“Approach me again at your own risk,” Rood shouted, his voice low-pitched, harsh.
And he backhanded the little blackmailer, viciously, the slap ringing in the room like a gunshot.
Crafton tumbled from his chair onto the floor, and the sound was like somebody dropping a bundle of kindling.
Captain Smith stepped forward, Ismay took a step back, but before anyone could do or say anything else, Rood strode from the room, his face burning.
Crafton, ever resilient, rose from the linoleum, shrugged, licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled feebly, straightening his clothing. With surprising dignity, he said, “Mr. Rood has an unfortunate temper… Captain, as a good Christian, I prefer not to press charges.”
Then the ferrety little man took a halfhearted bow, and made a hasty exit, as conversation in the Smoking Room rose to a boisterous din of amazement, confusion and amusement.
DAY THREE
FIVE
At ten o’clock, the Futrelles were still in bed-actually, they were back in bed, having enjoyed a room-service breakfast-and, following some second-honeymoon calisthenics, they were still in their nightclothes, propped up with feather pillows, each lost in a novel.
They had decided the boat deck might be a bit chilly for deck-chair reading, and there would be time aplenty this afternoon for socializing. For all its amenities, the Titanic had no organized activities for passengers, who spent most of their time reading books, writing letters and playing cards.
Pools on the speed of the ship were another pastime, and each day in the Smoking Room, the prior day’s run was posted; the ship had made 386 miles, from Thursday to Friday, despite her two stops for passengers and mail-yesterday’s run would probably top five hundred. There was talk that Captain Smith and Ismay were trying to beat sister ship Olympic’s maiden-voyage performance.
May was reading the popular The Virginian by Owen Wister, which she’d bought in London; there had been something perversely satisfying about purchasing a novel of the American West from a West End bookseller. Futrelle was absorbed in a book he’d discovered in the ship’s library, contributed by some scamp as a grim joke: Futility, a science-fiction-tinged tale about the shipwreck of a luxury liner not unlike this one; in fact, the author-one Morgan Robertson, whose style was little better than the penny dreadfuls, but whose fertile imagination (like John Jacob Astor) made up for it-had even named his great ship the Titan.
The shrill ring of the nightstand phone drew Futrelle away from his novel-an iceberg had just struck the fictional wonder ship-and Futrelle answered it with a distracted, “Yes?”
“Oh, good! You’re there…. This is Bruce… Bruce Ismay.”
As if there were any doubt which Bruce it might be.
Ismay was saying, “I had hoped we’d find you in your stateroom.”
“Well, Bruce, you have,” Futrelle said, hoping Ismay wasn’t calling to say a full ship’s tour with Andrews had been arranged; Futrelle had in mind a lazy day. “How can I help you?”
“Could you come to my suite, straightaway? And do please come alone. The captain and I would like to speak with you… privately.”
The captain? That fact, and something in Ismay’s voice-a distressed edge-finally pulled Futrelle’s attention away from the novel, which he laid folded open on the nightstand.
“I’ll be there shortly,” Futrelle said, and hung up.
May peeked over the colorful dust jacket of The Virginian. “I take it that was Mr. Ismay. What does he want now?”
“Possibly something to do with the book project,” Futrelle said, reluctantly climbing from the comfortable bed.
“You don’t sound convinced of that.”
“I’m not.” Futrelle was at the closet, choosing his clothing for the day. The brown houndstooth-check suit seemed appropriate, somehow. “I suspect something’s wrong.”
“Whatever could it be?”
He smirked to himself. “Let’s hope it’s not an iceberg.”
“What, dear?”
“Nothing… just, when you’ve finished The Virginian, for your own peace of mind, I’d avoid this little novel I’m reading.”
She gave him a puzzled look, shrugged and returned to her reading.
Within minutes, Futrelle was again knocking at the door to suite B52. This time a servant answered-a cadaverous liveried butler in his late fifties-who ushered Futrelle through the parlor of the grandiose stateroom. Soon the author had left Napoleon’s Empire stylings behind for the mock-Tudor world of Ismay’s private enclosed promenade, with its white walls with dark half-timbering.
Blond wicker chairs, mostly deck-style, mingled with the potted plants, so the sunny space provided plenty of places to sit; but both Captain Smith and J. Bruce Ismay were pacing, with all the anxiety of expectant fathers but none of the hope.
“Jack!” Ismay said. He wore a businesslike dark brown tweed; no knickers today. “Thank you for coming, old man. Sit down, won’t you?”
Ismay pulled a wicker chair out into the walking area, and Futrelle sat; the White Star director drew up his own chair, while Smith-regal in a uniform as white and well pressed as that of a prosperous ice-cream salesman-stood with his hands locked behind him, staring absently out at the endless gunmetal sea.
Ismay was fussing. “Would you like coffee or tea, sir? Anything at all?”
“No. We had a late breakfast. Your room service is superb, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” Ismay said.
The captain said nothing.
Awkwardness settled over the promenade like fog. Ismay looked toward Smith for help, but Smith’s eyes were on the boundless waters.
“Something extremely unfortunate has occurred,” Ismay said, finally. “One of our passengers has… passed on to his final reward.”
“Who died?”
Ismay twitched a wholly inappropriate smile. “Mr. John Bertram Crafton of London.”
A humorless laugh that started in his chest rumbled out of Futrelle like a cannonball. Then he asked, “Murdered?”
Captain Smith glanced sharply over his shoulder, then stared back out at sea.
Ismay’s eyes and nostrils were flaring like those of a rearing horse. “Why do you assume he’s been murdered?”
“Oh, I don’t know-perhaps because he appears to have been trying to blackmail the entire First-Class passenger list… yourself included, Bruce.”
Ismay swallowed thickly. “Our ship’s surgeon indicates natural causes. Though a relatively young man, Mr. Crafton appears to have died in his sleep… peacefully. Who knows-perhaps he had a heart condition.”
Futrelle was cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief. “For that to be true, he’d’ve had to have a heart.”
Ismay sighed, shifted in the wicker chair, crackingly. “If this were a case of murder… and believe me, it isn’t… you would be in a particularly awkward position, Jack. After all, witnesses saw you suspending Mr. Crafton by his ankles over the Grand Staircase balcony.”
“That was just a prank to make a point.”
Futrelle thought he saw a faint smile cross the captain’s lips, but-in his side view of the man-wasn’t positive.
“In any case,” Futrelle said, “I was hardly alone in my distaste for Mr. Crafton. I don’t believe he was your choice for most favorite passenger, either, Bruce-and of course, Mr. Rood slapped him rather publicly, last night.”
“Very true,” Ismay said, nodding. “But, again, our ship’s surgeon says this is definitely not murder.”
“Well, that’s a relief, because you’d certainly have a blue-chip list of suspects on your hands… not to mention have a damper thrown over your highly publicized maiden voyage.”