The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

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 thefaces 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.
    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