He nodded. “It took some time-but they were my readers, after all.”
His wife made one of her rare contributions to the conversation. “Elbert is too modest to say so,” she began, and I thought, modest? “But before, after and during the controversy, seventy-eight German-American names were on the Hubbard payroll.”
Ignoring this, Miss Vance asked Hubbard, “What about death threats?”
“My heavens, I’ve always had my share of those. I suppose I had thirty or forty, concerning the Bill Kaiser piece.”
“Were they investigated by the police?”
“Of course not. Suffering such cranks is part and parcel of my role in life.”
I exchanged glances with Miss Vance-she knew as I did that dismissing the possibility of Hubbard as an assassination target was not easily done, in light of all this.
“Do you think ‘Bill Kaiser’ might have this ship hit by a U-boat,” I asked, “just to make an example of you?
His eyes danced at such a grandiose thought. “To be torpedoed,” he said, “would be a good advertisement for my views, don’t you think?”
I had heard him say much the same thing to the reporters, coming aboard the ship, and it indicated just how prefabricated his “off the cuff” remarks were. Still, the words-in light of German stowaways, sabotage and murder-had a new and chilling effect on me.
Miss Vance took this opportunity to explain her role as the ship’s detective, and informed the Hubbards of the possibility of a thief or ring of thieves being aboard. She believed he might be a target. Had he brought any valuables along, or an unduly large amount of cash?
“By the standards of a Vanderbilt,” Hubbard said, “I probably seem a piker-but I admit I did bring along some five thousand dollars in paper money.”
“Why so much?” I asked. “I can’t imagine you and Mrs. Hubbard giving yourselves over to extravagance, even on a European trip.”
“Mr. Van Dine, I’m more than just an idea garage, supplying spare parts, lubricating oil and mental gasoline to my fellow human beings. .”
I managed not to groan.
“. . I am also a businessman. My Roycrofters are expert in fine bookbinding, and creating craftworks in wood, metal, copper and leather. A secondary mission of this trip is to seek quality materials, in particular Spanish leather for our bindery.”
Was every briefcase in first class crammed with money?
We inquired if he’d spoken to any strangers on the ship, if anyone had tried to strike up a conversation, and make a friend of him. .
“Why, certainly. Everyone I’ve encountered-scores in these two days. They are, after all, my species!”
“Your species,” I said numbly.
“Yours, too! Mr. Van Dine, the fact that you are a human being brings you near to me-it is a bond that unites us! Often in life, all we need is the smile or hand-clasp of a fellow human being, and perhaps a word of good cheer, to get us through a rough day.”
Miss Vance tried to cut through this Pollyanna blather, asking, “But has anyone pressed too hard? Perhaps, approached you for business reasons?”
“No.”
I asked, “Have you observed anything suspicious? A steward, perhaps, whom you came onto in your quarters, but who had scant reason to be there?”
He glanced at his wife, who met his eyes with a shrug.
“No,” he said.
“Would you consider,” I suggested, “removing your rose-colored spectacles, for the duration of this voyage, and report to Miss Vance or myself anything suspicious you might observe?”
Miss Vance added, “There may be physical danger, either to you and your wife, or risk to your possessions. . specifically, your business funds.”
Seeming to take no offense at my “rose-colored spectacles” remark, Hubbard smiled and nodded. “More than happy to cooperate. Do you agree, Alice?”
She nodded, too. “More than happy.”
That seemed to sum them up for me: more than happy. . moving well past joy into the realm of ignorant bliss.
Right now Hubbard was studying me-perhaps sensing my cynicism, though little I’d said revealed as much. He asked, “Mr. Van Dine, have you heard of Mr. and Mrs. Isador Straus?”
“The names are familiar, but. .”
“They died on the Titanic-Mr. Straus was a wealthy man, in the department store trade; he and his wife had been married a very long time. They chose to stay aboard and meet their fate, rather than be separated, when Mrs. Straus could easily have found a seat on a lifeboat. . ‘Women and children first’ being the law of the sea.”
“I do remember,” I said.
He looked heavenward. “They knew how to do three great things, the Strauses-how to live, how to love and how to die.” He turned his gaze fondly on his wife, and she returned it; they were holding hands, and I suppose I should have found it trite, but there was something genuine and even moving about it, much as I despise cheap sentiment.
Hubbard said, “To pass from this world, as did Mr. and Mrs. Straus, is glorious-happy lovers, both. In life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided.”
The hambone was nothing if not a showman, and without another word-not even an aphorism-he rose, as did his wife, and they nodded their good-byes and made their exit.
TWELVE
The next morning, Monday, found the great ship off the Grand Banks, basking in sunshine, riding a gentle swell. According to one of our fellow first-class passengers, Charles Lauriat-a Boston bookseller who considered himself an amateur expert on matters nautical-the Lucy was doing a good twenty knots, maintaining a long, easy stride, though occasionally pulsating in brief spasms from the sheer force of her steam turbines.*
As was the usual case on a lengthy ocean voyage, the reassuring routine of shipboard life had quietly asserted itself. Passengers plopped into deck chairs with novels (that many were reading Theodore Drieser’s new one, The Financier, was an encouraging sign in such culturally barren times). Away from their sedentary situations, middle-aged men strode the decks like athletes, their stomachs tucked in, their chests thrust out, sucking in the fresh sea breeze, cleansing their city-soiled innards. The sharp, salty air seemed to egg on the appetite, making possible the consumption of the endless cornucopia of food; and people you might ignore on dry land seemed not only tolerable company but witty, worthy cohorts.
Miss Vance and I did not spend all of our time engaged in investigation. Now and then, on an evening, we could be found doing the tango or the foxtrot, and well. Often, however, we were not available, spending time privately in either her or my quarters, and what was exchanged between us is not germane to this narrative; besides, even I am too gentlemanly to go into detail, however wonderful it might be to record such vivid memories.
We also on occasion attended the ship’s concerts, where an array of talent performed, ranging from the world’s finest to numerous self-proclaimed artistes with more audacity than ability. Nonetheless, in our self-indulgent, overfed mood, we were inclined to find all of them entertaining, even if not in the way intended; like cattle being fattened for the slaughterhouse, Miss Vance and I were part of a contented lot.
Perhaps we had become distracted by shipboard foolishness, or lulled into complacency by the knowledge that the stowaways were indeed deceased and nothing further of a suspicious or dangerous nature had transpired, since their passing. In our defense, the final interviews of individuals on Klaus’s list were arranged not at our convenience, but at that of the interviewees.
Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt was, after all, the richest man on the ship, probably the Lucy’s most important passenger, with the possible exception of Elbert Hubbard. We were fortunate that Vanderbilt consented to see us at all, as he had no love for the press, which had been rough on him from time to time.