“What is a ‘guarantee group’?” May asked.
“My assistants and I move about, hopefully undetected,” Andrews explained, “tracking down the inevitable snags, flaws and breakdowns that bedevil every new ship.”
Maggie Brown asked, “Is there anything to be worried about, Mr. Andrews? We’re not guinea pigs, are we? ’Cause if so, we’re paying a pretty penny for the privilege.”
“Actually, Mrs. Brown,” Andrews said, lightly, “we’re talking about such major problems as a plugged-up kitchen drain, or a malfunctioning ice machine.”
“This ship is a marvel,” Ismay said, at once dismissive and boastful. “And Mr. Andrews, God bless him, is a professional fussbudget… Earlier he told me he’d uncovered a troubling flaw in the ship.”
All eyes turned to Ismay for this dire news.
“The coat hooks in the staterooms employ too many screws,” Ismay said.
As his tablemates laughed good-naturedly, Andrews damn near blushed, touching a napkin to his lips, saying only in his defense, “The devil’s in the details, Mr. Ismay.”
“Well, you’ve given us a lovely ship, sir,” Madeline Astor said. “Please accept our thanks, and our compliments.”
Wineglasses were raised in an informal toast and Andrews finally went the entire distance, blushing like a rose. Captain Smith raised a water glass, however, as he was not drinking alcohol.
After dessert, Ismay spoke up. “I regret to inform you that this is Captain Smith’s final crossing.”
Astor asked, “Is that right, Captain?”
A smile emerged from the trim white beard. “Yes it is. I’ll be sixty soon. Forty-five years at sea, thirty-two of them with White Star… I think it’s time to turn the helm over to younger men.”
Futrelle asked, “Do you like these big ships, Captain? Like the Olympic, and the Titanic?”
He nodded, but there was a graveness about it. “Modern shipbuilding has come a long way.”
That wasn’t quite an answer to his question, but Futrelle let it pass. He knew that Smith-whose career had been otherwise spotless-had had his first real accident earlier this year, with the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic, of which he was the captain at the time of a collision with a Royal Navy cruiser. Futrelle suspected, after the performance with the New York, that Captain Smith had not mastered the finer points of seamanship needed to navigate the White Star’s new “wonder ships.”
“You should come back to command all the maiden voyages,” Astor said. “It wouldn’t be a White Star first crossing without you.”
“I’ll second that,” Andrews said, raising his wineglass.
“And I,” Ismay added.
The entire table raised their glasses to the captain, who smiled and nodded, then said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at the end of this crossing, I’ll have logged two million miles aboard White Star ships… and I think I’ve earned some time ashore.”
The captain thanked the group for its “splendid company,” and invited the men to join him in the smoking room for a cigar and brandy, while the women stayed at the table for conversation and aperitifs.
The First-Class Smoking Room, on A deck, was a bastion of male supremacy, an exclusive men’s club at sea where shipping magnates, rail and oil barons and millionaire industrialists could mingle in an atmosphere of free-flowing liquor, high-stakes card playing, and of course cigar smoke that was almost as rich as they were. The Georgian-style mahogany paneling, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, inset with stained-glass windows and etched mirrors, had the feel of a stately, prosperous Protestant church, an impression undercut by the green leather-upholstered armchairs and marble-topped tables, each with a raised edge around it to catch a sliding drink in rough weather.
The little group of men from the captain’s table-Smith, Astor, Andrews, Ismay and Futrelle-stood near the jutting corner whose walls with backlighted stained-glass images of Art Nouveau nymphs and sailing ships gracefully disguised and enclosed the casing of the ship’s immense rear funnel.
Again, the captain declined to drink, but he clearly relished a Cuban cigar so seductively fragrant that confirmed cigarette smoker Futrelle began to question his own tastes.
“With the exception of the sea, and Mrs. Smith,” Ismay said, “the captain’s greatest love is a good cigar.”
Smith raised an eyebrow, nodding his agreement as he held the Cuban before him, regarding it as if it were a treasure map. “Once I’ve retired, gentlemen, should you enter a room where I’m indulging in a fine Cuban such as this, I beg you keep still, so the blue cloud around my head not be disturbed.”
That prompted some gentle laughter, and as Astor began a discussion of yachting with the captain, Futrelle turned away to take in the room.
Seated about the smoke-draped chamber were such luminaries as publisher Henry Harper, railroad magnate Charles M. Hays, Senator William B. Allison of Iowa, and military historian Colonel Archibald Gracie.
And so was at least one considerably less illustrious individual, a certain John Bertram Crafton.
Crafton was seated at a table for four, but only one other seat was taken, by a slender, respectable-looking clean-shaven reddish-haired man, perhaps forty years of age, in formal evening attire, indicating he-like the captain’s party-had earlier supped in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Crafton still wore this afternoon’s brown suit.
The blackmailer was leaning forward conspiratorially and his distinguished-looking companion was frowning in the manner so common to prospective Crafton “clients.”
Noticing Major Butt and his friend Francis Millet seated near the fireplace, Futrelle excused himself and wandered over and sat between them.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I notice our old friend is spreading his typical good cheer.”
Broad-shouldered Archie had a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other; his sneer sent his mustache askew. Gray-haired Millet sat across from the major, hands folded, his own brandy untouched.
“Somebody should toss that bastard overboard,” Archie snorted. “Do I take it you’ve had the pleasure of Mr. Crafton’s company, Jack? Are you now a fellow ‘client’?”
“Oh yes-he dredged up my ‘nervous breakdown’ and I told him to stuff himself.”
“Is that right?” Archie shook his head. “He’s come after me with the same sort of rubbish… only there wasn’t much dredging that needed doing. This, uh… papal visit is something of a camouflage. I’ve been recently hospitalized.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Archie-but you look well, now.”
“Jack, I’m sure you can imagine the personal and professional pressure I’ve been under, with my loyalties divided between Teddy and Bill.”
The major meant by that Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft, two presidents whose loyalty he’d pledged who were now facing off against each other politically. Being pulled between two such powerful individuals could strain anyone, even someone as strong as Major Archie Butt.
Millet said, “Archie was briefly in an English sanitarium… just to get away, to calm his jangled nerves, his… depression.”
Futrelle nodded toward Crafton, who was still quietly speaking to the distinguished stranger. “And he threatened to go to the yellow press with the story, I suppose.”
Archie nodded. His eyes betrayed the depressed state in which he was still, to some degree, caught up.
“Did you pay him off, Archie?”
“Certainly not!”
“Forgive me for asking… Who is that Crafton’s sitting with?”
“That’s Hugh Rood,” Archie said. “I’m told he’s a London merchant of some kind; import, export. Very well-off.”
And barely had Archie’s description of the man ended when Rood sprang to his feet and grasped Crafton by the lapels of his suit and dragged him halfway across the marble-topped table, spilling drinks, glass shattering on the fancy linoleum, every eye in the room turning toward the two men.