The Lusitania Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’m one of those?”
    “Perhaps.”
    I gave her half a bow. “S.S. Van Dine, madam. Who do I have the honor of providing me with this minor humiliation?”
    She gave me her hand, and my fingertips touched hers. “Philomina Vance,” she said. “May I ask what the ‘S.S.’ stands for? You don’t look terribly like a steamship.”
    “That at least is a relief. It’s, uh, Samuel.”
    “Is that the first ‘S’ or the second?”
    “Well, uh, it’s the, uh, first, of course. The other ‘S’ is quite unimportant.”
    Another shrug. “Well, I’m going to call you Van.”
    “You have my consent. And I will call you Miss Vance.”
    “Anything but Philomina.” She flashed another smile, no irony at all now—but the eyes still twinkled. “You know, Van, I think we’re going to be great friends.”
    “Really? And why is that?”
    “Any man with the nerve to wear that Kaiser Bill beard in these times is either extremely foolish or enormously self-confident. And I like self-confidence.”
    “But what if I prove a fool?”

    “Oh, I like a good laugh, too. Either way, I should come out swimmingly.”
    Then we reached the stewards, and went our separate ways. It took her rather longer to go through the rigmarole than I, because she seemed to be doing it for Madame DePage, as well as herself—though, strangely, the lovely and mysterious Madame DePage was nowhere to be seen.
    Wearing their ornate grillwork doors like family crests, a pair of elevators—that is “lifts,” this was a British ship, after all—awaited to take Saloon passengers to Decks A and B, and their accommodations. * Since few people travelled alone on a transatlantic voyage, most of the cabins were designed for two or more occupants; but one of the handful of single cabins had been thoughtfully booked for me by my employer, Mr. Rumely. My cabin was on B Deck, on the portside of the ship, and the lift brought me to the deck’s entrance hall, where additional elegance awaited—white woodwork, Corinthian columns, black grillwork, wall-to-wall carpeting, damask sofas, more potted plants, further flowers. Offices opposite the lift curved around a funnel shaft.
    Sun was filtering in through windows and down the stairwell, as I took a left off the lift past the wide companionway (as shipboard stairways insisted on being called) and then a right down the portside corridor, which bustled with other guests finding their bearings, oftenaided by bellboys in gold-braided beige uniforms. Moving past doors of various cabins on my right, and two expansive suites of rooms on my left, I found my cabin perhaps halfway down the corridor, at the juncture of a short hallway to my left, a single window at its dead end sending mote-floating sunlight my direction.
    The cabin was on the corner of the corridor and the small hallway, and was a palatial cubbyhole without, unfortunately, a view onto the sea. What it did have was rather amazing, considering the limitations of space: a wrought-iron single bed, a washstand with hot and cold running water, off-white woodwork, electric lighting, a wardrobe and a bureau with mirror—better appointed, by far, than my Lexington Street apartment, and heaven compared to that boardinghouse room in the Bronx.
    As there was no closet, I transferred the contents of my suitcase into the bureau drawers, and slid the empty bag under my bed. I was sitting on the bed, wondering when we’d be leaving port, when a gong clanged, making me jump—first of the “All Ashore” signals. I checked my pocket watch: half past eleven.
    Even a man of sophistication can enjoy the simple pleasures of the spectacle of a great liner shoving off, so I made my way to the portside of the Boat Deck. In the corridor, the aftermath of good-bye parties coming to a close was evidenced by people hugging and kissing, those leaving expressing a wish to be going along, even as the “All Ashore” gongs continued to reverberate. The aroma of food being cooked