“Did you sense they might have placed such a device?” Anderson asked.
“I couldn’t say-the ringleader is too collected to read, and the other two are so anxious they also defy assessment.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Miss Vance.
“I do believe it might be worthwhile,” I said, “for me to question our little group periodically-the leader is a stalwart type, but, as I say, the other two are weak. . promisingly so.”
Miss Vance complimented me on this offering, and said to Anderson, “Could you have that camera and these plates taken to the darkroom, for development? That would seem a good place to start.”
Anderson agreed.
“Of course,” I said, “if you come up with some wonderful panoramic shots of the Manhattan skyline, we may have to reconsider. We may be hosting three innocent tourists, after all.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Miss Vance said.
As did I. As did I.
SIX
All around the ship, stewards were knocking on cabin and stateroom doors, checking to see if the dark curtains had been drawn in compliance with wartime blackout regulations; I was spared this minor indignity only because my cabin did not look out upon the ocean. I was not, on the other hand, spared another indignity, that of snapping, buttoning and hook-and-eyeing myself into the monkey suit required of those men wishing to eat in the Lusitania ’s fabled dining room.*
Tonight, after all, marked this first social event of our voyage. Throughout Saloon class, ladies were no doubt squeezing their forms, whether dainty or not, into evening gowns that had been long since selected with painful care to compete with the elegance of the white-and-gold palatial dining room that awaited them.
And in the ship’s galleys, larders, bakehouses and confectionery kitchens, a battalion of cooks, bakers, butchers and scullions would even now be applying finishing touches to the voyage’s initial and typically elaborate meal, served by the Lucy’s regiment of waiters.
I had been invited by Miss Vance-with the generous approval of Madame Marie DePage-to dine at the DePage table tonight; I was to meet them in the dining room. Taking the lift down to D deck, and the main floor of the saloon, I was guaranteed the full effect of the most talked about restaurant on the seven seas. And I was not disappointed.
The First Class Dining Saloon was like a gigantic ornate Easter egg filled with the creme de la creme. The two-tiered white chamber, trimmed in the usual gold, was overseen by an enormous alabaster-and-gilt dome whose ornate plasterwork and oval panels, depicting cherubs after Boucher, would have been the envy of many a cathedral. Fully five hundred patrons at once could be served here, between the circular balcony of the upper tier (a la carte) and the main floor (table d’hote), which was as wide as the ship itself. Marble Corinthian columns, circular tables with linen cloths and shining silver and glittering crystal, rose-tapestry swivel chairs, an immense mahogany sideboard. . Cunard had spared no expense to provide a regal ambience for its first-class passengers.
A Strauss waltz floated down from the balcony, courtesy of a subdued orchestra, and despite the room’s size and the number of patrons therein, the combined table conversation was a murmur, not a din, the occasional clink and clank of silver and china merely percussive touches. Waiters glided from table to table with a grace usually confined to dancers, as diners entered the palatial saloon, taking it all in with wide eyes, the upper class gawking like hicks at the county fair.
I spotted the theatrical impresario Frohman, entering opposite me; he was relying heavily on his cane, followed by an entourage of half a dozen men and women, including two well-known and attractive actresses, Josephine Brandell and Rita Jolivet. The group was disturbing the decorum of Strauss and quiet conversation by speaking in the boisterous, self-centered manner typical of theater people.
Moving past the slow, loud group, bushy-bearded George Kessler-the Champagne magnate-swaggered over to a small table where a middle-aged man with a younger wife held a seat for him. Perched between two of those gold-crowned columns, at a table for eight, were Madame DePage and her party, including Miss Vance, who had thoughtfully saved the seat next to her for yours truly.
I went immediately to Madame DePage, who graciously rose to offer me her dainty hand, which was ensconced in black lace-her entire ensemble was black, her evening gown heavy with beads and lace, a black feather rising from a small hat. . all in all, a peculiar cross between the funereal and the gay.
I accepted her hand, almost (but not) kissing it as I half-bowed, saying, “It’s a great honor, Madame DePage. I admire very much your humanitarian efforts.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty-her skin was like cream, her lips pursed in a perpetual kiss-lowered her head in a small bow of her own. Then her eyes lifted to mine, sparkling as she said, in her lilting accent, “Miss Vance says you’re a charming fellow, Monsieur Van Dine. And you wish to interview me for your newspaper?”
“I do, Madame-at your convenience.”
“I will be delighted. It will be pleasant to speak of the serious matter. . Men, they die, they suffer, while we do the frivolous thing, inside of this. .” She searched for a word. “. . bubble.”
“Bubbles are notoriously fragile, Madame.”
“Oh, yes they are. It is a. . illusion, our safety. The world, she is at war.”
“I understand your point of view, Madame. But international law does not allow a ship like this one to be fired upon, until it has been searched and munitions or guns discovered.”
“And then?”
I shrugged. “Then the enemy can fire away.”
“And what of the passengers?”
“Oh, they must be removed.”
“Ah, but passengers can be ‘removed’ in various ways, n’est-ce pas?”
I smiled and lowered my head in capitulation.
The lovely philanthropist made introductions. Seated next to her was Dr. James Houghton, a distinguished-looking gent in his middle forties, who was travelling to join Madame DePage’s husband as his assistant at the hospital at La Panne. Seated opposite them were a slender, bird-like but not unattractive woman in her later forties and a much younger man, possibly thirty or at most thirty-five, who seemed nonetheless to be her sweetheart. The woman was Theodate Pope, daughter of a car manufacturer in New England somewhere, and her bright-eyed soul mate was Edwin Friend.
“So you’re a journalist?” the bird-like Miss Pope asked, in a breathy, high-pitched voice. Her beaded gown was a light green satin.
I had at this point taken my seat at the far end of the table, next to Miss Vance, lovely in a blue satin the color of her eyes, every tendril of the blonde hair neatly up, complemented by a small hat with a large darker blue feather. This put me next to Mr. Friend, as well.
“That’s right,” I said, seeing no reason to amplify, though the designation “journalist” obviously did me little justice.
The woman persisted. “Have you any interest in the paranormal?”
“Psychic phenomenon, do you mean? I’m afraid I have little patience with superstition, Miss Pope.”
Her friend Friend chimed in. “Ah, but this isn’t superstition, sir-it’s science. That’s why we’re going to England, you see.”
I didn’t see, nor did I particularly care to.
But Miss Pope was saying, “Edwin and I are pursuing our mutual interest in psychic science. We’ve arranged to confer with the members of the English Society for Psychical Research!”
That last had been delivered so triumphantly I was obviously expected to cheer or at least provide an ooh or an ah. Instead I merely nodded, and said, “Well, I wish you both luck.”
This response disappointed them, but it achieved my desired effect: They turned away from me, to their own company, and throughout the evening spoke enthusiastically and incessantly to one another about spiritualistic matters.