The Lusitania Murders

I nodded dutifully.

“Unlock the pantry, Captain,” she said, so lightly it didn’t seem the command it was. “Stand aside, everyone. . ”

Anderson positioned himself nearest the door, Williams fell in after him along the corridor wall and-at Miss Vance’s gestured command-I tucked myself next to the door along the wall on the opposite side. The staff captain used his key in the lock, then pulled down the handle and shoved the door open.

Miss Vance was smiling-something delightfully demented in that smile, I might add-as she stood at the open doorway, aiming the gun in at them, like a stickup artist robbing a stagecoach, an image that suited what she said: “Put ’em up, boys!”

Then she took a step back and, almost imperceptibly, nodded in a manner that sent Anderson and then Williams and, yes, me scrambling into that cramped pantry.

The three stowaways stood crowded together, but with their hands high and their eyes on the fierce, pretty (and pretty fierce) woman in the doorway. I took the one nearest me, the dark-blonde average fellow, and “patted him down” (as Miss Vance had put it), finding no weapon. Anderson did the same with the brawny blonde one, whom I’d earlier tripped up; and Williams was checking the skinny tall dark-haired stowaway, who seemed the youngest of the trio, and the most anxious.

No guns or knives or anything resembling a weapon was found.

Nor was any identification or even personal items, for that matter.

Williams handcuffed the stowaways-hands behind their backs, Miss Vance suggested, to prevent any “Houdini nonsense”-and Williams (to whom the distaff detective had returned the revolver) and Anderson led them off, the captain saying he would return, shortly.

That left Miss Vance and myself alone in the corridor, just outside the now-vacated pantry.

“And here I was, so terribly impressed with your deductive powers,” I said.

She arched an eyebrow, smiled half a smile. “Aren’t you, anymore?”

“No. You didn’t deduce I was a writer-you’ve known my identity all along! You’ve been working with Anderson from the start.”

“I have been working with the staff captain,” she admitted, “but he hadn’t told me about you. I didn’t learn your identity until I went to ask him about you. . when we were on deck together, remember, eavesdropping on that conversation regarding the threatening telegrams?”

“I see. . but that took place before you dazzled me with your deductions. And you told Anderson where he could find me-that’s how he knew I’d be in the Verandah Cafe, because that’s where you led me, by the ring in my nose.”

She wasn’t at all chagrined; her laughter was gay-the woman was really enjoying herself!

“You’re not a bad detective yourself, Van,” she said. “I think we’ll make a good team.”

“Really? And what if I have no desire to play Watson to some liberated female’s Holmes?”

Her smile softened. “I don’t need a Watson, Van-but I could use a partner.”

I was still slightly miffed. “Is that so?”

“Yes-you have Anderson’s ear, and his trust. I’m a woman. .”

“I noticed.”

“. . and that limits my sphere of influence, no matter what my expertise. He did well at first, but ultimately he became defensive. . you agree?”

I nodded. “He doesn’t like to have the reliability of his crew challenged.”

“Yes, because it calls his judgment into question.”

Again I nodded. “His ego, his vanity. . you might say his male ego and vanity. It’s not a rational response, because the good staff captain as much as admitted to me he’s had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, putting this particular crew together.”

“Right. So I would ask you to cultivate your friendship with the captain. And in the meantime, I will cable back to New York for my home office to check up on some of these crew members.”

“The Leach boy, you mean.”

Her eyes tightened, but her brow remained satin smooth. “Yes-and Williams, too. Both arrived at the scene almost instantaneously, I gather.”

“That’s true. And the apparent ringleader, that blonde with the camera, said ‘About time,’ when Anderson barged in on them.”

She thought about that. “As if,” she said, “they were expecting someone. .”

“A crew member?”

“That would seem a strong possibility. They spoke in German, Van?”

“Yes.”

“And you speak the language?”

“I do.”

“What else did you hear?”

“ ‘We should hide the camera.’ The same speaker, I should say.”

She nodded, then glanced at the pantry. “I’ll need to search this cubbyhole of theirs.” She turned to me. “You’re a journalist, and you speak German. I would like you to conduct the interrogation of the prisoners.”

“Isn’t that Anderson’s call?”

“Yes-but, with your permission, I’ll request that of him, and I’m sure he’ll comply.”

I shrugged. “Certainly. I’m all too glad to be of service-particularly if will help keep me from being blown to particles.”

She offered up a tiny, dimple-inducing half-smile. “That does seem a worthwhile incentive.”

“May I ask you a question, Miss Vance?”

“Of course, but, please, there was nothing false about our friendship-I am still ‘Vance,’ and you are still ‘Van.’ ”

“All right, Vance. . are you or are you not Madame DePage’s companion?”

“I am her bodyguard, you might say. She’s travelling with a great deal of money.”

I frowned. “Isn’t it in the ship’s safe?”

“There is no ship’s safe-accommodations for valuables are available in the cargo hold, but Madame DePage considers that inadvisable. She believes. . and I must say, so does the Pinkerton agency. . that Cunard’s offices harbor German spies.”

“And what is the source of this information?” I asked, picturing Pinkerton’s usual rabble of street-corner informers.

“The British Consul General.”

“Oh. . You don’t mean to say Madame DePage’s hundred and fifty thousand in war relief funds are in. . your suite?”

“I believe I’ve said quite enough. . but I hope I’ve demonstrated my belief and faith in you, Van.”

She had; I was complimented and, as far as it went, she could trust me.

“Then how is it,” I asked, “that you’re also the ship’s ‘official’ detective?”

What she said next confirmed something Anderson had mentioned earlier.

“Cunard has no ship detectives,” she said, “in the manner, say, of a ship doctor. . Instead, they’ve found a way to conserve on this expense. Their policy is to subcontract a detective already planning passage, sometimes trading the cost of tickets for the detective’s willingness to be on call. I believe on the last passing, a Scotland Yard man filled the bill. . but frequently, it’s a Pinkerton man.”

“Man?” I asked.

“So to speak,” she said.

Anderson was approaching. He was still a few feet away when he said, “I have another favor to ask, Mr. Van Dine.”

“Anything to help.”

As he reached us, the staff captain was slightly out of breath; had there been a tussle? “We aren’t travelling with a translator, and I don’t know of any crew member who speaks German.”

Or at least one who would admit to it. .

“So,” Anderson continued, “I wondered if you’d be so kind as to serve in that capacity. We need to question