So she’d changed her appearance as well as her name, and fled to another cabin…another part of the ship, then, but where? To First Class, very likely, with some accommodating gentleman. Or, perhaps, to one of the unused third-class bunks tucked even farther away forward? And was she alone, or had her nursey friend, the brown-haired Winifred, gone with her? What kind of con might the two little vamps be pulling off…or were they merely hiding from justice?
There were many sly tricks used by card-sharpers and floozies, the sea dregs who frequented ships on the Atlantic run, to dodge suspicion and evade authority. Jeremy had already heard the tales at the stewards’ mess table. But this pair was seemingly new at the trade, and should be easy to detect.
True, as a newcomer himself, Smyte had no great trust or influence among the crew. But given the watchful eyes of the serving staff and their love of gossip, he felt confident of being able to find his quarry, even on a ship as vast as the Lusitania.
And then, once he found her…well, there’d be a reward, of course, on handing her over at the far end of the voyage. But before that…a young woman of loose morals, and very likely flush from her last caper…no telling what further rewards she might offer for silence, or for his promised complicity in her schemes. A good spy could play both sides of the trenches; he was learning that. No need to stick blindly to principle—or, as the Yanks would say, go down with a sinking ship.
Ah well, his search was complete for now, with a new clue to work on. That left him just enough time for his noon engagement. Carefully replacing everything as he’d found it—the luggage and the dresser drawers, even the trash—he exited and headed deeper below decks.
The Trimmers’ Mess lay for’ard of Second Class, but still well astern. Its electric-lit cavern, buried under the passenger quarters, throbbed with the sound of the engines beneath and was faintly redolent of their oily smell. But its long dining tables lay mercifully far from the heat of the boilers and stokeholds where its customers, the Black Gang of coal stokers and trimmers, worked their long hours. Fare-payers never saw this place, and Steward Smyte had to move carefully to keep his white uniform un-smudged by coal dust from its dusky denizens.
One figure stood out in the mess line as being taller and gawkier than the rest. As the troglodyte turned from the steaming kettles to find Jeremy waiting, his eyes and teeth glared with frightening whiteness out of his coal-blackened face. It was a good thing the mess tray brimming with slops and crusts occupied both of his grimy hands, or the filthy giant might have seized hold of his visitor and shaken him.
“Hello, Knucks,” the steward meekly said.
“Smyte, there you are!” the scarecrow yelled with no concern for secrecy. “It’s about time, you lousy skunk!”
“All right, chap, keep it calm,” Jeremy nervously said, staying well back from the apparition.
“Calm, eh?” Knucks veered from Smyte toward a table. “I’ve been stuck down here for days humping a coal shovel, with never a word from you!” His growl was made worse by a stoker’s customary hoarseness.
“Sign on with the crew, Jim said, they’ll be needing men!” His towering wrath didn’t keep him from plunging into a chair and eating, but he continued his rant with a mouth full of beans and noodles.
“Take a job, be un…un-conspicuous…and here I am, shut away as a lousy stoker, piloting a wheelbarrow and steering a shovel. It’s worse than the Big House!”
Knucks was no stoker, Jeremy knew. That was a skilled job, throwing in the coal onto the grate, smoothing it and then raking out the ash, all carefully timed to the burning of the fuel and the roll of the ship. The big hoodlum was just a raw trimmer, shifting coal out of the side bunkers and putting it in reach of the real stokers. But Smyte didn’t trouble to correct him on this fine point.
“So, what’s the scoop?” Knucks demanded, greedily stoking his own boilers. “Is she on board, or ain’t she? Have you got a line yet on the stuff we want?”
“I daresay she is on board,” Smyte said. “I know I saw her that first day. She’s not where she’s supposed to be, but I’ve an idea where I might look—”
“Spill it, you Limey scum!” Knucks said, spraying food. He reached across the table to grab Smyte’s collar, and the steward had to lean back on his bench to avoid the sooty, greasy paw. The other coal-scuttlers alongside paid them no mind amid the hunger and clamor of the dining hall.
“All right, all right,” Jeremy said, regaining his balance against the ship’s roll. “She’s changed her hair. I saw a bottle of black hair dye in her room…what used to be her room. I think she’s hiding out in First Class.”
“Hiding out, eh? Well you find her,” Knucks grated at him. “And get what we want, or else I’ll have to.”
Leaning forward, he lowered his gravelly voice so that only Smyte could hear the grinding whisper. “I want you in on it. If I end up having to do it on my own, it’s the both of you who’ll be goin’ overboard.”
Chapter 25
Openings
After a dreary supper in the Grand Saloon, having to explain to the other diners that his secretary felt indisposed, Matt returned to his stateroom. As his next adventure on this Continental junket, he needed to dress formally for the mid-voyage party on B deck. He found that, with a little touching up—a sleek black cummerbund, a carnation from the ship’s florist, and an added dash of hair pomade—he could go in his dinner jacket. He would look presentable, whatever the state of affairs with his escort.
Matt learned with relief that Alma would be going. He’d accepted the invitation for them both, but that was before her glum preoccupied spell and their ensuing argument. Still, he wasn’t sure until he found her primping and grooming in the bedroom.
As ever, she required more serious wardrobe enhancements, whether for disguise or to blend in with the ritzy Broadway set in the impresario Charles Frohman’s suite. In light of her recent moodiness, Matt had thought she might decide to stay in the cabin and avoid the risk of exposure. But now she seemed more intent than ever on going.
As Alma renewed her lipstick, the bedroom door stood open. Matt discreetly glimpsed her transformation in the mirror—in her new evening gown, a marvel of black Chantilly lace, black satin and black glass beads. Much had changed between them since his unannounced absence the previous night. She was still civil to him, even patient, but what had become of their romantic spark? Perhaps it was only the element of trust that was gone.
Well, he still had his job to perform and whole new worlds to conquer. To think of them becoming lovers had probably been unrealistic, anyway. Or at least unwise, in the uncertainties of wartime—and a needless risk in view of the chancy business prospect they were engaged in, his planned journalistic exposé.
But they could still try to get along, rather than spoil the evening—or the whole voyage—any worse than it had already been spoiled.
“Everything all right, then?” he asked through the doorway in this damnable clipped English manner that seemed to come over him now, whenever he addressed her.
“I think so,” she answered into the mirror, just as sparsely. And then, after a pause, she dug deeper: “As long as you can tell me that what you did last night, when you were gone…it had nothing to do with me and my troubles. Big Jim, the muster list or the money, nothing like that.”
“No, not at all,” he assured her, surprised by the question. “Those are serious matters that we can work on together. I wouldn’t make a move on that without your okay.”
Feeling a little of the old closeness, he dared to appraise her as she turned from the mirror. “Looks like you’ve been spending some of Jim’s ill-gotten gains.”
He spoke in reference to her new silver choker studded with tiny gems. It circled her throat neatly, set off by her darkened hair and the splendid black gown.
“Just a trifle from the gift shop,” she said. “Diamonds being a girl’s b
est friend, after all.” She unboxed a new pair of accessories, long black gloves, and began drawing them onto her bare arms up to the elbow. “If that canvas money bag should disappear, I won’t have lost it all.” She posed before the mirror, oblivious to his gaze.
“An investment, you mean.” He averted his eyes from the taunting vision in the boudoir, now so painfully remote. “And a wise one, I’d say.” He adjusted his bowtie in his own tiny mirror. “You don’t feel bad about spending Jim’s money?”
“If he ever finds me, he can have it all back. This, too,” she added, touching the jewels at her neck, “as long as it means I’ve seen the last of him.”
Matt decided to make a bid for her goodwill. “If it ever comes to real, imminent danger, I hope I can be of help to you.”
“Well, I hope I’ll never be needing it.”
Feeling the rebuff, he couldn’t help but try one last time. “Say, Alma, you never did tell me, what made you look for us so early in the morning…or was it Winnie who got up? We thought sure you’d turned in for the night.”
She stayed serene, avoiding his gaze and taking up her black knitted wrap from the sofa. “Just a restless night at sea,” she said. “As I recall, there was a lot of rolling and tossing going on.”
She turned, waiting calmly for him to open the door as he puzzled over her remark.
Out on deck as agreed, they met up with Winnie and Flash. The assistant cut a trim figure in his tux, though his bright red smudge of hair could never really look formal. To balance it, the carnation he wore was stunning pink. Winnie, with Alma’s help, had augmented her wardrobe with her friend’s cleverly altered pink gown. Shortened with draped pleats below the knees, it looked très vogue. It should certainly pass in a light-hearted gathering of the Broadway theater set…even under the white nurse jacket that she’d improvised as a wrap.
“What a delightful couple,” Alma said brightly. “Just look, the all-American boy and the girl in uniform!”
“This way to the Regal Suites,” Matt said, sizing up the scene as he led them forward. “But remember, don’t be too dazzled by the toffs and entertainers, or too muddled by strong drink. For me it’s a news beat. I need all of you as my eyes and ears, so stay alert.”
The event was already spilling out of Frohman’s rooms onto the covered Promenade Deck. Small groups of elegant dressers huddled together in the shadows, and waiters circled with trays of drink and canapés. The light was masked by canvas blackout curtains rigged outside the promenade, billowing gently in the night breeze. From within the glowing rooms issued the strains of a live band making a very credible effort at ragtime. In all, it was a magnetic scene that might have graced an Upper East Side penthouse, or one of New York’s finer restaurants.
The Cunard steward who’d been posted to intercept party crashers let them pass with barely a nod. The four moved onward into the radiance that poured forth from the open doors and casement windows of the grand suite.
The first to greet them was their first-night dinner companion, the designer and gadabout Oliver Bernard. Just emerging from the crowded rooms, he was obviously a bit ahead of them on the gaiety and drink.
“Well, if it isn’t our own war correspondent, Mr. Vane…Matt, is it? You’re wise to come; you’ll find plenty of warfare going on here between these Broadway folk.”
“Good to know, Ollie,” Matt said, shaking hands. “It’s a fine thing to be needed.”
Releasing Matt’s hand, Bernard turned to the others.
“Ah, Miss Alma, the intrepid secretary, looking delightful as usual!” He didn’t shake her black-gloved hand, but snatched it up and pressed it to his thinly mustached lips, while she looked on amused.
“And here’s Flash—without his camera, I see,” Ollie said, briefly clasping the young reporter’s hand.
Then he seized Winnie’s white-gloved hand and kissed it. “But who is this lovely young nurse?”
“Miss Winifred Dexter, from Concord,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his fond clutch. “Winnie to you, Ollie.”
“Well, Nurse Winnie,” he said, winking, “it’s still a bit early for your services. But don’t worry, the patients should be lining up by ten or so.”
He turned to the others. “Here, come on in, all of you! I just stepped out for some air, but it’s almost as crowded outside.” He led them back through the bright doorway.
“This is one of the ship’s two Regal Suites,” Ollie said. Acting as tour guide, he pointed out the high mahogany ceilings and carved moldings in the spacious rooms. “The other suite belongs to Alf Vanderbilt, but he’s here with us tonight.”
He nodded toward the tall, handsome tycoon across the parlor, who was speaking to a petite, delicately featured woman in loose-cut chenille. Amid the cheerful hubbub, it was possible to make out that the pair conversed in French.
“I recognize her, too!” Winnie said. “That’s Rita Jolivet, the actress. She’s been in the entertainment pages.” She turned excitedly to her escort. “Flash, I’ll bet you’d love to have your camera here!”
Ollie said, “Rita’s returning from her American tour, headed for her London opening.”
He nodded his head in the direction of a tall, stately young woman talking to a thick-set older gentleman. “You’ve probably seen Josephine Brandell in the playbills too—or in the press, if your paper covers the Great White Way. She’s with our host, Charles Frohman. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
Matt and the others followed Oliver, who strode fearlessly up to the Broadway producer. Frohman, a jovial froggy-faced man, finished speaking to the actress and pivoted on his cane. “Hello, Ollie,” he said. “I meant to greet you earlier but was called off to duty…and a very pleasant duty at that. Have you met Miss Brandell, the star of plays and operas on both sides of the Atlantic? I can’t claim to have discovered her, since she was already starring in Come Over Here when I first met her in London. Josephine, this is Oliver Bernard, a top-notch set designer fresh from his latest stint in Boston.”
“Fresh is the word, I think.” The smiling actress gave Ollie her hand to kiss, and Frohman hurried him along by saying, “I see you’ve rounded up some of my guests. Is this fellow the journalist you were telling me about?”
“Yes,” Ollie said, bobbing up for air. “Mr. Matthew Vane of the Daily Inquisitor. And this is Miss Alma Brady, his secretary and traveling companion,” he added as the producer shook hands perfunctorily from the anchor of his cane. “Here is his photographer—we call him Flash—and Miss Winifred Dexter of Concord, New Hampshire.”
“Oh, Mr. Frohman,” Winnie gushed. “I’ve seen some of your plays. Peter Pan was wonderful!”
“Call me C.F.,” Frohman said. “Yes, it was a dandy. Maybe we’ll find another one like it on this trip to London. But I doubt it—successes like that come along once in a lifetime.”
“Mr. Vane,” Josephine Brandell said as she clasped Matt’s hand, “I’m told you’re a war correspondent, so perhaps you can help me. I’m concerned about this German warning that was printed, and that we’re heading into a war zone. When I try to discuss it, everyone says it’s only a bluff. They treat me as if I’m nothing but a silly little girl.” She flashed a reproachful glance at Frohman and turned back to Matt. “Do you think this threat is just a hollow bluff?”
Matt considered carefully. “Well,” he said at last, “my newspaper wasn’t given the advertisement, so I didn’t have a chance to check it out. But it did come from the German Foreign Office.”
His lovely questioner had let her hand remain in his as they spoke, and he held it gently. “In a poker game, you never know if it’s a bluff until some other player calls it. In this game the stakes are high.” He glanced around them to indicate the whole spacious room and its glittering guests. “But I’d say, someone in very high places has decided to call the German bluff. I’d like to know just who, but the card
s may tell.” Finishing, he returned Josephine’s earnest gaze.
“Thank you,” the actress said after a moment, squeezing his hand warmly and releasing it. “Thank you for taking me seriously.”
“Well, now, Jo, don’t be too hard on C.F. and the rest of us,” Ollie put in to lighten the moment. “Frohman here doesn’t take anybody seriously. A reporter on the dock asked C.F. if he was afraid of the U-boats, and he said, No, in his business, he’s only afraid of the I.O.U’s.”
“Well, really,” Winnie gaily said, “if he was frightened of submarines, he could have taken passage on a neutral American ship. I heard that Isadora Duncan and her dance troupe were just setting out for England on the SS New York, along with a lot of other show business people, the same Saturday we sailed. Didn’t you want to cross with them, Mr. Frohman?”
The producer turned to her with a pained but patient look. “As I told Jerry—my good friend Jerome Kern, the composer, who is supposed to be here with us—when I consider some of the great stars I’ve had to deal with, mere submarines make me smile.”
As the flutter of laughter subsided, Ollie asked, “What about you, Nurse Winnie? Since you’re on board, I take it you’re not afraid of the Germans and their torpedoes?”
“I wouldn’t do them the honor of changing ships,” Winnie declared with an indignant toss of her head. “Anyway, I’m headed straight for the war front…as we all are, all four of us and my other nurse friends…so it wouldn’t have occurred to me to pick the safest way. If I wanted safety so badly, I’d be staying home!”
“Well, if you’re going across to serve as a nurse,” Frohman said, taking up his role as host, “I know just the person you should talk to. Madame Marie de Page, the Belgian envoy, is here at our little soirée. She’s been lecturing in the USA and raising money for the Red Cross relief effort…a wonderful speaker, very passionate.”
He gazed around the suite, leaning on his cane. “So, gentlemen, have your wallets ready. Ollie, you’d recognize her, wouldn’t you?”
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