figure. He had dark bright blue eyes and rather bushy eyebrows, and was extending a sturdy hand.
Shaking it, I said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
He had a firm grip, but had stopped short of showing off about it.
“I’m sorry-you were pointed out to me, on deck,” he said. That struck me as odd: No one knew me to do that!
He was introducing himself: Staff Captain John Anderson.
And now I understood-this was the contact aboard ship Rumely had told me about, the Cunard employee aware of my real name, and that I was a journalist aboard to write flattering articles about the ship and its passengers.
I introduced Miss Vance.
“We’re honored to have Madame DePage with us,” Anderson said to her. He had the faintest cockney around the edges of an accent he’d obviously worked at to make acceptable to the upper-class passengers. “She’s a great lady, with a fine cause.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Miss Vance said, not sounding terribly sincere.
“Would you sit down with us?” I asked him, politely.
Anderson seemed almost embarrassed, as he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Van Dine. I’d hoped to catch you after lunch, so I might show you around a little.”
Miss Vance said, “We’re quite finished with lunch, Captain Anderson.”
“Well, I’m certainly free,” I said, “if you’d care to take time away from your duties to bother with me.”
“Not at all. I’m anxious to. . Miss Vance, would you care to accompany us?”
“You’re very kind,” she said, rising, “but I need to join Madame DePage. She likes to write her correspondence after lunch.”
“Can I escort you to her?” I asked.
“No. . I’m a big girl, gentlemen. I’ll find my way.”
And the individualistic Miss Vance nodded to us, and moved off down the promenade, or actually up-she was heading toward the entryway where an elevator or stairs could convey her to her employer.
“Interesting woman,” Anderson said.
“Fascinating.”
“Probably a suffragette,” he sighed.
“Probably,” I said. “But then, no one’s perfect.”
Anderson suggested we sit for a moment, and we did. He told me he hoped to help me arrange interviews, and offered to do whatever he could to make my access to the ship and its passengers as complete as possible, and my voyage a pleasurable one.
“We’re grateful to the
“Well, that’s a wonderful attitude, and quite the opportunity for a journalist. . And I’m happy that you seem willing to give me a sort of Cook’s tour, as I do want to write about the ship itself, and not limit my work to these celebrity interviews.”
Anderson’s smile was wide and infectious. “That’s good news, Mr. Van Dine. Shall we start?”
Of course, Anderson wouldn’t have been as cooperative if he knew I was here to search out contraband; so I worked hard to make a friend of him. It’s not a pretty thing, but money was involved-and, anyway, if the Cunard line was using passenger ships to transport war materials, the practice should be exposed. Passengers-like myself, about whom I cared greatly, after all-would be at risk, if this indeed were happening.
The tour I received was certainly complete, and the company entirely amiable-though I did not press Anderson with overtly prying questions, and neither did the good staff captain duck any of my queries. . even those of a more sensitive nature.
“What about these rumored guns supposedly hidden on deck somewhere?” I asked him, about midway in our tour.
“Like most rumors,” Anderson said, half a smile digging a hole in one cheek, “there’s a certain basis in fact. .”
I tried not to reveal the inner excitement I felt at this revelation.
“. . but the reality is rather less sinister, as I will demonstrate.”
At the appropriate moments during my tour, the staff captain pointed out to me four deck platforms-two forward, two aft-with mountings awaiting three- or six-inch guns. Either caliber would require dockside cranes, Anderson assured me, and such weapons could hardly be camouflaged, “much less hidden.”
This disappointed me, but I instinctively believed Anderson-his frankness seemed obvious, and his character appeared lacking in guile. (Nonetheless, in my spare time, I prowled every foot of deck space above the waterline; peering beneath any recess or overhang, checking under every winch, I saw no guns mounted or unmounted.)
Though Anderson’s affable candor impressed me, I did not yet feel comfortable enough with him to broach the subject of contraband-that, I felt, might come later. I would make it a priority to establish a friendship with the man, in hopes of learning more.
Anderson definitely was the man to whom I needed to get close: He admitted that “the internal distribution of the cargo” was very much his responsibility.
“And I do not take that responsibility lightly,” he assured me. “Faulty cargo planning can materially affect the trim of the ship, you know.”
“Indeed,” I commented, though truthfully I had not a clue.
Surely I could have asked for no more friendly nor knowledgeable tour guide. Anderson, anxious to impress the press with the Cunard line’s superiority, began with the fabulously luxurious public rooms of Saloon class, which might have been lifted bodily and set down on the ship out of some splendid hotel or exclusive London club. In addition to the description-defying dining room (about which more later), these included a reception room and various lounges, as well as music, reading-and-writing and smoking rooms. In addition, the ship offered a barbershop, a lending library, a photographer’s dark room, a clothes pressing service, a separate dining saloon for valets and maids, and even a switchboard for its innovative room-to-room telephone system.
I don’t consider myself easily impressed, but I felt as wide-eyed as a schoolgirl, strolling acres of deep carpet through first-class lounges extravagantly appointed with plush armchairs, marble fireplaces, grand pianos, rich drapes and expensive (if dull) oil paintings. A man of impeccable taste such as myself, marooned for months in cheap flats and ghastly garrets, could only wonder at this oasis of late-Georgian elegance, this world of silk waistcoats, gold watch chains, double-staffed settees, mahogany paneling, carved maple-topped tables and wrought-iron skylights.
Since I was travelling first class, Anderson did not bother showing me a sample of the sumptuous cabins. But I quickly became as impressed with the size of the ship as I had been with the luxury of Saloon class-the damned thing seemed to go on forever, interminable corridors with their polished linoleum floors and a dizzying profusion of white, red and blue lights marking exits, fire extinguishers, washrooms, pantries and other shipboard appurtenances, all within a maze of decks and companionways, towering masts and funnels and, of course, self- important people, some of them passengers, others stewards or crew members, the officers with their gold braids and medal ribbons seeming to wear perpetual expressions of faint disapproval.
Anderson was a pleasant exception to the latter, and I felt his genial nature was not due merely to my status as a member of the press. We passed between first, second and third class with no change in his attitude of friendliness toward passengers-a young man in ill-fitting clothing in steerage, seeking a new life in America, got the same nod and hello from Anderson as a Vanderbilt or Kessler.
Now and then, however, the staff captain would show a sterner side, if he encountered a crewman whose dress or bearing was not up to snuff. We paused for three or four of these dressing-downs.
Moving along from one of them, Anderson sighed and said, “It’s a problem, it is.”
“What’s that?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Off the record, sir?”
“Certainly. My goal here is to build up, not to tear down.”
“We are rather desperately understaffed,”* he admitted. “And some of the staff we have is, frankly, not up to snuff.”
“That doesn’t sound like Cunard’s style.”
