I had a plate of dainty deviled-ham sandwiches with their crusts trimmed off-apparently here in first class, the upper crust preferred no competition; and Miss Vance partook of a cup of beef broth. We both had tea, although my lovely companion took hers iced.
“How is it that you became acquainted with Madame DePage,” I asked, with an offhandedness that I hope disguised my rapt interest. “If I may be so bold.”
“You may.” The breeze was doing wonderful things with those blonde tendrils. “The madame and I are not friends, although we are friendly. I’m a paid companion.”
“Ah. A secretary?”
She offered me half a smile, half a shrug. “Something along those lines.”
“Madame DePage must be a generous mistress.”
An eyebrow arched. “Why is that?”
I offered her a complete shrug, invoking both shoulders. “To book you Saloon passage.”
It was common practice for servants and others attending first-class passengers to have rooms in second class (though rarely in third).
“Actually,” she said, between sips of iced tea, “I’m sharing quarters with Madame DePage.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes it is. She has one of the Regal Suites.* The other, I understand, is Mr. Vanderbilt’s.”
I nibbled a corner off a sandwich. “My little cabin is just down the hall from one of the Regal Suites-is yours portside or starboard? On the left or right, that is.”
She smiled a little. “I know my portside from my starboard, sir-our suite is on your side of the ship.”
Perhaps that would prove convenient, I thought. But I was also struck by the way she had referred to the suite so possessively-“our suite”-which was somewhat less than a subservient attitude. . not that there seemed to be much in the way of subservience about Miss Vance.
“And how long have you been a writer, Van?” she asked casually.
I froze between bites and put down my sandwich. “I don’t recall mentioning that I was.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Truthfully. . yes.” I looked unhesitatingly into those remarkable eggshell-blue eyes. “I’m aboard on a journalistic assignment. In fact, you might be in a position to help me out.”
She cocked her head. “Really? How so?”
“I’m hoping to interview the travelling celebrities. . and your mistress, Madame DePage, certainly qualifies.”
With a tiny wave of a gesture, she said, “That shouldn’t prove difficult. The madame is friendly to the press- she has a point of view she’s most anxious to communicate. I would be happy to pave the way for an audience.”
I grinned at her-toasted her with my teacup. “Most generous of you, Vance.”
“My pleasure. . but I must say I’m a bit surprised you’re a reporter. I would have taken you for an author of fiction, or perhaps literary criticism.”
“Why not a poet?”
She was studying me the way a scientist looks at something smeared on a slide. “I don’t sense the romantic in you. . at least not in the conventional sense. You have an acid eye, of a sort that would seek expression more directly than in that elliptical way a poet might employ. . Besides, I don’t believe poetry would strike you as a manly pursuit.”
Miss Vance was remarkably insightful-although I had written some small amount of poetry, in my time-but I was wondering how she had gathered so much about me in so short a span.
“Vance,” I said, frankly exasperated and not a little impressed, “how did you arrive at the conclusion that I was
Her lips twitched with amusement. “Well, Van, you’re a very well-groomed gentleman-your beard is immaculately trimmed. .”
“Thank you.”
“But on your right hand, you have ink under your nails. . either from a pen and/or the messy ribbon of one of those beastly typewriting machines.”
Reflexively, I looked at the nails of my right hand and, to my dismay, she was quite right.
“In addition,” she said, “at the dock you were observing passengers in a manner that indicated you were either, one, an agent or police official, private or government; or, two, a writer intent on observing human behavior. In retrospect, I should have noticed that you were keen on only the celebrities standing in line, which would have sent me in the direction of journalism.”
This seemed quite a remarkable observation to me, and I said as much.
“Further,” she said, keeping right on with it, “your attire reflected money and a sense of style, and yet was brand-new-”
Now I had to interrupt. “Certainly it’s not unusual for a passenger about to board an ocean liner to dress in recently purchased apparel. What woman doesn’t buy a new ‘outfit’ for a trip?”
“Well, Van, you’re not a woman-”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“But your freshly purchased apparel, added to the other facts, spelled
“Why?”
“Writers, even the most successful of them, lead a relatively solitary existence, and most often work at home. It’s characteristic of the professional writer to be rather. . indifferent where fashion is concerned.”
Understanding, I said, “But a writer who’s attending a special event. . a play, an opera, a wedding. . will certainly go out and buy new apparel.”
Her smile indicated she liked that I was following her line of logic. “Yes. But this, added to these other seemingly insignificant details-topped off by your extraordinary gift with language-led me to risk sharing with you my assumption that you are, indeed, a writer.”
Maybe she was a detective, after all.
“Well, I am a writer,” I said, “and a damned good one, if you’ll forgive my frankness.”
“I like your frankness, Van. By the way, what’s your real name?”
Again, she had startled me.
“How. . why. .?”
She smiled and made a breezy gesture with her left hand. “The initials ‘S.S.’ for a man on a steamship voyage-could anything be more absurd? And when I asked you what the initials stood for, you had to think about it! You don’t strike me as a man whose limited mentality does not include a ready retention of his own name.”
I could only laugh; she had me!
But I told her, for reasons of my own, I needed to keep my real name to myself; she would have to be content with my pseudonym.
“I guess I don’t mind, terribly,” she said. “But perhaps I was wrong-perhaps you aren’t a writer.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. . mayhap you’re a German spy.”
I almost choked on my tea. “Please. . in time of war, that’s not amusing.”
Still, her expression was one of amusement. “Ah, but America is not at war.”
“Ah, but. . we’re not in America any longer. In fact, on this ship, we’re in Great Britain.”
She nodded. “An astute observation.”
A burly officer-in the typical white cap and navy gold-braided blazer-was swaggering down the promenade; he had broad shoulders, a shovel jaw and an amiable manner. I had never seen the fellow before, but he smiled and nodded at me, as if we were old friends. On the other hand, the officer was nodding and speaking to other passengers, who lined the rail, so maybe I was imagining things. .
“Do you know that gentleman?” Miss Vance whispered.
“No.”
“He seems to know you.”
And indeed the officer was striding over to us. I touched my napkin to my lips and stood.
“Mr. Van Dine?” the officer said, his voice a tenor, somewhat surprising coming out of such a formidable
