The cabin was on the corner of the corridor and the small hallway, and was a palatial cubbyhole without, unfortunately, a view onto the sea. What it did have was rather amazing, considering the limitations of space: a wrought-iron single bed, a washstand with hot and cold running water, off-white woodwork, electric lighting, a wardrobe and a bureau with mirror-better appointed, by far, than my Lexington Street apartment, and heaven compared to that boardinghouse room in the Bronx.
As there was no closet, I transferred the contents of my suitcase into the bureau drawers, and slid the empty bag under my bed. I was sitting on the bed, wondering when we’d be leaving port, when a gong clanged, making me jump-first of the “All Ashore” signals. I checked my pocket watch: half past eleven.
Even a man of sophistication can enjoy the simple pleasures of the spectacle of a great liner shoving off, so I made my way to the portside of the Boat Deck. In the corridor, the aftermath of good-bye parties coming to a close was evidenced by people hugging and kissing, those leaving expressing a wish to be going along, even as the “All Ashore” gongs continued to reverberate. The aroma of food being cooked announced in its unique way that the voyage was about to begin: The first meal was in preparation.
On deck, passengers were lining the rail, and I found a place for myself just beyond the first-class promenade with its hanging lifeboats, toward the bow of the ship-the area called the forecastle, from which the bridge could be made out easily. So could the sight of visitors streaming down the gangways; why did the image of rats abandoning a sinking ship pop into my mind? Far too trite a thought even to have.
Deckhands who had traded in their crisp white sport jackets for turtleneck sweaters and heavy, seaworthy windbreakers, performed a thousand small tasks beyond the average passenger’s comprehension; this whirl of activity, more than anything else, announced that the great ship was coming to life.
Cargo hatches were battened, and bells rang out as officers rushed up gangways with last-minute paperwork in hand, bills of lading and cargo consignments and such. The pilot’s H flag was hoisted from the halyard of the signal bridge, and on the narrow stern of the control bridge the American flag flapped, while upright streamers of myriad other flags ran up and down the fore and aft masts, lending a gay ambience worthy of a cruise ship. Less festive, even ominous, was the black smoke belching from the fat exclamation points of the black-painted funnels.
After the floral fragrance of the public areas of the Big
On the dockside sightseers and friends seeing off passengers threw confetti, and waved hats, hankies, miniature American flags and, when all else failed, their hands. I did not wave back: I didn’t know any of them, and Rumely had long since disappeared back into the reality of Manhattan.
“You really are a grouch,” an already familiar alto voice said, next to me.
I couldn’t suppress the smile as I turned to her, those loose tendrils flying like little blonde flags of her own in the breeze.
“Just because I don’t behave like a schoolboy,” I said, “waving at a bunch of strangers, doesn’t make me a grouch.”
“No. I am sure there are other factors.”
I laughed, once. “Miss Vance, are you following me?”
“Why, do you mind?”
“No,” I said forwardly. “The sooner a shipboard romance begins, the better, I always say.”
She arched a brow; her eyes were an impossible light blue, eyes you could gaze straight through to the core of her. . a core consumed, at the moment, with mocking me. “Is that what you think this is? The beginnings of a romance?”
I shrugged. “We only have a week. And, after all, you like my beard.”
She raised a finger. “No-I said I liked the self-confidence it indicated-that you’re a man who goes his own way. If I could have my way with you, I’d cut that beard off.”
“If I could have my way with you, I’d let you.”
She did not blush, but she did turn away so I would not see just how broad her smile was. And when she turned back to me, the smile had lessened but was very much still there. “You are a rogue, Mr. Van Dine.”
“I thought you were going to call me Van.”
“I should call you a horse’s S.S.”
And I laughed again-more than once. “I like you, Vance.”
“No ‘Miss’?”
“I don’t think so. Whether a shipboard romance develops or not, I believe you were right the first time.”
“How’s that?”
I half-bowed. “We are going to be great friends.”
Below, burly stevedores were hauling the creaking gangplanks onto the pier, really putting their elbow grease into it. Hawsers thick as a stevedore’s arm were cast loose from bollards, splashing into the slip’s scummy waters before the sailors drew the ropes up onto the decks.
Leaning on the rail, I asked her, “May I inquire what’s become of your companion, Madame DePage? I gather you’re travelling together.”
She nodded past me, looking up, and I followed her eyes to the bridge; on the deck beneath the row of windows, Captain Turner-all arrayed in his gold-braided finery, looking rather more distinguished in his commodore’s cap than he had in his bowler at Luchow’s-was holding court with five of his most distinguished first-class passengers.
Gathered about him in a semicircle were Miss Vance’s companion, Madame DePage, impresario Frohman, the “Champagne King” Kessler, and the richest man on any ship, Vanderbilt, as well as his lanky dark-haired friend, whose name I had not yet ascertained. The group consisted of every illustrious passenger who had received one of those mysterious telegrams-with the exception of the homespun Elbert Hubbard.
Miss Vance gave me a look that I understood at once to mean we should move closer, which we did, until we were near enough to overhear Turner’s remarks to his guests.
But it was Frohman who was speaking at the moment, the half-crippled producer leaning on his cane with seemingly all of his weight. “Tell me, Alfred-is it true you cancelled your passage on the
The frog-like Broadway czar’s tone was genial enough, but the question had a certain edge.
Vanderbilt, with the face of a somewhat dissipated boy under that jaunty cap, said, “It’s true-I had a feeling about it.”
Kessler asked, “Any premonitions this time?”
The multimillionaire shrugged, and the crusty captain put a hand on Vanderbilt’s shoulder, and gestured down toward where Miss Vance and I stood. . but he was really invoking the swarm of passengers clustered along the rail. He said, in a blustering way (which was easier for Miss Vance and me to hear than the previous exchange), “Do you honestly think all these people would have booked passage on the
Captain Turner laughed, and so did Vanderbilt. I exchanged glances with Miss Vance-neither of us was smiling, much less laughing.
The same could be said for Madame DePage, who-in a musical voice touched with that accent shared by France and her native Belgium, so fetching in a woman, so obnoxious in a man-said, “I do not find this war a subject fit for the. . joking.”
The smiles vanished from the faces of Vanderbilt and Captain Turner, both men apologizing.
“I am concerned not for me myself,” Madame DePage said, her pretty dimpled chin lifted, “but for the wounded in this tragic atrocity.” The latter word, divided by her accent into four lilting syllables, had a poetry at odds with its meaning. “If this ship, she goes down, t’ousands will suffer in hospital.”
Madame DePage was referring to the $150,000 she had raised; this implied the cash was on board with her-a dangerous state of affairs even in peacetime.
“I have to say I share madame’s concern,” Vanderbilt’s slender friend said. “These warning telegrams are
