Free The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins Page A

safe—accommodations for valuables are available in the cargo hold, but Madame DePage considers that inadvisable. She believes. . . and I must say, so does the Pinkerton agency . . . that Cunard’s offices harbor German spies.”
    “And what is the source of this information?” I asked, picturing Pinkerton’s usual rabble of street-corner informers.
    “The British Consul General.”
    “Oh. . . . You don’t mean to say Madame DePage’s hundred and fifty thousand in war relief funds are in . . . your suite?”
    “I believe I’ve said quite enough . . . but I hope I’ve demonstrated my belief and faith in you, Van.”
    She had; I was complimented and, as far as it went, she could trust me.
    “Then how is it,” I asked, “that you’re also the ship’s ‘official’ detective?”
    What she said next confirmed something Anderson had mentioned earlier.
    “Cunard has no ship detectives,” she said, “in the manner, say, of a ship doctor. . . . Instead, they’ve found a way to conserve on this expense. Their policy is to subcontract a detective already planning passage, sometimes tradingthe cost of tickets for the detective’s willingness to be on call. I believe on the last passing, a Scotland Yard man filled the bill . . . but frequently, it’s a Pinkerton man.”
    “Man?” I asked.
    “So to speak,” she said.
    Anderson was approaching. He was still a few feet away when he said, “I have another favor to ask, Mr. Van Dine.”
    “Anything to help.”
    As he reached us, the staff captain was slightly out of breath; had there been a tussle? “We aren’t travelling with a translator, and I don’t know of any crew member who speaks German.”
    Or at least one who would admit to it. . . .
    “So,” Anderson continued, “I wondered if you’d be so kind as to serve in that capacity. We need to question these blokes, after all.”
    I glanced at Miss Vance, who said, “What a splendid idea, Captain.”
    He smiled, liking her approval, enjoying the illusion that he was in charge.
    “In the meantime,” she said, “I will investigate here.”
    “Investigate how, Miss Vance?” he asked, perhaps a touch suspicious.
    “Well, I’ll begin by searching this pantry,” she said, “to see if they’ve cloistered any weapons or explosive devices.”
    Anderson frowned. “If you find any of the latter, how do we proceed?”
    She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have an explosives expert on board? Anyone on the crew with experience along those lines?”
    “I can check, Miss Vance, but I don’t believe so.”

    “Well, then we’ll have to settle for my limited expertise in that area.”
    Anderson’s eyes frowned. “And if your expertise isn’t sufficient?”
    “Then you might wish to cover your ears,” she said pleasantly.
    After an exchange of wide-eyed expressions, the captain and I repaired aft to the brig, on the starboard side. As we walked, we conversed.
    “I’ve demanded their names,” Anderson said, meaning the stowaways, “and their intentions . . . but either none of them speak English, or they’re feigning ignorance.”
    “What will you do with them?”
    “Well, we could hand them over to the next inbound ship. . . we should be reaching the Caronia any time now.”
    That was the blockading cruiser, with whom a customary mail stop was made.
    “Is that wise?”
    He shrugged as he walked. “I must admit I would prefer to take them to England for interrogation . . . we’re on English soil, legally speaking, making them spies in a war that America is not fighting.”
    “Excellent point. And I would suggest holding on to them has yet another benefit . . .”
    And I shared a particularly nasty, crafty thought with Anderson, who grinned.
    “Excellent thinking,” he said. “When you question these rotters, be sure to drop that little bomb on them.”
    “Oh, I intend to.”
    The brig was next to the separate hospital rooms for males and females. The chamber