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

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 figure. He had dark bright blue eyes and rather bushy eyebrows, and was extending a sturdy hand.
    Shaking it, I said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
    He had a firm grip, but had stopped short of showing off about it.
    “I’m sorry—you were pointed out to me, on deck,” he said. That struck me as odd: No one knew me to do that!
    He was introducing himself: Staff Captain John Anderson.
    And now I understood—this was the contact aboard ship Rumely had told me about, the Cunard employee aware of my real name, and that I was a journalist aboard to write flattering articles about the ship and its passengers.
    I introduced Miss Vance.
    “We’re honored to have Madame DePage with us,” Anderson said to her. He had the faintest cockney around the edges of an accent he’d obviously worked at to make acceptable to the upper-class passengers. “She’s a great lady, with a fine cause.”
    “I’m so glad you feel that way,” Miss Vance said, not sounding terribly sincere.
    “Would you sit down with us?” I asked him, politely.
    Anderson seemed almost embarrassed, as he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Van Dine. I’d hoped to catch you after lunch, so I might show you around a little.”

    Miss Vance said, “We’re quite finished with lunch, Captain Anderson.”
    “Well, I’m certainly free,” I said, “if you’d care to take time away from your duties to bother with me.”
    “Not at all. I’m anxious to. . . . Miss Vance, would you care to accompany us?”
    “You’re very kind,” she said, rising, “but I need to join Madame DePage. She likes to