Captain Smith, pacing slowly, eyes on the horizon, suddenly looked less a symbol, more a man. Without Ismay around, Smith seemed considerably bigger-taller, broader, more formidable.
When Futrelle was announced, the captain smiled slightly and said, “Good of you to come, Mr. Futrelle… walk with me to the bridge wing, would you?”
On the outdoor platform near the small three-sided booth from which the ship’s position was calculated by sextant, the captain leaned against the waist-high wall, regarding the sea with a stoic gaze. As they spoke, Smith rarely looked at Futrelle.
“Mr. Ismay wants the best for his company,” the captain said, “and who can blame him? This ship was his dream-he first sketched it on a napkin. But it’s my reality, Mr. Futrelle.”
“Your concerns and duties aren’t necessarily his,” Futrelle said.
“Precisely. But he is the director of the line, launching the company’s most important ship, and I am a lame duck of a captain, making his final crossing.”
“All the more reason to do what you think is right.”
Smith gave Futrelle a sideways look. “Right, as in proper? Correct?”
Futrelle shook his head. “There’s no rule book for a situation of this kind. Ismay wants to avoid bad press, but simply ignoring the incident could court disaster.”
“Elaborate.”
“Crafton didn’t just fall from the sky-even he had relatives and, presumably, friends. He certainly had business associates, in that extortion ring. Questions will be asked when we come ashore-and one may be why we didn’t ask questions aboard ship.”
Captain Smith nodded, barely. “I do believe Ismay’s discretion is well-founded.”
“Actually, so do I. Just too extreme.”
Without looking at Futrelle, Smith asked, “Would you do me a service, sir? I can repay you only with my gratitude and friendship.”
“Ask.”
“Could you-in a circumspect manner, playing upon the lack of knowledge of those aboard as regards Mr. Crafton’s demise-launch a sub-rosa investigation? Ask questions-innocent questions, on their face, but secretly knowing ones-to gather information so that I may make a decision before we reach New York.”
“Not everyone is ignorant of this murder, you know.”
“A handful know-ourselves, Ismay, the doctor and a single stewardess.”
“And there’s the murderer.”
“So there is.”
“And what if I should happen to ascertain the murderer’s identity?”
The captain’s face hardened. “Sir, I don’t care what his social connections are or how many millions he has in the bank. If he’s John Jacob Astor or some Italian beggar in steerage… If Jesus Christ is the murderer, we’ll turn Him over to the master-at-arms and slap Him in irons.”
“I admire your backbone, Captain. But might I suggest we hear our Lord and Savior’s side of it, first?”
And at last Smith turned and looked directly at Futrelle, and then he laughed and laughed; for so soft-spoken a man, the captain’s booming laughter echoed across the forward well deck and forecastle deck, startling the smattering of steerage passengers risking the brisk air.
“We’ll make no decisions until facts are gathered,” Smith said. He slipped his hand onto Futrelle’s shoulder again, and walked him slowly back toward the bridge. “There’ll be no mention of this to Mr. Ismay, of course.”
“Hell, no.” He wasn’t as deranged as the late Crafton had thought. “After all, we have an overriding reason to keep Ismay in the dark about the investigation, beyond his own White Star-based objections to it.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“Why-he’s a suspect himself, Captain.”
“So he is.”
And the two men smiled and shook hands.
SIX
At luncheon, the cafe parisien tended to be lightly frequented, and today was no exception.
The Titanic’s approximation of a sidewalk cafe on a Paris boulevard was designed more for a between-meal snack or perhaps an after-dinner aperitif; with sumptuous feasts available in the Dining Saloon and the a la carte Ritz, few passengers were willing to settle for the dainty sandwiches of the cafe’s circular buffet.
The younger set had largely appropriated this sunlight-streaming trellised cafe on the starboard B deck-with its unobstructed ocean view-making it one of the livelier areas aboard ship. But right now the cafe held only a modest scattering of passengers, seated on the cafe’s green wicker chairs at the festive round and square green-topped tables, taking advantage of the casually continental ambience, as the gently muted strains of the string trio playing in the reception room next door floated in.
Among this handful of passengers were the Futrelles and the Strauses, seated at a square table by the windows onto the ocean, tiny plates with tiny sandwiches before them all, accompanied by iced tea.
The Strauses had not selected their sandwiches from the buffet, however; a French waiter saw to it that they received kosher variations (the deviled ham Futrelle was nibbling at being wholly inappropriate). The waiter also made sure that the iced tea was sweetened, in the Southern style, as the two couples had Georgia backgrounds in common.
“What a good idea, getting away like this,” Ida Straus said. She wore a black-and-white dress (mostly black) with fancy beadwork, typical of her conservative elegance. “They feed us so much on this ship! This makes a nice change…. Don’t you agree, Papa?”
“Oh yes, Mama,” Isidor Straus said, idly stroking his gray spade beard as he contemplated the minuscule sandwiches on his plate. His suit was dark blue, his shirt a wing collar with a tie of light blue silk; he too had a quiet elegance. “I only hope the Harrises and their friends don’t mind eating alone.”
“I invited Henry and Rene,” Futrelle said, “but they declined-seems they exercised in the gym this morning, and worked up too much of an appetite.”
Actually, Futrelle had explained to the Harrises that he needed to speak to the Strauses in private, supposedly to gather information for a story with a department-store setting.
“If you need an expert on department stores,” Henry had said, “you’re goin’ to the wrong party…. Talk to Rene.”
And Rene had added, “Henry B. is right-I probably spend more time in Macy’s than Isidor Straus.”
But nonetheless the Harrises graciously deferred, with no prying questions.
So far it had all been small talk. For such different couples, the Futrelles and Strauses had much in common, from Georgia to New York (Macy’s was on Herald Square, after all, and Futrelle had worked for the Herald). Both couples agreed that the maiden voyage on the Titanic was proving a perfect way to top off their respective European trips. The Strauses had been taking a winter holiday at Cap Martin on the Riviera; the Futrelles had decided to cut their trip short when Jack, with his birthday looming, had gotten homesick for their two children.
“We plan to take Virginia and John traveling with us,” Futrelle said, “when they’re older, and out of school.”
Straus nodded at the wisdom of that. “Let them be an age when they’ll appreciate what you’re giving them.”
“We have six children,” Ida said, “and as for grandchildren, we lose count.”