The Lusitania Murders

of reality, was the avenue down which these swells strolled in a manner seemingly oblivious to the hazards of ocean travel during wartime.

The Lusitania-like any great ship-was a city unto itself, almost a world unto itself; but I could not keep my mind from taunting me with the knowledge of three murders recently committed under the uninformed noses of these Sunday saunterers.

Time came when Miss Vance and I retired to her cabin, where we went over in some tedious and repetitious detail the facts and experiences of the day (and night) previous. I will not bore the reader with this, and admit no new insights were garnered. But it seems to be human nature to beat a dead horse, or in our case, a murdered trio of stowaways.

The First Class Lounge and Music Room, where my interview with Madame DePage took place, was aft of the Boat Deck’s Grand Entrance, an enormous* chamber rivaling the domed dining saloon in elegance.

Decorated in a late-Georgian style, panelled in inlaid mahogany, the lounge boasted its own domed ceiling with ornate plasterwork surrounding stained-glass panels through which sunlight filtered during the day (with electric bulbs to light the night). An apple-green color scheme unified the floral carpet with cushions and drapes, and marble fireplaces bookended the chamber forward and aft, over which were elaborately framed enameled panels of dignified if dull landscapes. For all its size, the lounge created coziness through arrangements of its satinwood and mahogany furnishings, which included easy chairs and overstuffed settees and tables just large enough for cards or snacks.

In a corner of the lounge, near a grand piano that bore silent witness, Madame DePage-in stylish black again, with a hat bearing one black feather and a white one-sat regally in an arm chair with Miss Vance on her left and me on her right.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty was the only person beside myself and certain crew members aware that Philomina Vance was the ship’s detective-and that Miss Vance’s role as her travelling companion was something of a ruse. Still, guarding the funds Belgium’s lovely envoy had raised for the Red Cross was a significant part of the Pinkerton agent’s assignment.

Nonetheless, we had decided not to share with Madame DePage the true facts, regarding the existence (much less the demise) of the stowaways. Miss Vance and I were, on the one hand, complying with the wishes for confidentiality of the two captains; but, also, Marie DePage was a possible suspect as an accomplice to the Germans, if not their murderer; and, in any event, an undeniable key figure in the affair.

She had, after all, received one of the warning telegrams, and her name had been on the chief stowaway’s list.

Which meant she may have been targeted for robbery-or even death-by the late saboteurs.

I was armed with a pencil and a secretary’s spiral-bound notebook, dutifully taking down the rather stale “news” the charming, charismatic woman was sharing with me.

“I tour your beautiful country,” she said, her accent turning syllables into poetry, “for two month.”

She meant “months,” of course, but such lapses in her otherwise admirable mastery of English only made her seem all the more charming.

“This effort was for the Belgian Red Cross,” I said, pencil poised.

“Oui-my husband, Antoine, is Surgeon General of the Belgian Army, and director of the Queen’s Hospital at La Panne. That is where I find this passion.”

“At the hospital, you mean?”

The dark eyes flashed, and so did a lovely white smile. “Yes-I visit the wounded soldier there, talk to them, write letters to their family for them. Soldier from both side! German boys, too. One say to me, ‘Madame, why do you write for me? I am your enemy.’ And I say, ‘To me you are just a wounded boy who needs help.’ They are all. . you know the expression? Enfants perdus?”

I did. Lost children-soldiers sent to certain death in war.

Despite her smile, her eyes had welled with tears, and Miss Vance handed her a handkerchief.

“You must excuse me,” Madame DePage said, dabbing at her tear-pearled lashes. “You see, my son, Lucien, he is seventeen. I have just learn, a few days ago, that he has. . join the army.”

Miss Vance turned to me. “That’s why Madame DePage booked last-minute passage on the Lusitania. . to see her boy before he goes to the Western front.”

This apparently was why no better arrangements had been made to transport the $150,000 in cash she’d raised for war relief, than for her to transport those funds herself. . with the help of the Pinkerton agency.

I politely listened-and made a record of-her impassioned description of her impoverished, war-torn country. But I was confused.

“Hasn’t Belgium already fallen to Germany?” I asked, chagrined that something so important to her was so vague to me.

“All but this leetle small tiny corner of my country,” she said liltingly, “in the northwest. . that is where our hospital is.” She glanced around the opulent room, where wealthy travellers lounged, playing cards, conversing, having a bite to eat between shipboard repasts. “It is hard to be here. . in such luxury. . c’est-a- dire, to have enjoyment while others suffer.”

“People like these,” I reminded her, meaning the rich passengers of the ship, “made generous donations to your cause.”

According to an article I’d read in the News, her final and very successful stop had been on Fifth Avenue, where she spoke to a wealthy bunch called the Special Relief Society; and the J.P. Morgan Company was one of her fund-raising tour’s chief sponsors.

“Please do not misunderstand, monsieur-in Pittsburgh, in Washington, D.C., the response. . the generosity. . it was tremendous. The people of your country have large heart. . liberty, they love. But the big conflict of this war is still in the future. The worst fighting, yet to come. We must foresee the coming slaughter, and be prepare to help the t’ousands of wounded, friend or foe. . I tell my American friend. .”

She meant “friends.”

“. . this war, in the night, like a thief, it will come for you.” She shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”

“Madame,” I said, “as a friend. . I hope I might consider myself such?”

“Ca va sans dire!” she said, which meant, “that goes without saying.”

“And this is not for publication-merely comes from my own personal interest and concern. . Have you received any threats of any kind, during your stay in America?”

She frowned, shook her head. “No. . the letters, they have all been on my side. . usually with money in them, I am please to say.”

“No malicious phone calls, either, at the hotels or homes where you stayed?”

“Nothing. . not even from the pro-German-American. . and I know there are some.”

Strangely, it occurred to me at that instant that I was no longer as pro-German as I’d been the day before! Encountering saboteurs aboard the ship on which one is sailing can do that to a person.

“Though the Allied cause is in my heart,” she was saying, “I am a neutral because of my work. . I do not discuss the atrocity, to stir passion for the people to open their heart and wallet. No, I speak only of the suffering of boys on both side, of the starvation of the noncombatant in this tiny strip from Nieuport along the Yaer to the French frontier. . ten mile wide, forty mile long.”

“Madame, I know you feel great compassion for the boys fighting on either side of this conflict.”

“Bien entendu. . but of course.”

“Prior to boarding, were you approached by any young men to aid them in returning to their homes?”

“I do not understand.”

“German boys, stranded in America. .”

She shook her head again. “This would be a good place for them, America, where they would have no guns to shoot at the Belgian boy.”

That had seemed unlikely, her aiding the stowaways; but I’d had to inquire, however elliptically.

Trying again, I asked, “Has anyone approached you on the ship, and struck up an acquaintance? By this I mean, someone you had not met previously.”

She shrugged. “On shipboard, this happen all the time. You yourself, monsieur, this describes.”

That was true. But I pressed on: “I mean someone unknown to you prior to boarding, who has made some