“Mr. Futrelle?” The voice was deep, resonant.
“Officer Lightoller, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”
Futrelle stepped through, and Lightoller closed and locked the folding gate behind them: a near slam followed by the click of the key in the lock; there was something ominous about it. Then the businesslike Lightoller led Futrelle down the officers’ promenade to a door marked CAPTAIN-PRIVATE, which in military terms seemed a contradiction, and the second officer knocked.
Smith himself answered, in his navy-blue uniform today, graced with the usual ribbons; but he was not wearing his hat, and the lack of it was somehow disturbing. So were the eyes in the comfortingly stern white-bearded visage: they seemed cloudy, troubled.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Futrelle,” Smith said, the soothingly soft voice touched with, what? Melancholy? Distress?
The captain motioned Futrelle in, instructing Lightoller to wait outside the door.
These quarters, with their white-painted walls and oak wainscoting, harbored the no-nonsense, spartan style characteristic of a naval man, leaving luxury to the First-Class passengers; maple and oak Colonial furnishings gave the spacious sitting room a New England air, as did the handful of modestly framed nautical prints. This sitting room was also a sort of office, as in one corner, by a porthole, sat a heavy Chippendale desk with many compartments, and a brass captain’s-wheel lamp atop it. A doorway stood half-open for a glimpse into the bedroom.
In the midst of the room, Ismay was seated at a round table-a captain’s table-and there it was, the captain’s hat, crown down, like a centerpiece bowl awaiting flowers or fruit.
The White Star director-in an undertaker’s black suit and tie-was pale as milk, if the milk had gone as sour as his expression, anyway; dark pouches lingered under bloodshot eyes and even his mustache seemed wilted.
Captain Smith gestured to a chair at the round table and Futrelle sat, and so did he.
“Would you be so kind,” Ismay said, and despite his cadaverous appearance, there was nothing rude or anxious in his voice, “to provide an informal report as to the results of your ad hoc investigation, yesterday, Mr. Futrelle?”
Futrelle glanced sharply at Captain Smith, who said, almost sheepishly, “It became necessary to acquaint Mr. Ismay with our arrangement.”
After a sigh and shrug, Futrelle said, “Well, as you both can guess, I had to be indirect in my questioning, and in my approach. Most of our suspects, if indeed that’s what they are, are distinguished, notable individuals. If you are expecting a detailed list of alibis and denials of guilt, I have none.”
“What did you learn?” Ismay asked politely. “What did you observe?”
“What,” the captain added, “are your suspicions?”
“I spoke with Mr. Straus, Mr. Astor, Mr. Guggenheim, Mr. Rood, Mr. Stead, even Mrs. Brown. And I’d spoken frankly about Crafton with Major Butt prior to the blackmailer’s death. I also spoke with Mr. Hoffman. By being frank with them about the nature of how Crafton intended to blackmail me, all but one of them was equally frank with me. Now, my friends, I see no reason to share with you what these reasons are; suffice to say, that while every one of these gentlemen, and the one lady, did have something in their past or present that Crafton conceivably could attempt to blackmail them over, none of these people seemed agitated enough to kill, none of their skeletons-in-the-closet seemed worthy of murdering the man over.”
“Any one of them could have been lying,” Ismay pointed out. “Any one of them could have withheld the true nature of the blackmail, substituting something else, something more trivial.”
Futrelle removed his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. “That’s certainly true. But I am an experienced newspaperman, Mr. Ismay, and while I do not claim infallibility, I feel I know when an interview subject is evading the truth or outright lying to me.” He snugged his glasses back on. “These men-and again, the one lady-seem to me to be telling the truth. None of them, in my at least somewhat informed opinion, had sufficient motive to kill the man.”
“But someone did,” Ismay said.
Futrelle cast another sharp look at Captain Smith, whose expression was unreadable. Then to Ismay, the mystery writer said, “You seem to have changed your opinion about Mr. Crafton dying of natural causes.”
“You have no suspicions, then, sir,” Ismay said, without addressing Futrelle’s statement.
“I asked each of them if they’d seen Crafton aboard the ship yesterday-knowing, of course, that he was already dead, and hoping to catch the killer in a lie, or at least get some indication, some nervous flash in the eyes, some tic or gesture that might indicate I’d touched a raw nerve.” He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“You said, ‘with the exception of one man,’” the captain pointed out.
Nodding, Futrelle said, “Yes, Mr. Rood wasn’t very forthcoming. His reaction was the most consistent with someone who had something to hide-perhaps Crafton was blackmailing Rood over something worth killing for. And I suppose, if pressed, for the sake of argument, I would have to say our leading suspect is Mr. Rood.”
“I would say that’s highly unlikely,” Ismay said, dryly.
“And why is that?”
The captain sighed heavily. “Mr. Rood was murdered last night.”
“The devil you say!” In a quick chilling flash, the mummy’s curse Stead had recounted filled his mind, but Futrelle still managed to ask, “What are the circumstances? Another bedroom entry, and smothering-”
“No,” Ismay said. “He was struck a blow to the back of the head.”
Nodding toward the outside, Captain Smith said, “He may have been shoved hard, backward, into the side of one of the lifeboats, here on the boat deck.”
“What makes you think that?”
Ismay said, “His body was discovered, having been stuffed rather rudely into lifeboat seven… not terribly far from where we sit right now.”
“A hasty, clumsy job of concealment,” Captain Smith said. “One of Mr. Rood’s arms, dangling from the side of the tarp-covered craft, caught the attention of a deckhand.”
Futrelle sat forward. “My God, gentlemen. Has the word gotten out? This will cast a terrible pall across the ship.”
“Mr. Rood’s body was discovered before dawn,” Ismay said, “and, after Dr. O’Loughlin approved it-the good doctor believes the murder took place sometime between midnight and five A.M.-the body was moved into the cold cargo hold, where Mr. Crafton’s remains also currently reside.”
“The lid, as they say, is still on,” Captain Smith said. “Only a handful of crew know about this, including the master-at-arms, and all have been given strict orders to speak to no one of the affair, at peril of loss of their jobs.”
“The lifeboat in question has been tidied up,” Ismay said.
“Maybe so,” Futrelle said, “and I would also like to see the ‘lid’ kept on, at least for the time being… but we’ve gone well beyond a death in a stateroom that could possibly have been written off as a heart attack. We have a murderer aboard, gentlemen… a violent one.”
“You’re correct, sir,” Captain Smith said. “We have a new set of concerns, now, for the safety of our passengers.”
Futrelle stood, and began to pace. “We understand why John Crafton, in all probability, was killed; he was a damned blackmailer. But why Rood?”
Ismay said nothing, but shot a telling look at Captain Smith, who was also mute and expressionless.
“Gentlemen,” Futrelle said, sensing something was up, “did you conduct a complete search of Mr. Crafton’s room, yesterday?”
After a few moments, Ismay nodded.
“Did you turn up anything of interest? Any documents pertaining to our late friend’s blackmail victims, perhaps?”
“No,” Ismay said.
“All right. Has Rood’s cabin been searched?”
Again, Ismay paused but finally said, “Yes.”