The Lusitania Murders

“Would you consider,” I suggested, “removing your rose-colored spectacles, for the duration of this voyage, and report to Miss Vance or myself anything suspicious you might observe?”

Miss Vance added, “There may be physical danger, either to you and your wife, or risk to your possessions. . specifically, your business funds.”

Seeming to take no offense at my “rose-colored spectacles” remark, Hubbard smiled and nodded. “More than happy to cooperate. Do you agree, Alice?”

She nodded, too. “More than happy.”

That seemed to sum them up for me: more than happy. . moving well past joy into the realm of ignorant bliss.

Right now Hubbard was studying me-perhaps sensing my cynicism, though little I’d said revealed as much. He asked, “Mr. Van Dine, have you heard of Mr. and Mrs. Isador Straus?”

“The names are familiar, but. .”

“They died on the Titanic-Mr. Straus was a wealthy man, in the department store trade; he and his wife had been married a very long time. They chose to stay aboard and meet their fate, rather than be separated, when Mrs. Straus could easily have found a seat on a lifeboat. . ‘Women and children first’ being the law of the sea.”

“I do remember,” I said.

He looked heavenward. “They knew how to do three great things, the Strauses-how to live, how to love and how to die.” He turned his gaze fondly on his wife, and she returned it; they were holding hands, and I suppose I should have found it trite, but there was something genuine and even moving about it, much as I despise cheap sentiment.

Hubbard said, “To pass from this world, as did Mr. and Mrs. Straus, is glorious-happy lovers, both. In life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided.”

The hambone was nothing if not a showman, and without another word-not even an aphorism-he rose, as did his wife, and they nodded their good-byes and made their exit.

TWELVE

The Art of Friendship

The next morning, Monday, found the great ship off the Grand Banks, basking in sunshine, riding a gentle swell. According to one of our fellow first-class passengers, Charles Lauriat-a Boston bookseller who considered himself an amateur expert on matters nautical-the Lucy was doing a good twenty knots, maintaining a long, easy stride, though occasionally pulsating in brief spasms from the sheer force of her steam turbines.*

As was the usual case on a lengthy ocean voyage, the reassuring routine of shipboard life had quietly asserted itself. Passengers plopped into deck chairs with novels (that many were reading Theodore Drieser’s new one, The Financier, was an encouraging sign in such culturally barren times). Away from their sedentary situations, middle-aged men strode the decks like athletes, their stomachs tucked in, their chests thrust out, sucking in the fresh sea breeze, cleansing their city-soiled innards. The sharp, salty air seemed to egg on the appetite, making possible the consumption of the endless cornucopia of food; and people you might ignore on dry land seemed not only tolerable company but witty, worthy cohorts.

Miss Vance and I did not spend all of our time engaged in investigation. Now and then, on an evening, we could be found doing the tango or the foxtrot, and well. Often, however, we were not available, spending time privately in either her or my quarters, and what was exchanged between us is not germane to this narrative; besides, even I am too gentlemanly to go into detail, however wonderful it might be to record such vivid memories.

We also on occasion attended the ship’s concerts, where an array of talent performed, ranging from the world’s finest to numerous self-proclaimed artistes with more audacity than ability. Nonetheless, in our self- indulgent, overfed mood, we were inclined to find all of them entertaining, even if not in the way intended; like cattle being fattened for the slaughterhouse, Miss Vance and I were part of a contented lot.

Perhaps we had become distracted by shipboard foolishness, or lulled into complacency by the knowledge that the stowaways were indeed deceased and nothing further of a suspicious or dangerous nature had transpired, since their passing. In our defense, the final interviews of individuals on Klaus’s list were arranged not at our convenience, but at that of the interviewees.

Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt was, after all, the richest man on the ship, probably the Lucy’s most important passenger, with the possible exception of Elbert Hubbard. We were fortunate that Vanderbilt consented to see us at all, as he had no love for the press, which had been rough on him from time to time.

But Staff Captain Anderson was able to convince the millionaire to receive us-Vanderbilt was a frequent Cunard guest, crossing two or three times a year-and the interview (with Vanderbilt and his friend Williamson) was scheduled for Monday afternoon.

The remaining interviews, of course, were with crew members Williams and Leach, but Miss Vance wanted to wait for the reports from Pinkerton on the pair. She knew questioning them at all would be delicate, considering the defensiveness of the two captains; better to limit it to one round of informed interrogation.

So on Monday afternoon, a few minutes before the appointed time of three o’clock, Miss Vance and I made our way to the starboard side of the promendade deck. There, Vanderbilt occupied the second of the two so-called Regal Suites, the other on the portside of the ship-our side of the ship-being filled by Madame DePage and Miss Vance herself.

We were approaching the door to the suite when a figure emerged from within, and seized our attention, to say the least. Suddenly we were face-to-face with a brown-haired, blue-eyed young man whose complexion rivaled a fish’s belly for paleness-none other than Steward Neil Leach.

“Mr. Leach,” I said. “Good afternoon.”

“Mr. Van Dine,” he said, with a nervous nod. Then he smiled a small, polite, canary-color crooked-toothed smile to my companion, saying, “Good afternoon, Miss Vance.”

My tone pleasant, conversational, I said, “We haven’t seen you since the unfortunate events of Saturday night.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Terrible. Just awful.”

Miss Vance said, “Having all of that happen on your watch. . must have been distressing.”

“Oh, it was. It was.”

With a sweet smile, as if commenting on the nice day, she said to him, “You may have been the last to see them alive.”

His eyes widened. “How is that, ma’am?”

“Well, you must have delivered their supper. I would think that would, at least, make you the last crew member to see them before. . the unpleasantness.”

“I did serve them, yes.”

Now, that was an interesting offhand admission, considering the likelihood of the cyanide having been introduced into the dead men’s systems, in that manner.

“But,” he was saying, “I’m fairly sure Mr. Williams looked in on them, later. . if you’ll excuse me, ma’am. . sir.”

He began to move off but I touched his arm. Gently. “Mr. Leach, may I ask why you were in Mr. Vanderbilt’s suite?”

“Delivering a Marconigram, sir.”

“I see.” I nodded in dismissal, and moved toward the door of the suite, poised to knock.

“Sir!” Leach said.

Miss Vance and I looked back at him-he appeared even whiter than usual.

“I’m not sure you should be bothering Mr. Vanderbilt,” Leach said, “if I’m not overstepping saying so. . He’s had some bad news.”