“You suspect him, then.”
“He’s a suspect. But if he did it, he’s a better actor than Henry Harris could ever afford. When I asked old Isidor if he’d seen Crafton around the ship today, I saw no sign that he might know the man lay dead.”
“Not to mention naked. But maybe that’s the solution.”
Futrelle frowned at his wife. “What is?”
She gazed at him with mock innocence. “He was naked because Mr. Straus was coming ’round to measure him for a new Macy’s suit.”
Futrelle laughed in spite of himself, and joined her on the chaise lounge; it creaked and squeaked under the weight of them-mostly, him.
“Careful, Jack! We might have to pay for this.”
He kissed her sweet throat, then drew away, saying, “Did you ever hear of the man who asked every attractive woman he met if he could make love to her?”
“No! What did they say?”
“Most of them said no.”
“Then why did he keep asking?”
“I said ‘most of them’…. And maybe that’s the kind of blackmailer we have here. Maybe there’s no elaborate ring; perhaps Mr. Crafton even worked alone. Maybe his threats were empty, and the little blackguard was just a petty swindler looking for the occasional payoff.”
“You mean, he’s a nuisance and, if you’re rich enough, it’s worth some money to make him go away.”
“Precisely. Think how many people were on that list of his! If he were getting big money out of any one of them, he wouldn’t have needed so many ‘clients’… If I’d only waited to see how much money he wanted out of me, before I…”
“Before you what?”
“Nothing.”
She studied him as they lay side by side on the chaise, then asked, “What if I told you Rene said someone saw you hanging Mr. Crafton over the balcony by his feet?”
“I’d say Rene was getting that information secondhand… because I definitely didn’t see her there.”
Her eyes widened and her grin was gleeful. “You did do it! Why, you reckless fool…”
“I’ll show you how reckless I am, if you’ll let me.”
She bounced off the chaise lounge. “I’m not about to spoil you with too much attention. Besides, I have a certain scrap of information I think you might like to have.”
Watching as she smoothed out her brown ankle-length wool-tweed skirt, he asked, “Are you going to make me ask?”
Now she was straightening the blue-and-green tie, checking herself in the mirror, adjusting the cock of her brown felt hat. “I just don’t want you to think you’re the only detective in the family.”
“What piece of information?”
She looked at him in the mirror. “When Mrs. Straus and I were fetching my ‘medicine,’ we ran into the Astors, and now Madeline is joining me for tea in the First-Class Lounge, in, oh… about fifteen minutes.”
“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get… reckless.”
“You’ve been reckless enough for one day. Besides, I think you could use a little exercise, dear….”
“What I have in mind is exercise, of a sort.”
“… After all, Jack, writing is such sedentary work. Would you be offended if I suggested you attend the gymnasium this afternoon?”
“There will be less of me to love.”
She shrugged, turned away from the mirror, perfectly pretty. “It’s your decision. I just thought you might enjoy having a spirited physical-culture session…. I know Colonel Astor will be there.”
Futrelle bounded up from the chaise lounge, and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You are a detective, my love,” he said, and slipped out of the stateroom.
On the starboard side of the ship, near the First-Class entrance, was the modern, spacious gymnasium, its walls a glistening white-painted pine with oak wainscoting, the floor gleaming linoleum tile, its equipment an array of the latest contraptions of physical training, or (in Futrelle’s view) instruments of torture. With the exception of the white-flannel-clad instructor, the gym stood empty-morning was its busy time.
The instructor greeted Futrelle, who had met the robust little fellow on the purser’s tour-T. W. McCawley, perhaps thirty-five years of age, with dark hair, dark bright eyes and a military-trim mustache.
“Mr. Futrelle!” McCawley said. He had a working-class English accent as thick as a glass of stout. “Good to see you, sir! Decide to come in and try your strength, t’day, did you?”
“I’m surprised you remember my name, Mr. McCawley.”
“You First-Class passengers are my business, sir-and your health is my chief interest and concern.”
“That’s bully,” Futrelle said, without much enthusiasm. The room’s rowing machine, pulley weights, stationary bicycles, and mechanical camels and horses held no appeal for the mystery writer. His idea of exercise was sitting on the porch of his house in Scituate for a spirited session in his rocking chair. “Has Colonel Astor stopped by?”
“He’s in the changing room,” the instructor said, with a nod toward the door in question, “gettin’ into his togs. There’s a pair in there waitin’ for you, sir.”
“You sure you have my size?”
“And larger. No job is too big for T. W. McCawley.”
The instructor’s enthusiasm already had Futrelle worn-out.
But he headed for the changing room nonetheless, finding white flannels in his size, and John Jacob Astor, already bedecked in white flannel, seated on a bench, tying the laces of a pair of tennis shoes, and without the aid of valet.
“Colonel,” Futrelle said. “What a pleasure running into you.”
“Afternoon, Jack,” Astor said; his voice was friendly enough, but his sky-blue eyes were glazed with their usual bored, distracted cast. “Your company will be appreciated.”
Astor went on into the gym, while Futrelle climbed into the white flannels; he hadn’t brought tennis shoes-the bluchers he’d had on would have to do.
“Join me for a spin, Jack?” Astor called out. He was pedaling away on one of two stationary bicycles near a large dial on the wall that registered the speed and distance of each bike.
Futrelle said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and hopped on.
The instructor was headed their way-as if any instruction on riding a bike were needed-when a young couple entered and McCawley did an about-face and attended them. The gym, unlike the Turkish Bath, did not segregate the sexes, and for about five minutes, the instructor ushered the young couple (honeymooners) around his dominion, eventually sending them off to their respective changing rooms.
During that time, Futrelle and Astor, aboard their bikes, chatted; this time Futrelle didn’t bother with small talk, as the best way to deal with the remote millionaire was to directly engage his attention.
“I saw you talking to that fellow Crafton, in the cooling room yesterday,” Futrelle said, barely pedaling.
Astor, who was in good shape, his legs working like pistons, said, “Did you?” It wasn’t exactly a question.
“I wondered,” Futrelle said, “if you’d had as unpleasant an experience with the louse as did I.”
Astor kept pedaling, staring straight ahead; but he was listening, Futrelle could tell the man was listening.
“He tried to blackmail me,” Futrelle said, and briefly explained.
Astor, hearing Futrelle frankly expose the mental skeleton in his closet, turned his cool gaze on his fellow rider, and his pedaling pace slowed.
“He had a similar scheme where I was concerned,” Astor admitted. But he offered no clarification, and picked his speed back up.
“May I be so bold,” Futrelle said, “as to ask if Crafton presented any real threat to you, Colonel?”
“Most likely not,” he said casually, face bland, legs churning. “He claimed this fellow Stead was going to publish an expose about the conditions of certain of our buildings.”
Futrelle knew very well that the Astors-who owned much of Manhattan-numbered among their ample holdings not only the opulent Astoria Hotel but block upon block of notoriously wretched slums.