Free The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins

detective had returned the revolver) and Anderson led them off, the captain saying he would return, shortly.
    That left Miss Vance and myself alone in the corridor, just outside the now-vacated pantry.
    “And here I was, so terribly impressed with your deductive powers,” I said.
    She arched an eyebrow, smiled half a smile. “Aren’t you, anymore?”
    “No. You didn’t deduce I was a writer—you’ve known my identity all along! You’ve been working with Anderson from the start.”
    “I have been working with the staff captain,” sheadmitted, “but he hadn’t told me about you. I didn’t learn your identity until I went to ask him about you . . . when we were on deck together, remember, eavesdropping on that conversation regarding the threatening telegrams?”
    “I see . . . but that took place before you dazzled me with your deductions. And you told Anderson where he could find me—that’s how he knew I’d be in the Verandah Cafe, because that’s where you led me, by the ring in my nose.”
    She wasn’t at all chagrined; her laughter was gay—the woman was really enjoying herself!
    “You’re not a bad detective yourself, Van,” she said. “I think we’ll make a good team.”
    “Really? And what if I have no desire to play Watson to some liberated female’s Holmes?”
    Her smile softened. “I don’t need a Watson, Van—but I could use a partner.”
    I was still slightly miffed. “Is that so?”
    “Yes—you have Anderson’s ear, and his trust. I’m a woman . . .”
    “I noticed.”
    “. . . and that limits my sphere of influence, no matter what my expertise. He did well at first, but ultimately he became defensive . . . you agree?”
    I nodded. “He doesn’t like to have the reliability of his crew challenged.”
    “Yes, because it calls his judgment into question.”
    Again I nodded. “His ego, his vanity . . . you might say his male ego and vanity. It’s not a rational response, because the good staff captain as much as admitted to me he’s had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, putting this particular crew together.”
    “Right. So I would ask you to cultivate your friendshipwith the captain. And in the meantime, I will cable back to New York for my home office to check up on some of these crew members.”
    “The Leach boy, you mean.”
    Her eyes tightened, but her brow remained satin smooth. “Yes—and Williams, too. Both arrived at the scene almost instantaneously, I gather.”
    “That’s true. And the apparent ringleader, that blonde with the camera, said ‘About time,’ when Anderson barged in on them.”
    She thought about that. “As if,” she said, “they were expecting someone . . .”
    “A crew member?”
    “That would seem a strong possibility. They spoke in German, Van?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you speak the language?”
    “I do.”
    “What else did you hear?”
    “ ‘We should hide the camera.’ The same speaker, I should say.”
    She nodded, then glanced at the pantry. “I’ll need to search this cubbyhole of theirs.” She turned to me. “You’re a journalist, and you speak German. I would like you to conduct the interrogation of the prisoners.”
    “Isn’t that Anderson’s call?”
    “Yes—but, with your permission, I’ll request that of him, and I’m sure he’ll comply.”
    I shrugged. “Certainly. I’m all too glad to be of service—particularly if will help keep me from being blown to particles.”
    She offered up a tiny, dimple-inducing half-smile. “That does seem a worthwhile incentive.”

    “May I ask you a question, Miss Vance?”
    “Of course, but, please, there was nothing false about our friendship—I am still ‘Vance,’ and you are still ‘Van.’ ”
    “All right, Vance . . . are you or are you not Madame DePage’s companion?”
    “I am her bodyguard, you might say. She’s travelling with a great deal of money.”
    I frowned. “Isn’t it in the ship’s safe?”
    “There is no ship’s