All around the ship, stewards were knocking on cabin and stateroom doors, checking to see if the dark curtains had been drawn in compliance with wartime blackout regulations; I was spared this minor indignity only because my cabin did not look out upon the ocean. I was not, on the other hand, spared another indignity, that of snapping, buttoning and hook-and-eyeing myself into the monkey suit required of those men wishing to eat in the Lusitania ’s fabled dining room.*
Tonight, after all, marked this first social event of our voyage. Throughout Saloon class, ladies were no doubt squeezing their forms, whether dainty or not, into evening gowns that had been long since selected with painful care to compete with the elegance of the white-and-gold palatial dining room that awaited them.
And in the ship’s galleys, larders, bakehouses and confectionery kitchens, a battalion of cooks, bakers, butchers and scullions would even now be applying finishing touches to the voyage’s initial and typically elaborate meal, served by the Lucy’s regiment of waiters.
I had been invited by Miss Vance-with the generous approval of Madame Marie DePage-to dine at the DePage table tonight; I was to meet them in the dining room. Taking the lift down to D deck, and the main floor of the saloon, I was guaranteed the full effect of the most talked about restaurant on the seven seas. And I was not disappointed.
The First Class Dining Saloon was like a gigantic ornate Easter egg filled with the creme de la creme. The two-tiered white chamber, trimmed in the usual gold, was overseen by an enormous alabaster-and-gilt dome whose ornate plasterwork and oval panels, depicting cherubs after Boucher, would have been the envy of many a cathedral. Fully five hundred patrons at once could be served here, between the circular balcony of the upper tier (a la carte) and the main floor (table d’hote), which was as wide as the ship itself. Marble Corinthian columns, circular tables with linen cloths and shining silver and glittering crystal, rose-tapestry swivel chairs, an immense mahogany sideboard. . Cunard had spared no expense to provide a regal ambience for its first-class passengers.
A Strauss waltz floated down from the balcony, courtesy of a subdued orchestra, and despite the room’s size and the number of patrons therein, the combined table conversation was a murmur, not a din, the occasional clink and clank of silver and china merely percussive touches. Waiters glided from table to table with a grace usually confined to dancers, as diners entered the palatial saloon, taking it all in with wide eyes, the upper class gawking like hicks at the county fair.
I spotted the theatrical impresario Frohman, entering opposite me; he was relying heavily on his cane, followed by an entourage of half a dozen men and women, including two well-known and attractive actresses, Josephine Brandell and Rita Jolivet. The group was disturbing the decorum of Strauss and quiet conversation by speaking in the boisterous, self-centered manner typical of theater people.
Moving past the slow, loud group, bushy-bearded George Kessler-the Champagne magnate-swaggered over to a small table where a middle-aged man with a younger wife held a seat for him. Perched between two of those gold-crowned columns, at a table for eight, were Madame DePage and her party, including Miss Vance, who had thoughtfully saved the seat next to her for yours truly.
I went immediately to Madame DePage, who graciously rose to offer me her dainty hand, which was ensconced in black lace-her entire ensemble was black, her evening gown heavy with beads and lace, a black feather rising from a small hat. . all in all, a peculiar cross between the funereal and the gay.
I accepted her hand, almost (but not) kissing it as I half-bowed, saying, “It’s a great honor, Madame DePage. I admire very much your humanitarian efforts.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty-her skin was like cream, her lips pursed in a perpetual kiss-lowered her head in a small bow of her own. Then her eyes lifted to mine, sparkling as she said, in her lilting accent, “Miss Vance says you’re a charming fellow, Monsieur Van Dine. And you wish to interview me for your newspaper?”
“I do, Madame-at your convenience.”
“I will be delighted. It will be pleasant to speak of the serious matter. . Men, they die, they suffer, while we do the frivolous thing, inside of this. .” She searched for a word. “. . bubble.”
“Bubbles are notoriously fragile, Madame.”
“Oh, yes they are. It is a. . illusion, our safety. The world, she is at war.”
“I understand your point of view, Madame. But international law does not allow a ship like this one to be fired upon, until it has been searched and munitions or guns discovered.”
“And then?”
I shrugged. “Then the enemy can fire away.”
“And what of the passengers?”
“Oh, they must be removed.”
“Ah, but passengers can be ‘removed’ in various ways, n’est-ce pas?”
I smiled and lowered my head in capitulation.
The lovely philanthropist made introductions. Seated next to her was Dr. James Houghton, a distinguished-looking gent in his middle forties, who was travelling to join Madame DePage’s husband as his assistant at the hospital at La Panne. Seated opposite them were a slender, bird-like but not unattractive woman in her later forties and a much younger man, possibly thirty or at most thirty-five, who seemed nonetheless to be her sweetheart. The woman was Theodate Pope, daughter of a car manufacturer in New England somewhere, and her bright-eyed soul mate was Edwin Friend.
“So you’re a journalist?” the bird-like Miss Pope asked, in a breathy, high-pitched voice. Her beaded gown was a light green satin.
I had at this point taken my seat at the far end of the table, next to Miss Vance, lovely in a blue satin the color of her eyes, every tendril of the blonde hair neatly up, complemented by a small hat with a large darker blue feather. This put me next to Mr. Friend, as well.
“That’s right,” I said, seeing no reason to amplify, though the designation “journalist” obviously did me little justice.
The woman persisted. “Have you any interest in the paranormal?”
“Psychic phenomenon, do you mean? I’m afraid I have little patience with superstition, Miss Pope.”
Her friend Friend chimed in. “Ah, but this isn’t superstition, sir-it’s science. That’s why we’re going to England, you see.”
I didn’t see, nor did I particularly care to.
But Miss Pope was saying, “Edwin and I are pursuing our mutual interest in psychic science. We’ve arranged to confer with the members of the English Society for Psychical Research!”
That last had been delivered so triumphantly I was obviously expected to cheer or at least provide an ooh or an ah. Instead I merely nodded, and said, “Well, I wish you both luck.”
This response disappointed them, but it achieved my desired effect: They turned away from me, to their own company, and throughout the evening spoke enthusiastically and incessantly to one another about spiritualistic matters.
Miss Vance whispered, “You handled that well, Van.”
I looked into the china-blue eyes, wishing I might live there-no pleasanter place could be easily imagined. “Did I, Vance?”
Still speaking so low that only I could hear her, she said, “You dispensed of them without insulting them-it’s nice to know your acid tongue can be reigned in.”
From the balcony the strained strains of “The End of a Perfect Day” wafted unsettlingly down, replacing Strauss with the inexplicably popular treacle of songwriter Carrie Jacobs Bond.
“The orchestra certainly knows how to kill one’s appetite,” I said to Miss Vance.
And a familiar male voice nearby blurted: “How wonderful! One of my favorite tunes, by my favorite composer!”
Elbert Hubbard had arrived. Pausing just behind us, the homespun excuse for a philosopher was escorting his wife, Alice, apparently in search of a table. Mrs. Hubbard was slender and not unattractive, in a scrubbed sort of way, though the woman seemed ill at ease in her chocolate-color satin evening gown, which had been in style once. Hubbard wore the required tuxedo, but one of his trademark floppy silk ties flowed down over his white shirt front, in seeming protest. With his shoulder-length gray-touched hair-so much like his wife’s-he cut a distinctive if bizarre figure in the midst of so much conservative wealth.
Then he noticed Madame DePage, who had turned to smile and nod to him. They were apparently acquainted-or at least had been introduced, at some point-because Hubbard and his wife went to her like iron shavings to a magnet.
“Marie,” he said, “how lovely you look. . I hope you can find time, on this voyage, to sit with me and exchange ideas and thoughts.”
“I would be delighted, Fra Hubbard,” she said.
I was dismayed to think so intelligent a woman could be swayed by this master of middle-brow blather.
“I am afraid I would have little to discuss,” Madame DePage said frankly, glancing about the room with mild distaste, “with these rich.”
Hubbard shrugged and his thick locks bounced on his shoulders. “Men are rich only as they give, Madame-you are the rich one in this room. He. . or she. . who gives great service gets great rewards.”
“Someone should follow him around,” I whispered to Miss Vance, “and sew that stuff on samplers.”
She gave me a reproving look, but her eyes were laughing.
Madame DePage introduced the Hubbards to Miss Pope and her young lapdog, and the bird-like female inquired as to the great Hubbard’s opinion of paranormal research.
“My opinion is favorable,” he said. “The supernatural is the natural not yet understood.”
That brightened Miss Pope’s eyes like a Hallowe’en pumpkin whose candle had just been lit.
But then Hubbard moved on-he seemed incapable of real conversation: He was strictly in the aphorism business. And his wife hadn’t said a word, merely a pleasant appendage of his. They made their way to a table beneath the orchestra, which had just begun playing another Carrie Jacobs Bond number, “Just-a Wearyin’ for You,” a forlornly lachrymose affair that had Hubbard looking skyward, as if God Himself were responsible for this dismal dirge.
“Why would a man so determinedly sanguine,” I asked Miss Vance, speaking of Hubbard, “be prone to such simple-minded sentimental slop?”
Miss Vance just looked at me. “Perhaps I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“Your ability to control that tongue of yours.”
I smiled. “You seem to have an abnormal interest in my tongue, Vance.”
Another woman might have blushed; Miss Vance merely smiled wickedly and said, “That remains to be seen. . Have you noticed that Captain Turner is at the head of the captain’s table?”
“Why, is that a surprise?”
“It’s well-known that Bowler Bill rarely makes such an appearance-he delegates the social duties to Staff Captain Anderson.”
I nodded. “And Staff Captain Anderson is conspicuous in his absence.”
She nodded back. “Supervising the search of the ship, no doubt.”
“Shouldn’t the ship’s detective be accompanying him?”
She frowned, shook her head, letting me know that-even in a hushed conversation like ours-mentioning her function as the Lusitania’s dick was undesirable.
Still, she answered my question. “I’m travelling with Madame DePage-and I dine with Madame DePage.”
Glancing at the centrally placed captain’s table, I noted that-of the celebrities aboard, specifically those who’d received warning telegrams-only Vanderbilt and his friend Williamson were sharing Turner’s company. I asked Miss Vance if she recognized any of the other diners at the coveted central table, and three of them proved to be shipbuilders; a tall, dignified woman in a dark gown was (Miss Vance said) Lady Marguerite Allan, wife of Sir Montagu Allan, heir to a Canadian shipping concern, whom Lady Allan and her precociously lovely teenaged daughters were sailing to meet in England.
Vanderbilt and Williamson were listening to Captain Turner’s every word as if seated at Socrates’ knee; everyone at the table was fawningly attentive to the captain, who was taking a game stab at playing the genial host.
“Amusing, isn’t it?” I said to Miss Vance. “If old Bowler Bill weren’t in that gold-braided uniform, say a plain blue serge suit, those people wouldn’t look twice at him-he’d just be another provincial with a queer north-country twang.”
Miss Vance glanced over and she laughed a little. “Cruel but true. . and the wealthier they are, the more attentively they listen.”
“Look at Vanderbilt hang on every word, as if Bowler Bill were Admiral Nelson himself.”
“On the other hand,” she said with a shrug, “the Lucy is possibly the most famous ship in the world. . and Turner is her master.”
I granted her that. “He’s the highest authority we have. Our very lives are in the hands of that old salt.”
That seemed to trouble Miss Vance, who-after a pause-asked, “Do you know how the captain reacted when he heard of the stowaways?”
“Outrage?”
“Hardly. He showed no surprise at all-merely said in his forty-five years at sea he regarded stowaways as just another shipboard nuisance.”
“Like Elbert Hubbard,” I said, “or an orchestra prone to playing Carrie Jacobs Bond.”
That also made her laugh a little, and then we were examining the embossed card that was this evening’s menu. Under a gilt wreath encircling the Cunard flag, a superb bill of fare included oysters on the half shell or hors d’oeuvres followed by soup, and a choice of fish ranging from deviled whitebait to Supreme de Barbue Florentine, with entrees including braised gosling, sauteed chicken, and haunches of mutton. For a man who’d been reduced to living on coffee and sandwiches (that Bronx rooming house was still a too vivid memory), such fine cuisine would make a welcome change.
Between courses, Madame DePage announced she’d be attending a concert in the music room, after dinner, and would be pleased if anyone at the table would care to join her. The Royal Welsh Male Chorus was aboard, it seemed, returning home after touring the U.S. and Canada.
“The Welsh, you know,” she said, that charming accent almost making the offer palatable, “are a race of singers marvelous.”
Everyone nodded and said they would love to join her. . with the exception of myself, who stayed mute, and Miss Vance, who said, “It’s been rather a long day, and I’m afraid I’m quite fatigued-would you mind terribly if I retired to the stateroom?”
Madame DePage didn’t mind at all.
So I walked Miss Vance to the Regal Suite, which was so near my regal cubbyhole, when she presented me with a pleasant surprise. “I was hoping,” she said, “you might join me for an after-dinner drink.”
“I would love to. If madame won’t mind. .”
Her smile was wide and her eyes were narrowed. “Madame will be consumed with the concert for an hour, at least. And my bedroom is quite private, even has a door of its own, opening onto the hallway. . should Madame DePage cut her musical evening short.”
This was all quite agreeable to me and I said as much. This lovely Pinkerton agent was making a splendid case for the independent, modern woman.
We did not enter through the suite, rather going directly into her bedroom, which was larger than my cabin, and included a sitting area with a rose-color sofa. That’s where we sat and chatted and sipped snifters of brandy (she disappeared into the outer suite only long enough to fetch our drinks).
She wanted to know about me, and I told her that I’d been the editor of a prestigious magazine, but my reign had been truncated, because the publisher had lacked courage and foresight. I could not tell if she recognized the names of the authors whose work I’d bought-James Joyce, Joseph Conrad, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, a sampling-but she seemed impressed with my intensity if nothing else.
I made it clear that journalism was a means to an end-not just for money, rather to gain passage to join my brother in London, and convince him to come home.
“Your brother is one of these modern artists,” she said, clearly fascinated.
“Yes, and an important one-a leading Synchromist. As for myself, I’m working on a book on modern art, which’ll present an entirely new aesthetic. Listen, am I boring you?”
She was half-turned and gazing at me steadily, an arm resting along the top of the sofa. “Not at all-I’m interested. I love the impressionists, but I must admit I’ve not warmed yet to the modernists.”
I was bowled over by this! She not only had wonderful blue eyes and a remarkable figure, but a mind. .
Exhilarated, I said, “Do you understand what I mean when I say that one can stand in front of a great painting, and feel the same incredible emotional effect as hearing a fine symphony, brilliantly performed?”
Her eyes flared. “Oh, yes! That is exactly how I feel, standing before a Mattise, or Cezanne.”
“You see, art is judged by the wrong criteria-with too much concern for literary content and moral values. . not an emotional, visceral response. Don’t be afraid of modern art, Vance! It’s not so much revolutionary as it is evolutionary. . ”
And we talked for perhaps half an hour on this subject, or rather I talked, before I realized I had to know who this fascinating woman was.
“How is it,” I asked, “that a female Pinkerton agent has such refined tastes, and a mind keen for discussion of aesthetics?”
She granted me one of those half-smiles. “I wasn’t born a detective, Van. . I’m afraid I had an even more disreputable profession prior to joining the Pinkertons.”
Her father had been an upper-middle-class businessman in Chicago who worked with Potter Palmer, making “a killing” rebuilding the city after the 1871 fire. The family frequently attended plays, and Philomina grew up fascinated by the theater. She had appeared in school plays, and participated in local amateur theatrics, before pursuing dramatics at private schools.
Still, acting seemed inappropriate for a young woman of her station. . until her father lost everything in the depression of the early 1890s, dying of a heart attack, leaving the family destitute. A theatrical agent who had scouted the budding actress in local amateur and school productions had taken Philomina on, and she quickly achieved some success in the Chicago theatrical scene.
“When I met my husband,” she said, “I was just starting to play leading roles.”
Husband?
“You see,” she said, “Phillip was a Pinkerton agent himself, investigating a group of swindlers called the Adam Worth gang. Have you heard of them?”
I had.
“At any rate,” she continued, “Pinkerton was looking for female agents, particularly ones that could intermingle with upper-class society. . and not just as a maid or servant. My theatrical background was perfect-disguises are part and parcel of the Pinkerton approach.”
“Did you leave the stage?”
“Yes, I was achieving some notoriety in the Chicago theatrical scene, but the financial rewards were frankly slender. . and I had a mother and two sisters to support.”
“And the Pinks paid well.”
“They did and they do. . and I worked for a year before I married Phillip, though I think I fell in love with him the day we met. You see, he loved me, really truly did, in an unconditional way that is rare. . he didn’t care that we couldn’t have children. . an illness in my childhood. . anyway. Phillip was killed two years ago, in the line of duty. Shot by a damned thief.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was: as much as part of me was relieved to hear her husband was no longer on the scene, the pain in her eyes seemed all too palpable. “Did they find the bastard?”
She didn’t blink at my language. “I found him. And killed him.”
That called for another round of brandies, which she kindly fetched.
Leaning back on the sofa, snifter in one hand, her other hand on my arm, she said, “Since then I’ve worked part-time for Pinkerton. . on a case by case basis. You see, I’ve begun acting again. . meeting Mr. Frohman is a hidden agenda of mine, taking this assignment, I must admit.”
Lost in her eyes, I said, “I would love to see you perform.”
“I thought you might,” she said, and kissed me.
Soon the lights had been dimmed, and we kissed and petted on the sofa, like teenaged spooners.
“Are you married, Van?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it does. .”
“I’m divorced.”*
“So you’re a man of the world.”
“As you’re a woman of the world.”
“And we need partake of no pretense.”
“Not by my way of thinking.”
It took a while to get out of all those clothes, but we managed, and the wrought-iron bed for one accommodated two, nicely, particularly since sleep was not what we had in mind.
Nonetheless, afterward she did fall asleep in my arms, clinging close, and I dropped off, as well, into a contented slumber. Madame DePage must have returned at some point, but I did not hear her come in, out in that adjacent suite. Something else, later, did wake me-I was not sure what, I merely sensed noise, perhaps a commotion in the hall-and I slipped from the bed and gathered my clothing.
I held my pocket watch near the sliver of light from the hallway door and saw that it was five minutes after two a.m. After getting back into the monkey suit in a rather half-hearted, half-buttoned fashion, I bent over the bed and kissed the slumbering goddess.
She smiled and murmured something, and fell back into a deep sleep.
I left her bedroom feeling giddy as a schoolboy with a new crush. Miss Vance was a lively, sophisticated woman, and I could hardly have hoped for a better partner in a shipboard romance. . let alone for said romance to have blossomed so quickly, so fully.
So distracted was I that I almost tripped over the corpse that lay on its side in the hallway.