The Lusitania Murders

“Worth the risk. How can anyone take this German bluster so seriously? But so many people are.”

“You’re of German descent, obviously. .”

He nodded, and frowned. “A German-American, yes. That doesn’t make me pro-German. But it does make me pro-American.”

“America isn’t in this war.”

“Yet. When we are, German-Americans like me will stand behind the Stars and Stripes. As a Jew, I know all too well of prejudice. . Now I see my fellow German-Americans already being viewed through a prism of bias.”

I made sure to write that down-that was a nice turn of phrase: “prism of bias.”

“For that reason, I’m producing a new play by the novelist Justus Miles Foreman. . I’ll introduce you, he’s crossing with us. . that deals with this subject. Opens in Boston in two weeks. The Hyphen, it’s called. . and it refers to the hyphen in the term German-American.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That would seem to be yet another risk you’re taking.”

He waved that off with a pudgy hand, right before it dipped back into the bowl of chocolates. “The arts. . even the popular arts. . must take a stand. I’m hoping to find a producer in Britain for the play, as well.”

That seemed optimistic.

“Of course,” he continued, “this trend to musicals and slangy ‘mystery’ plays threaten thoughtful drama, and the drawing-room comedy. . though I’m not really worried about these so-called ‘movies’-we won’t live to see them become more popular than the stage.”

I had enough for the News-it was time to reveal the role Miss Vance was truly playing. With a nod, I cued her.

“C.F.,” she said, “you may have noticed that I’m travelling with Madame DePage.”

He had.

She briefly explained her function as ship’s detective, and his eyes widened-he was fascinated by this, and they spoke for perhaps five minutes about her departure from the stage to the Pinkerton Agency.

“We are concerned about a theft ring aboard,” she told him.

He shifted, and pain tightened his face momentarily. “It’s rumored Madame DePage is travelling with the funds she raised.”

“I have heard that rumor,” Miss Vance said with a smile.

“Which is why you are her devoted companion. I also believe George Kessler. . an old acquaintance, if something of a blowhard. . may be foolishly travelling with. . well, that’s not for me to say.”

But it was for me to note, both mentally and literally.

Miss Vance sat forward. “Are you travelling with any valuables or a large amount of money? Sir, you can trust us. . Staff Captain Anderson has already vouched-”

“It’s ‘C.F.,’ ” he said, “and as a matter of fact, yes, I am travelling with a considerable amount of cash. Normally, I would have funds in various English banks, but we had. . there’s no use trying to disguise the fact. . some financial reverses. Last year was a bad one for my theater syndicate.”

“So,” I said, picking up on this, “you’re taking along funds with which to buy new properties.”

“Yes, if I’m lucky enough to find any. . There’s fifty thousand dollars, in that bulging briefcase by my desk.”

Miss Vance and I exchanged sharp expressions. I asked, “Has anyone approached you, aboard ship, trying to establish a new friendship?”

His eyes frowned, his mouth smiled. “To get into my confidence, and then my briefcase? Other than supper with my friends last night, in that Broadway show of a dining room, I’ve been entrenched in this suite, reading plays-I devour manuscripts like chocolates.”

“What about last night? At dinner?”

He sipped his ginger ale and thought that over. “Well, that fellow Williamson. . Vanderbilt’s friend. . said he’d like a meeting with me.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yes-he’s an art dealer. Vanderbilt is a client-apparently, Williamson recommends buying certain paintings as an investment, I take it. Lives mostly in Paris, I believe.”

I jotted this down; Williamson was on our docket anyway-one of that elite half dozen who’d received threatening telegrams and been on Klaus’s list.

As we took our leave, Frohman apologized for not seeing us to the door, and again reminded Miss Vance-as if a reminder were necessary-to contact him for theatrical work.

“And I intend not to be an antisocial animal for this entire trip,” he said, with a salute of his ginger ale glass. “I’m having a party Thursday evening-and you are both invited.”

We accepted his invitation, and thanked him for his hospitality.

In the hall, Miss Vance was glowing from the reception she had received. But I reminded her that, for now at least, she was more detective than actress.

The interview with George Kessler-the so-called “Champagne King”-would vary from the previous two in a significant way: Kessler had requested I meet him in that exclusively male haunt, the ‘First-Class Smoking Room.’ Miss Vance took the opportunity to return to the side of Madame DePage, who was in the ‘Reading-and-Writing room’ with her new friend, Dr. Houghton-someone we were interested in knowing more about, anyway.

The smoking room was aft on the Boat Deck, a large* chamber dominated by an enormous ornate wrought- iron skylight with leaded glass and inset panels. Walnut paneling framed furniture of the Queen Anne period-sofas, easy chairs, settees, writing desks and marble-topped tables-and the red carpeting and upholstery, in concert with the natural wood tones, created a rich masculine warmth at odds with the white and gold of so much of the rest of the ship.

The air was a smorgasbord of cigar smoke, making a cigarette man like myself feel something of a piker-and a pauper. This was, after all, the bastion of rail barons, shipping magnates, international publishers and millionaire businessmen.

George Kessler didn’t know me, but I recognized him-his bushy black beard was hard to miss. He was seated in one of two angled easy chairs facing an elaborate, unlighted fireplace, with a brown valise tucked under (and held in place by) his legs. A cigar smaller than a pool cue in the fingers of his left hand, the Canadian wine magnate was wearing a three-piece dark gray suit with lighter gray pinstripes, and reading an issue of The Philistine, the digest-sized magazine published (and largely written) by Elbert Hubbard.

I approached, introduced myself, he did not get up, we shook hands and I took the other easy chair.

“Are you a subscriber to that magazine?” I asked him.

“Hell no,” Kessler said, with gruff good humor. “That eccentric ninny is passing these out all over the ship. . though I must say he gives Kaiser Bill the devil in this article.”

“You’re no fan of the Germans?”

“I am not. Some men make money off wars, but for me it’s a goddamned nuisance-restricts my travel, plays hell with my ability to entertain my friends and business associates.”

“That’s partly why I wanted to interview you, sir,” I said, getting Mr. McClure’s work out of the way. “These famous ‘bashes’ of yours. . ”

For perhaps ten minutes the outgoing businessman regaled me with tales of the extravagant dinners and parties-how he had once hired London’s best carpenters, scenery painters and electricians to turn the Savoy Hotel’s courtyard into a corner of Venice. . including flooding it and serving dinner in a giant white gondola. At another event a mammoth cake was conveyed to guests on the back of a circus elephant, while Caruso sang. At yet another do (the Savoy again), he turned the garden into a faux North Pole, complete with silver-tissue icebergs and fields of plastic snow.

I had written all of this down, on the questionable assumption that any of the News’s readers would care, when Kessler paused to relight his cigar, which had gone out during his blatherings. As he did, he must have taken a closer look at me, because he blurted that he’d seen me earlier.

“Is that right?” I said.

“Yes! You were giving Anderson a bit of a bad time, on deck, and God bless you for it-I saw that pitiful excuse for a lifeboat drill! Ye gods, what a joke.”

“It’s less than reassuring, all right.”