conclusive. . Shouldn’t you be tending to the kiddies?”
He grinned, baring his yellowish crooked teeth. “Luncheon is over. The brig is part of my watch-I need to check in with the master-at-arms, and see what he requires of me. . Eventually those bastards will need food and water.”
“Might I suggest the crusts the cooks cut off your sandwiches,” I said. “As for the water, throwing them overboard might suffice.”
When I reached the pantry, Anderson and Miss Vance were in the corridor outside the little room. Anderson turned eagerly to me for a report, and I told him that the blonde leader-Klaus-claimed they were college boys who’d run out of money and were stowing away home.
“Tourists!” Anderson said disgustedly.
“Well,” I said, “they did have a camera.”
Miss Vance said to me, “Speaking of which, I found a bundle of photographic plates hidden at the rear of a lower shelf.”
“What else did you discover?”
“No weapons. . no explosives. The only other items were three stacks of clothing, hidden behind some boxes-their street clothes, dock worker attire.”
“That might indicate they had just changed into the stewards’ uniforms,” I said thoughtfully, “when we caught them. . Does that also mean they hadn’t yet committed any acts of sabotage?”
Anderson shook his head. “They had plenty of time to hide a small pipe bomb.”
I frowned. “What sort of bomb?”
Miss Vance completed Anderson’s information. “A piece of pipe no larger than a healthy cigar that could ignite any ordinary substance, coal or wood, and not leave a trace.”*
“We’ll search the ship,” Anderson said. “Discreetly but thoroughly.”
“What a wonderful idea,” I said with dry sarcasm.
But Anderson and Miss Vance had made it obvious how easy it would be to miss a tiny but deadly bomb.
To brighten the mood, I told Anderson of the threat I’d left the stowaways to ponder.
“Did you sense they might have placed such a device?” Anderson asked.
“I couldn’t say-the ringleader is too collected to read, and the other two are so anxious they also defy assessment.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Miss Vance.
“I do believe it might be worthwhile,” I said, “for me to question our little group periodically-the leader is a stalwart type, but, as I say, the other two are weak. . promisingly so.”
Miss Vance complimented me on this offering, and said to Anderson, “Could you have that camera and these plates taken to the darkroom, for development? That would seem a good place to start.”
Anderson agreed.
“Of course,” I said, “if you come up with some wonderful panoramic shots of the Manhattan skyline, we may have to reconsider. We may be hosting three innocent tourists, after all.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Miss Vance said.
As did I. As did I.
SIX
All around the ship, stewards were knocking on cabin and stateroom doors, checking to see if the dark curtains had been drawn in compliance with wartime blackout regulations; I was spared this minor indignity only because my cabin did not look out upon the ocean. I was not, on the other hand, spared another indignity, that of snapping, buttoning and hook-and-eyeing myself into the monkey suit required of those men wishing to eat in the Lusitania ’s fabled dining room.*
Tonight, after all, marked this first social event of our voyage. Throughout Saloon class, ladies were no doubt squeezing their forms, whether dainty or not, into evening gowns that had been long since selected with painful care to compete with the elegance of the white-and-gold palatial dining room that awaited them.
And in the ship’s galleys, larders, bakehouses and confectionery kitchens, a battalion of cooks, bakers, butchers and scullions would even now be applying finishing touches to the voyage’s initial and typically elaborate meal, served by the
I had been invited by Miss Vance-with the generous approval of Madame Marie DePage-to dine at the DePage table tonight; I was to meet them in the dining room. Taking the lift down to D deck, and the main floor of the saloon, I was guaranteed the full effect of the most talked about restaurant on the seven seas. And I was not disappointed.
The First Class Dining Saloon was like a gigantic ornate Easter egg filled with the creme de la creme. The two-tiered white chamber, trimmed in the usual gold, was overseen by an enormous alabaster-and-gilt dome whose ornate plasterwork and oval panels, depicting cherubs after Boucher, would have been the envy of many a cathedral. Fully five hundred patrons at once could be served here, between the circular balcony of the upper tier (a la carte) and the main floor (table d’hote), which was as wide as the ship itself. Marble Corinthian columns, circular tables with linen cloths and shining silver and glittering crystal, rose-tapestry swivel chairs, an immense mahogany sideboard. . Cunard had spared no expense to provide a regal ambience for its first-class passengers.
A Strauss waltz floated down from the balcony, courtesy of a subdued orchestra, and despite the room’s size and the number of patrons therein, the combined table conversation was a murmur, not a din, the occasional clink and clank of silver and china merely percussive touches. Waiters glided from table to table with a grace usually confined to dancers, as diners entered the palatial saloon, taking it all in with wide eyes, the upper class gawking like hicks at the county fair.
I spotted the theatrical impresario Frohman, entering opposite me; he was relying heavily on his cane, followed by an entourage of half a dozen men and women, including two well-known and attractive actresses, Josephine Brandell and Rita Jolivet. The group was disturbing the decorum of Strauss and quiet conversation by speaking in the boisterous, self-centered manner typical of theater people.
Moving past the slow, loud group, bushy-bearded George Kessler-the Champagne magnate-swaggered over to a small table where a middle-aged man with a younger wife held a seat for him. Perched between two of those gold-crowned columns, at a table for eight, were Madame DePage and her party, including Miss Vance, who had thoughtfully saved the seat next to her for yours truly.
I went immediately to Madame DePage, who graciously rose to offer me her dainty hand, which was ensconced in black lace-her entire ensemble was black, her evening gown heavy with beads and lace, a black feather rising from a small hat. . all in all, a peculiar cross between the funereal and the gay.
I accepted her hand, almost (but not) kissing it as I half-bowed, saying, “It’s a great honor, Madame DePage. I admire very much your humanitarian efforts.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty-her skin was like cream, her lips pursed in a perpetual kiss-lowered her head in a small bow of her own. Then her eyes lifted to mine, sparkling as she said, in her lilting accent, “Miss Vance says you’re a charming fellow, Monsieur Van Dine. And you wish to interview me for your newspaper?”
“I do, Madame-at your convenience.”
“I will be delighted. It will be pleasant to speak of the serious matter. . Men, they die, they suffer, while we do the frivolous thing, inside of this. .” She searched for a word. “. . bubble.”
“Bubbles are notoriously fragile, Madame.”
“Oh, yes they are. It is a. . illusion, our safety. The world, she is at war.”
“I understand your point of view, Madame. But international law does not allow a ship like this one to be fired upon, until it has been searched and munitions or guns discovered.”
“And then?”
I shrugged. “Then the enemy can fire away.”
“And what of the passengers?”
