“You’re saying Vanderbilt or Madame DePage might be German spies, or at least in league with them? Or that imbecile Hubbard. .?”
But she was on to her next possibility: “Or maybe it was a list of targets plus the name of their shipboard contact, in first class! Right down to the cabin number!”
“Vance, is that really likely?”
She cast that glittering predatory gaze on me again. “However you look at it, these same six names have turned up twice: first, in those warning telegrams; next, in a list that was in the dead stowaway’s possession. . which directly ties those six people to that murdered man.”
“I suppose it does. But how?”
“That,” she said, “would seem to be the question. . and since you have to interview them anyway, who besides S.S. Van Dine will have a better opportunity to find out?”
And to seal the bargain, she kissed me.
NINE
The alarm clock that woke me was a powerful bellow, like the mournful cry of some mythical sea beast-in reality, of course, the ship’s foghorn. I’d made arrangements to meet Miss Vance for the second breakfast sitting, and could well have rolled over and gone back to sleep; but the events of the day previous had been so intense, that when I’d awakened, so had countless thoughts and myriad questions.
After toiletries that included a refreshing shower and a trimming of my beard, I dressed in a gray houndstooth-check suit and walked out onto the wide sheltered promenade, which was lined with deck chairs, none currently in use. In fact, I seemed to have the rail all to myself as I gazed out where the endless expanse of ocean should be, seeing instead an impenetrable whiteness. The ship’s foghorn-half roar, half moan-blew its melancholy warning out into the swirling nothingness, and no doubt keen eyes on the bridge were at this moment searching for any sign of another ship, whose dark blur might loom abruptly, and perilously, out of the shroud of fog.
The great ship might well have been suspended in midair, a misty hand gripping her all around and underneath, freezing her in place. Though the ship may have seemed motionless, surely it had not stopped but only slowed*-soon the thrump of the bow cutting through a wave put the illusion to rest.
The otherworldly, almost surreal atmosphere gave me a chill, though the weather was mild enough-weren’t murders enough? Must Nature herself conspire to make the Lusitania a ghost ship?
Such thoughts were forgotten, however, when (perhaps an hour later) I repaired to the First Class Dining Saloon, where I joined the lovely-and astonishingly refreshed-looking-Miss Vance. She again was boldly hatless, and her attire striking, her Gibson-girl figure nearly done justice by the dark green satin dress with yoke-style overblouse and much lighter green high standing collar and sleeves.
Once more our tablemates were Madame DePage and her colleague Dr. Houghton, and (across from them) Miss Pope and her young paramour, Mr. Friend. Again, I had gone directly to Madame DePage to thank her for allowing me to join with their little group.
“Please consider yourself one of us,” she said, “for the remainder of the voyage.”
I asked if we might sit down for that interview today sometime, and she said most certainly-would this morning in the music room, at eleven, be convenient? It would. After a few other morning pleasantries, the three couples-Miss Vance and I comprising the third-fell into their private conversations.
These conversations were limited, however, as the ship’s banquet of a breakfast took up much of one’s attention. We chose between fruit or fruit juice, followed by a selection of oatmeal, grape nuts, malted milk or hominy; then kippers, turbot, lemon sole or Yarmouth bloaters; eggs to order or sauteed calf’s liver; and Cumberland lamb or Wiltshire bacon and Cumberland lamb, with a side of baked apples or pancakes. About that point a waiter offered from a tray of cold cuts an array of ham, beef, smoked ox tongue and capon. And there of course were oatcakes, toasted muffins and scones. . with tea, coffee or cocoa. For those disappointed in such light fare, special orders of steak, mutton chops or chicken were available from the grill.
I ate heartily, despite my knowledge of the corpses sharing the cold storage compartments, and so did Miss Vance, whose pragmatic nature continued to impress.
“Are you planning to attend the morning’s divine services?” Miss Vance asked me, between nibbles of scone.
“My mother and father were deeply religious,” I said, and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “Sober citizens and devout churchgoers. . They saw to it that in my youth I attended enough services to last my lifetime.”
“Captain Turner’s conducting the services in the main lounge,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “No doubt asking for blessings on the king and all those at sea.”
“A religious service as served up by Bowler Bill surely would have its rewards, as entertainment if not theology.”
Across from us, Miss Pope was discussing religious matters as well, in her own unique way-specifically, the glories of Sir Oliver Lodge, the spiritualist.
“I would imagine,” Miss Vance said, “that as little as the captain likes rubbing shoulders with passengers, the Sunday service must seem one of those ‘perils of the sea’ to which the prayer books allude.”
Keeping my voice a near whisper-the orchestra was silent at breakfast, the only music the chatter of conversion and the clink and clank of china and silver-I said to her, “I believe we need to make amends to Staff Captain Anderson.”
Miss Vance nodded. “Yes-things grew tense last night. Perhaps I made an inappropriate remark or two.”
“In my view, you were all too easy on these Cunard clods. . but we need Anderson on our side, to help our other interviews. Don’t you think that steward Leach should be questioned? And Master-at-Arms Williams?”
With a thoughtful frown, she said, “I do. . but not just yet. I consider them. . and for that matter, Mr. Anderson himself. . suspects.”
I was buttering a muffin. “I assume that is why you withheld certain information from Anderson and Captain Turner last night. . information of a bluish, almond-scented variety.”
Nodding again, she said, “If one of them is either a murderer or an accomplice to the stowaways-”
“Or both,” I cut in.
“-or both. . then better to give that unknown party a false sense of security. After all, we’re stuck on this boat for the better part of a week-no one’s going anywhere, just yet.”
“Particularly not the stowaways,” I said, as those conversing-and feasting-around us remained blissfully unaware of the tragedy and danger in their midst.
Perhaps an hour later, Miss Vance and I were walking on the open-air promenade on the Boat Deck-the fog had been replaced by bright morning sunshine, touching the vast shimmering blue with golden highlights-and quite by accident encountered Staff Captain Anderson.
The square-jawed, burly Anderson was aft of us, and had not yet seen us, being otherwise occupied-he raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew a shrill command. Miss Vance and I glanced at each other curiously, and positioned ourselves along the rail, watching. A handful of crew members suddenly appeared from here and there, like ants sensing sugar at a picnic, climbing into life jackets to which they affixed badges with the number fourteen on them.
The lifeboats were slung from davits above the rail, turning their portions of the generously wide Boat Deck into narrow walkways.* Right now those crew members were clambering up and into the hanging lifeboat-boldly numbered fourteen-which swung a little during the course of the exercise. Soon the sailors were sitting straight and trim within the suspended boat.
Then Anderson blew his whistle again, and the sailors leapt from the boat onto the deck and disappeared like those same ants scurrying back to their hills.