It went on like that, with an excursion into mutual admiration. Straus-with no college education, an inveterate reader-was impressed by Futrelle’s success in the writing field (though no mention was made of the Macy’s magnate ever having read a Futrelle story or novel). Futrelle found it fascinating that Straus-who, with his brother Nathan, had started out with a china shop in Macy’s basement and within ten years owned the store-had gone from the department-store business to Congress, becoming a close confidant of President Cleveland.
Straus was not a boastful man, and in fact downplayed his accomplishments. “I’m not interested in politics or business anymore. I’m at a stage in my life where my hobbies and traveling are more important.”
“You’re too modest,” May said. She looked youthful in a boyish leisure outfit of white shirt with blue-and-green striped silk tie under a knitted green-and-brown waistcoat; her hat was a large-crowned light brown felt number with a curled brim. “After all, everyone knows your ‘hobby’ is helping people.”
“You’re too kind,” Straus said, but he clearly liked hearing it.
Both Futrelles were well aware of Straus’s philanthropy, particularly in the areas of education and aiding Jewish immigrants. Everything Futrelle knew about Straus made the man out a saint, albeit a Hebrew one; what in God’s name could Crafton have had on this paragon of virtue?
It was time to find out; Futrelle caught his wife’s gaze and narrowed his eyes in a signal imperceptible to all but her. May immediately began to dig in her purse.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve forgotten my medicine in our stateroom… I need to take my pills with lunch.”
The only medication May was taking was aspirin, but of course the Strauses didn’t know that.
Futrelle began to rise. “Shall I go and fetch it for you, dear?”
“No, no, thank you, Jack-I’ll run and get it.” She turned to Ida with a smile. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into keeping me company?”
And of course Ida could only say, “I’d love to,” and soon the two women were winding through the mostly empty wicker tables and chairs.
Straus watched his wife depart with a fondness Futrelle found touching. “There goes as good a woman as ever a man was blessed with,” Straus said. The old boy turned toward Futrelle. “And hang on to that gem of yours, if you don’t mind a little advice.”
“Smartest move I ever made,” Futrelle said, “marrying that woman. Isidor… now that we’ll be alone for a moment, I need to ask you a question-in confidence.”
The eyes behind the pince-nez glasses narrowed. “Your tone is serious.”
“It’s a serious matter.”
Straus folded his hands, leaned forward. “Would it have to do with John B. Crafton?”
Straus’s perceptiveness amused and surprised Futrelle. “Now, how did you know that, sir?”
“I know there is a rumor drifting about the ship that the famous mystery writer Jacques Futrelle held a man over the balcony of the Grand Staircase, and shook the change from his pockets.”
Futrelle grinned. “That’s more than a rumor, Isidor.”
The old boy grinned back: the teeth weren’t his (or actually they were-he’d purchased them).
“I’d have paid good money for a front-row seat to that show,” Straus said. “You saw me give Crafton the heave-ho from our compartment, on the boat train, didn’t you?”
“Yes-I had a front-row seat for that one, and it didn’t cost me a dime.”
Straus raised an eyebrow. “So we have more than a love for the state of Georgia in common. We share a dislike for that foul little man.”
“We do. And I’d like to take the liberty of building on that common ground by asking a question or two… which if you do not answer, I’ll take no offense. I only hope you take no offense in the asking.”
“I’m sure I won’t take offense. As to whether I’ll answer your questions, I’ll have to hear them first.”
A waiter stopped by to replace their iced-tea glasses with fresh ones, and moved on.
Futrelle leaned in. “Is it safe for me to assume that Crafton approached you as one of his prospective ‘clients’?”
“Safe indeed.”
“My response to him was to hang him by his heels. Was your response, your full response, the one I saw on the train?”
The eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”
“I mean… forgive me… did you pay him, or just send him packing?”
Now Straus understood; he nodded. “The latter. Not one penny in tribute to that scoundrel.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. Have you seen Crafton today, about the ship, anywhere?”
Without hesitation, Straus said, “No. Not a trace. It’s said another passenger slapped him last night.”
“Yes. A Mr. Rood. I witnessed that, in the Smoking Room.”
“Perhaps it’s safe to assume that Mr. Crafton is… what is the expression? ‘Lying low’?”
“You may be right, Isidor. I can tell you I’m personally not at all concerned by his threats to me, and my reputation.”
Briefly, Futrelle told Straus of the mental breakdown he’d suffered covering the war news at the Herald, and that he felt exposure of this ancient history could do him no professional harm whatsoever.
“The threat to me was equally trivial,” Straus said. “You may be aware that my firm has a… motto, you might say, used by Macy’s rather extensively in its advertising: ‘We never deal in old or bankrupt stocks…’”
Futrelle, nodding, finished the familiar slogan: “… ‘Macy’s sells new and desirable goods only.’ Yes, of course.”
Straus’s mouth pursed briefly, as if he were tasting something nasty, not sweetened iced tea. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Crafton claims to have documentary evidence that Macy’s has been buying at public auction, selling items we purchased at close-out sales at full price, and so on. Furthermore, Crafton says he has proof that our advertising claims of having the lowest prices are often inaccurate and deceptive…. This is all poppycock, and even if it weren’t, even if it were true, who would publish it? No one!”
Futrelle-newspaperman that he was-knew Straus was correct; Macy’s advertised heavily in every New York City paper, and there was no way on God’s green earth that those papers would expose a firm that was doing so much business with them.
“The only person who might do it is someone like that cantankerous crusader Stead,” Futrelle said.
Straus chuckled and nodded. “Crafton said that he was negotiating with Stead to write the book which would expose my store’s practices.”
“That’s nonsense! I saw Stead rebuff the bastard with a violence second only to my own.”
Straus seemed faintly amused. “Nonsense indeed. Stead is a Salvation Army man, you know, and that group is among the charities we support.”
Philanthropist Straus was as shrewd as he was generous: the Jewish philanthropist contributing to this Christian charity put the Salvation Army in the same position as the New York newspapers. Maybe the old boy wasn’t exactly a saint; just another capitalist, granted a smart, good-hearted one.
Suddenly there was strength in Straus’s face, and in his words, that belied his kindly demeanor: “I’ve known the likes of Crafton since I was a youth, running the European blockade for the Confederacy. He’s a cowardly snake, and I say let him do his worst.”
“I admire your attitude, sir,” Futrelle said, just as the wives were returning.
Later, in their stateroom, Futrelle reported the conversation to May, as she reclined prettily on the chaise lounge. Her husband was pacing.
“Well,” she said, “I think they’re very sweet.”
“They’re a nice old couple,” he granted. “But Isidor Straus is a tougher old bird than he appears.”
“Capable of murder?”
“Who knows what a man of his accomplishments is or isn’t capable of? And Crafton may have had something far worse on the old boy than false advertising.”
“Such as what?”
“Don’t forget Straus was in Washington politics-that’s not exactly a bastion of morality and ethics. Businessmen like Straus run for office, saying they have the public at heart, but often are thinking of their own vested interests.”