. “Is there really any danger, do you think? Even now, when we’re out at sea?”
“Well,” she confessed with a faint nervous laugh, “I was worried about going overboard. I saw some stokers on our deck–huge, sooty men–and I was actually scared for a moment that they’d take me below and throw me into a furnace. It’s silly, I know, maybe. But when our ship arrives in England, one of Jim’s mob contacts is sure to be waiting for us, to turn me around and send me back. They’re good at that kind of thing. They can slip you a Mickey Finn, put you out for days, shanghai you and sell you into white slavery if they like. I’ve heard of it happening before.”
“Serious stuff,” Matt said. “So it’s not going to be just a tongue-lashing, or getting back whatever he thinks you owe him?”
“No, more than that.” She stopped there without taking his bait.
“Have you tried running away before?” And too, he watched her face closely for a reply to the unasked question, implicit as he piled on the pressure: When all this is over, will you end up going back to him?
“No, never before, and never again. Really, it didn’t start out as something bad,” she confessed. “But I was naïve. My parents kept a townhouse on the East Side. They were in society. They spent most of their time traveling in Europe, until they died three years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it. What was it, a train wreck?”
“No, they went down on the Titanic.”
Another emotional dip in the smooth deck; Matt had to steer carefully in these waters. “How awful for you,” he said at length, cradling her arm more gingerly in his. “And surprising to me, if they were traveling First Class.” He found himself trying to keep things on a factual level. “It was mainly the lower-class passengers who lost their lives, wasn’t it, due to the shortage of lifeboats?”
“From what I was told, my mother made it into a lifeboat, but it overturned. My father jumped overboard to save her, and they both were lost.”
“A tragedy, just part of the greater tragedy,” Matt said. “How hard did it hit you?”
“A shock, mostly,” Alma said. “And a huge comedown, the end of everything. But to everyone else, a romantic story,” she added with a note of bitterness. “They were loyal to each other, if not to me, their forgotten daughter. I didn’t really know them all that well.”
Matt digested this. “But did it bring hardship? They must have been financially well-off.”
“Not so well-off as we thought, apparently.” Alma shrugged as if uncaring. “Before long it was the end of finishing school for me, and no Music Institute for my singing. I was switched over to a cheap boarding school.”
“No other family?” he asked. “No inheritance?”
“There’s a small trust, but Father’s attorney controls it. He’s an old family friend, very attentive and concerned with me. Too much so, really.” She kept her face averted. “I don’t like going there to beg him for money.”
“Sounds rotten,” Matt said at length. “I imagine Hogan could’ve straightened that out for you.”
“Well, once I was under his wing, there wasn’t any need,” Alma said. “I met Jim at a charity ball. He heard me sing and took a kind, fatherly interest in me. Later he promised to marry, but I ended up moving in under his roof first. How I regret that…except that now, I feel lucky not to be bound to him by marriage.” She sighed. “And then of course, he didn’t want me performing or studying in public. I was only supposed to be his songbird in a gilded cage.”
“Can I get you to sing for me, I wonder?”
“No, it would draw too much attention—” Surprised, she looked up at him. “Oh, you mean, sing as a stool pigeon. I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it. Along with surviving.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Matt said, finally deciding to take the plunge, “I can offer you our stateroom to lay low here in First Class if you don’t feel safe astern. Whether you tell me any more or not. It’s up to you.”
While being magnanimous, he suddenly doubted whether she’d be willing to repeat the mistake she’d just escaped from. “Don’t worry, Flash and I can sleep in the outer room,” he added, thinking she must have heard that before.
“Maybe,” Alma said matter-of-factly, as if she’d expected his offer. “Thank you for the thought, but I’ll have to ask Hildegard. She and the girls have been so kind, I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble for them.”
“How did you meet them?”
“Through Nurse Krauss, Hildegard was at a war charity concert special event. Jim wouldn’t let me sing there, but she gave the talk and I managed to get her alone. A few days later I was able to slip away and join them, with only the one suitcase and a small bag. They kept me hidden during a whole month of nurse’s training. So there’s still hope that Jim doesn’t know I’m on board with them. We’d better be getting back,” she added.
Arriving amidships in First Class, they headed down. On opening his stateroom door, Matt found Flash and Winnie in the parlor, sitting a discreet distance apart on the sofa.
“Hello, you two,” Matt said, striding in. “Say, you both should know, I’ve just made Alma an offer—”
“Don’t worry, it’s all fixed,” the photographer cut him off, grinning. “I gave them the proposition you and I discussed. The nurses have seen that steward nosing around, and they don’t think it’s safe. Alma can stay here with us if she wants to, but there’s a catch.” He turned to his smiling seatmate and winked. “Winnie has to come along with her, as her chaperone.”
“That’s right,” Winnie said brightly. “So don’t get fresh, you two!” She waved a reproachful gloved finger up at the late arrivals. “I brought along everything we’ll need, including both of your bags, A
lma. The others will keep our bunk downs in Second Class looking slept-in.”
“Splendid,” Alma said. “Thank you, Flash, and Matt! I’ll rest much better knowing we’re all safe.”
“So it’s done, then,” Matt said. He felt unnerved by the rush of events, for once taken by surprise. But it was a good feeling, if slightly intoxicating.
Flash squeezed Winnie’s arm in his, to her answering smile. “Sounds like everyone gets what they want.”
Chapter 11
The Hunted
Alarm! Prepare to dive!”
The command, barked from atop the conning tower, caused a disciplined scramble on the exposed deck of the U-boat. The gunners sprang to their weapon in the drifting North Sea mists, capping and securing the long barrel. Picking up their ammunition boxes, they raced back astern around either side of the low tower and ducked down the hatchway. The stern lookout had already vanished below, but Kapitan-Leutnant Schwieger watched the two gunners descend and saw the hatch secured before slinging his binoculars and sliding down his own ladder inside the tower.
Once below, he slammed shut the hatch and levered it tight, then clanged the bell to signal that the hull was sealed.
Instantly, Lanz rang the shrill Klaxon. The raucous noise sent the crew running and jostling to their dive stations, most of them racing forward to weight down the nose of the slim craft.
“Was ist?” Schwieger heard crewmen ask the lookouts. “What is it this time? Prize or peril?”
They knew better than to disturb Herr Kapitan at his periscope. With seawater hissing into the dive tanks, as the daylight through the two portholes dimmed to a frothy-gray, and then a deep sea green, Schwieger wrestled the scope around in the direction of the threat: six British destroyers advancing in a search line—now, there was a menace to contend with. These new small warships, driven by high-speed turbines, could travel at thirty-five knots to head off or overtake any vessel—faster than the twenty-five knot maximum speed of the largest warships and ocean liners, and more than double his own boat’s best surface speed of sixteen knots. Armed with torpedoes and depth bombs as well as medium guns, they were the deadliest of all to submarines.
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