The passengers dining at the spacious Ritz were dressed to the nines, as traditionally the second-to-last night out was the final opportunity to dress up (last night out was for packing and formal dining attire was set aside). The men in their white tie and tails, the women in the latest Parisian gowns, pale satins and clingy gauze, arrayed in glittering jewelry, were in high spirits, the air ringing with giddy laughter and wafting with the sweet aroma of flowers.
“You know, Jack,” May said, admiring the vase of American Beauty roses that was their table’s centerpiece, “something has been troubling me.”
None of the rich, fashionable women around them had anything over May: she was ravishing in her gold silk-satin gown, its short sleeves decorated with strands of glass beads, her hair up and adorned with bird-of-paradise plumes.
His wife’s beauty made him light-headed; or was it the wine he was sipping? “What, darling?”
“It’s about the Cleaver girl.”
Futrelle smirked. “Whatever could you find troubling about a nice girl like Alice?”
“That fellow-Rood? He was a big man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, well, tall, anyway. Not heavyset.”
“But, still… how could she have lifted him into that lifeboat?”
“She’s got considerable strength, dear.”
“Perhaps, but-”
“Here are the Harrises.”
Rene was making a rather dramatic entrance, in a short-sleeved gown showing off her new cast, Henry following dutifully after. Word of her accident had traveled around the ship, and the passengers in the restaurant applauded her.
As Henry pulled out a chair for his wife, Futrelle said, “I thought the show-business expression was ‘break a leg’?”
“I believe in setting trends,” she said, though she was obviously suffering.
A private party in honor of Captain Smith’s approaching retirement was under way, and both the captain and Tom Andrews stopped by to compliment Rene on her “spirit” and “spunk,” respectively.
Futrelle chatted briefly with Andrews, who looked surprisingly fresh.
“Tom, what’s wrong?” Futrelle asked. “You actually look like you’ve had some sleep!”
Andrews grinned, leaning a hand on the writer’s chair. “Well, it’s just that I’ve finally caught up with all the problems on this little rowboat. I believe she’s as nearly perfect as human brains can make her.”
“Judging by the human brains I’ve encountered,” Futrelle kidded him, “that’s not much of a testimonial.”
Andrews laughed at that, graciously, and went back to the party honoring his captain.
The dinner was eight amazing courses, trundled over by the usual succession of white-jacketed waiters, bearing exotic dishes with French appellations that translated to quail eggs with caviar, spring pea soup, lobster thermidor with duchess potatoes, filet mignon with wild mushrooms, mint sorbet, quails with cherries, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and fresh fruit salad.
Familiar faces were dotted around the elegant restaurant: Archie Butt and Frank Millet were among the jovial guests at the Widener family’s party for Captain Smith, who had long since retired to the bridge; John and Madeline Astor, at a table for two, the expecting couple huddling romantically; and Ismay and Dr. O’Loughlin, in a side alcove, huddling in a different manner, a serious, businesslike fashion at odds with the gaeity all around. Futrelle could only wonder if the good doctor was being enlisted to carry out the mystery writer’s suggested course of action, i.e., the signing of certain documents, specifically death certificates for the late Crafton and Rood.
The Futrelles and the Harrises took their time with the endless meal, sipped their wine, told stories on each other, filling the air with laughter and forgoing the evening concert for each other’s company. By the time the night was over, Futrelle had agreed to write both a Broadway play and a cinema script for the producer, and Rene-who had been holding court throughout the evening, as virtually every passenger dining in the Ritz stopped by to celebrate her pluck-grandly announced that having a broken arm was a definite social asset.
Despite the now bitter cold, Futrelle and May took one last stroll on the boat deck, in their elegant evening wear, without their coats; it was now eleven o’clock, but they were warmed by wine and each other.
“It’s been a wonderful second honeymoon,” he told her, as they paused at the rail, the sky was again flung with stars, the preternaturally calm ocean stretching out like the skin of a vast black pudding.
“You were wonderful, Jack,” she said, not very drunk. “Brilliant as Professor Van Dusen himself-and braver than Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, you’re a much prettier Watson, my darling. Also, smarter.”
Her laughter was brittle yet musical, like a wind chime echoing in the sea air.
“The only thing missing is the children,” he said.
“We’ll be with them soon enough. Maybe next crossing, we’ll bring them along.”
“Capital idea, my love. Are you freezing? I’m freezing.”
“Walk me home.”
They entered the Grand Staircase balcony, being careful to watch their step, avoiding Rene’s fate (and Crafton’s ghost), and the sounds of the orchestra playing their medley from Tales of Hoffmann, with its romantic echoes of Venetian gondolas and lantern-lighted balconies, floated up the stairwell from several decks below. On the next landing, they waltzed briefly, laughing like young lovers, then stopped and embraced and kissed the same way.
He walked her to their stateroom door, and said, “Do you mind if I go to the Smoking Room, for a cigarette before bed?”
“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to be awake when you get back… that wine went straight to my head.”
“I love you, darling,” he said lightly, and they shared a peck of a kiss.
The Smoking Room was lightly attended, the concert tonight going a bit long, apparently; the usual card games were under way, and smoke floated like blue fog. Archie and Millet were playing bridge with young Widener and Hays. Nearby, in a leather armchair, in the glow of a table lamp, reading a book, sat a bewhiskered oversize gnome in yellow brown, rumpled tweed: W. T. Stead.
Futrelle pulled a chair around. “May I join you for a moment, Mr. Stead?”
Stead looked up, pleasantly. “Certainly, sir. I’m rereading Angell’s The Great Illusion, that magnificent antiwar tract; it may provide inspiration for my speech at Carnegie Hall.”
“I didn’t see you about the ship, this afternoon, Mr. Stead. You were even missing from morning services.”
“No, I’ve been indisposed.”
“Indigestion?”
“Conscience… I ill used my powers of mediumship last night, Mr. Futrelle.”
“Toward a good end.”
“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “But the ends do not justify the means.”
“I apologize if I coerced you into corrupting your sense of ethics.”
Stead managed a small grin, patting his belly. “I’m a big boy, Mr. Futrelle. No one forces me to do anything I don’t care to do.”
“Mr. Stead, what was that business last night with the message from ‘Julia’? You were padding your part, a bit, weren’t you?”
His response was matter of fact: “That was a real message from the other side, Mr. Futrelle-perhaps scolding me for my actions.”
“Ah.”
“ ‘Ah’ indeed.”
“Well, you should know soon enough, if helping me was right or wrong.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
Futrelle shrugged. “Your friend Julia said you’d be hearing a ‘clarion call,’ soon-and get all the answers you’ve been seeking. Doesn’t sound like a scolding to me.”
“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I hope you are.”