The Lusitania Murders

most alarming.”

I had thought that was the reason for this little gathering-for the captain to reassure his guests. But he was a ham-handed old salt, wretchedly awkward with people.

Still, he tried his best: “Mr. Williamson, I’m sure, when we trace them, these messages will be the work of some publicity hound. Please. . my friends. . think nothing of these things.”

The captain was gesturing with one of the telegrams.

Vanderbilt said, “I’m sure it’s just someone’s idea of humor. A tasteless joke.”

“Germany could concentrate her entire fleet of subs on this ship,” Turner blustered (this seemed a strange thing to say, by way of reassurance), “and we would elude them.”

“That’s quite a statement, Captain,” Frohman said.

“I have never heard of the sub that can make twenty-seven knots-and we can.”

“Flying that American flag will help,” said Vanderbilt’s friend, whose name apparently was Williamson.

Since America was not at war with Germany-and with the Lusitania repainted as she was-hiding behind the Stars and Stripes seemed a good way to deceive a U-boat commander. But it had been tried before, and the White House had complained to Cunard.

Turner did not respond to Williamson’s remark, and merely patted backs and gave out assurances that the warning telegrams were of no import, easing the group off the small raised deck with invitations to join him at his table for meals, if they liked.

“Someone was missing from that little gathering,” I said.

“I know,” Miss Vance said.

I arched an eyebrow at her. “Really? And who do you assume that person to be?”

Matter-of-factly, she replied, “Elbert Hubbard. He received one of those warning telegrams, as well.”

“Is that what they were referring to? Warnings they received?”

Miss Vance informed me coolly that Madame DePage had received a telegram warning her that the ship would be torpedoed-signed “Morte,” death.

I shrugged. “Perhaps the Sage of East Aurora didn’t receive a warning-perhaps a legitimate telegram came in to him at the same time these warnings arrived for the others.”

She shook her head. “I doubt that-not when he reacted to it in such disgust. He crumpled it and tossed it to the ground, you know.”

“Is that right? Well, again, perhaps its contents were displeasing to him without it having been one of these warnings. Perhaps someone wired Hubbard to inform him of what a complete nincompoop he is.”

She smiled a little. “I think he’s a great man.”

“You do not.”

“Well. . a good man. A well-intentioned man.”

“That’s something wholly other than ‘great.’ ”

Now she shrugged. “Well, I suppose we’ll never know what was in that telegram Mr. Hubbard received.”

“I suppose not.”

“Not unless you share it with me, Van.” She smiled at me, the eyes atwinkle again. “After all, you did pick it up.”

I would not like to know what my expression looked like: Surely my mouth was agape and my eyes were wide and I appeared more the fool than a self-confident man. I realized that my masculine charms had not inspired this fetching wench to seek out my friendship, after all-she had seen me pick up the discarded telegram, open and look at it, and had sought me out, in her wily surreptitious female manner. I was beginning to suspect she was a damn suffragette.

“Could I see it?” she asked sweetly.

“See what?” I asked, but my bantering was limp. I took the telegram from my suitcoat pocket and handed it to her.

“So Hubbard was warned, too,” she said, studying the crumpled paper.

“Why, are you a detective?”

Both eyebrows climbed her fine forehead and she asked innocently, “Do I look like a detective?”

“No. . but then, I don’t believe I look like a fool, yet apparently I am one. And here I thought you wanted to be my great good friend.”

“I do,” she said nicely, apparently genuine, as she handed back the telegram. “Van, I’m just a good friend of Madame DePage, accompanying her, looking out after her interests.”

A low hum began to emanate from deep within the ship, growing into a muffled roar; the ship’s four steam turbines began their rotation, and giant propeller blades made a muddy froth of the Hudson River.

I glanced at my pocket watch: twelve-thirty. All delays, all doubts, all fears be damned-we were finally pulling away, as the Big Lucy gave off three throaty blasts from her mighty bass horn.

“Shall we have lunch,” I asked, putting away my watch, “and discuss this further?”

But she was gone-Philomina Vance had disappeared into the crowd on deck.

And I stood there alone, strangely sad as the big ship-like a massive building pulling away from its foundations-groaned away from the dock. A brass band on deck was playing one song (“It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”), the band on the pier another (“God Be With You Till We Meet Again”), and somewhere a chorus was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Shouts of farewell tried to climb over that cacophony only to be drowned out by the bellow of steam whistles.

Soon a trio of tugboats puffed up to the much larger vessel to nudge and cajole her bow, easing her around till she was pointing downstream. It didn’t take long for the faces on the dock to turn indistinguishable, and finally even the skyline of Manhattan was just a blur of brick.

“Would you like to have lunch with me?” that delightful alto intoned.

I turned toward the sound, hopefully, but tried not to show eagerness; she was again at my side, not a hint of guile in those clear blue eyes.

I said, “If you’re not a detective, you must be a magician.”

She smiled gloriously. “And why is that, Mr. Van Dine?”

“Because of these vanishing acts you pull off.”

She shrugged and offered me her arm. “You’ll just have to hold on to me, then.”

That sounded wonderful.

And I took her arm, like the fool I am, and went off for lunch with her, convinced no more ulterior motives lurked within that pretty blonde hatless head.

If I were a lesser writer, I would at this point say: little did I know. .

But of course, we all know I’m above such things.

FOUR

Warm Welcome

We took luncheon in the Verandah Cafe. Most passengers were availing themselves of the opportunity to get their first look at the ship’s fabled domed dining room; but Miss Vance said she preferred to save that treat for this evening. Though the day remained overcast, this shipboard outdoor cafe held a certain airy appeal for both of us, and the relative privacy was attractive, as well.

The cafe was on the Boat Deck, past a lounge area rife with rose-upholstered wall seats and chairs, and even a marble fireplace; the tones of white and gold continued to prevail. The cafe was at the after-end of the deck, a twenty-by-forty* area with a white ceiling and dark-wood pillars open to the first-class promenade. The floor was parquet, the furnishings a mix of wood and wicker, with little potted trees whose stick-thin trunks rose to bushy explosions of green.

We sat at a small round table whose white linen tablecloth was at odds with the casualness of the clientele, mostly men in caps with legs crossed, smoking cigarettes, reading newspapers. Miss Vance and I were the only mixed couple-and among the few patrons having luncheon.