The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

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 any kind of writer?”
    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 onlythe 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 writer .”
    “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