The Titanic Murders by Max Allan Collins Page B

Andrews explained, “tracking down the inevitable snags, flaws and breakdowns that bedevil every new ship.”
    Maggie Brown asked, “Is there anything to be worried about, Mr. Andrews? We’re not guinea pigs, are we? ’Cause if so, we’re paying a pretty penny for the privilege.”
    “Actually, Mrs. Brown,” Andrews said, lightly, “we’re talking about such major problems as a plugged-up kitchen drain, or a malfunctioning ice machine.”
    “This ship is a marvel,” Ismay said, at once dismissive and boastful. “And Mr. Andrews, God bless him, is a professionalfussbudget… Earlier he told me he’d uncovered a troubling flaw in the ship.”
    All eyes turned to Ismay for this dire news.
    “The coat hooks in the staterooms employ too many screws,” Ismay said.
    As his tablemates laughed good-naturedly, Andrews damn near blushed, touching a napkin to his lips, saying only in his defense, “The devil’s in the details, Mr. Ismay.”
    “Well, you’ve given us a lovely ship, sir,” Madeline Astor said. “Please accept our thanks, and our compliments.”
    Wineglasses were raised in an informal toast and Andrews finally went the entire distance, blushing like a rose. Captain Smith raised a water glass, however, as he was not drinking alcohol.
    After dessert, Ismay spoke up. “I regret to inform you that this is Captain Smith’s final crossing.”
    Astor asked, “Is that right, Captain?”
    A smile emerged from the trim white beard. “Yes it is. I’ll be sixty soon. Forty-five years at sea, thirty-two of them with White Star… I think it’s time to turn the helm over to younger men.”
    Futrelle asked, “Do you like these big ships, Captain? Like the Olympic, and the Titanic ?”
    He nodded, but there was a graveness about it. “Modern shipbuilding has come a long way.”
    That wasn’t quite an answer to his question, but Futrelle let it pass. He knew that Smith—whose career had been otherwise spotless—had had his first real accident earlier this year, with the Titanic ’s sister ship, the Olympic, of which he was the captain at the time of a collision with a Royal Navy cruiser. Futrelle suspected, after the performance with the New York, that CaptainSmith had not mastered the finer points of seamanship needed to navigate the White Star’s new “wonder ships.”
    “You should come back to command all the maiden voyages,” Astor said. “It wouldn’t be a White Star first crossing without you.”
    “I’ll second that,” Andrews said, raising his wineglass.
    “And I,” Ismay added.
    The entire table raised their glasses to the captain, who smiled and nodded, then said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at the end of this crossing, I’ll have logged two million miles aboard White Star ships… and I think I’ve earned some time ashore.”
    The captain thanked the group for its “splendid company,” and invited the men to join him in the smoking room for a cigar and brandy, while the women stayed at the table for conversation and aperitifs.
    The First-Class Smoking Room, on A deck, was a bastion of male supremacy, an exclusive men’s club at sea where shipping magnates, rail and oil barons and millionaire industrialists could mingle in an atmosphere of free-flowing liquor, high-stakes card playing, and of course cigar smoke that was almost as rich as they were. The Georgian-style mahogany paneling, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, inset with stained-glass windows and etched mirrors, had the feel of a stately, prosperous Protestant church, an impression undercut by the green leather-upholstered armchairs and marble-topped tables, each with a raised edge around it to catch a sliding drink in rough weather.
    The little group of men from the captain’s table—Smith, Astor, Andrews, Ismay and Futrelle—stood near the jutting corner whose walls with backlighted stained-glass images ofArt Nouveau nymphs and sailing ships gracefully disguised and enclosed the casing of the ship’s immense rear