The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins Page B

minutes.
    Finally she turned toward me, her eyes glittering in a predatory fashion. “Droplets of blood,” she said.
    Walking along, half-bent over, gazing through the magnifying glass, she followed a trail of tiny scarlet globules. She stopped at the mouth of the short corridor next to my cabin.
    “Come,” she said, motioning to me. “Hug the wall, as you do.”
    I joined her—and there on the floor, halfway down the short corridor so near where I slept, was a black-handled hunting knife, smeared crimson. Blobs of blood trailed toward where it lay. Miss Vance said this indicated the knife had been flung there—by the murderer.
    Gesturing back down the hall, toward the corpse, she said, “The murderer walked along with the bloody knife at his side—probably held out, a ways, to prevent getting any blood on his clothing. Then, seeing this corridor, impulsively pitched the murder weapon away.”
    “Then this was not a carefully calculated affair—rather a killing by impulse?”
    “Yes—but by a person carrying a deadly blade. Thatindicates some forethought of foul play. . . . Now it’s time to contact the good staff captain.”
    Within five minutes Anderson had arrived, looking remarkably crisp in his gold-braided blue jacket with cap, for after two in the morning, anyway.
    “Sorry to have disturbed you,” I said. Miss Vance had made the call. The master-at-arms was on his way, as well.
    “I’d just returned to my cabin,” he said, his expression wide-eyed yet business-like as he surveyed the corpse on the linoleum, “having dispatched a second group of crew members to continue the search of the ship. We’ve found nothing thus far.”
    “Until now,” Miss Vance said, with a redundant gesture toward the corpse. She quickly filled Anderson in, leading him for a look at the discarded knife that lay on the floor of the adjoining short corridor.
    “I would like to take that weapon into evidence,” she said. “While I’m limited, I do have a kit with me that includes fingerprinting works.”
    “Good Lord,” Anderson said, “what if you find prints on the handle? What would you compare them to? Would you have us fingerprint everyone on shipboard?”
    “If need be. However, might I suggest, for the present at least, that we not advertise this matter.”
    Anderson sighed in relief. “I’m very pleased to hear you say that. As soon as possible, I would like to arrange for the body to be taken to the ship’s hospital.”
    Miss Vance nodded. “Splendid idea, Captain—I would like the ship’s doctor to have a look at the body. I would also like to examine all of the late stowaway’s effects.”
    This was agreeable to the staff captain, who requested the use of Miss Vance’s phone.

    “We’ll get the doctor up here,” Anderson said, “and a stretcher, and remove the deceased to a comfortable bed.”
    “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” I said.
    A voice said, “Good Lord,” which seemed to be the exclamation of choice here in the corridor; the master-at-arms, Williams, had arrived. The short, sturdy fellow had come from the direction of my cabin, and he stood a respectful distance from the dead man, gazing down with mouth and eyes agape, his thick dark eyebrows pushing his forehead into his scalp.
    No one greeted the master-at-arms—it didn’t seem warranted.
    “The captain will have to be woken, too,” Anderson said to no one in particular, rubbing his chin, apparently contemplating the various phone calls he would need to make from Miss Vance’s room.
    “Mr. Williams,” I said to the master-at-arms, “who was guarding the stowaways?”
    “No one,” he said with a shrug, still gazing at the corpse.
    “And why is that?”
    Anderson answered for him. “They were locked in the cells, and the brig itself is kept locked. No one sees them except the steward who brings them their supper.”
    “Which,” I said, “would be Mr. Leach.”
    With a nod, Anderson said, “I have to make