Free The Titanic Murders by Max Allan Collins Page A

twitched. “I represent a group of investigators.”
    “What, Pinkertons?”
    “Not precisely, Mr. Futrelle. What this group does—both in England and America—is provide a valuable service.”
    “Valuable.”
    “Very. They thoroughly investigate the background of a prominent individual like yourself, and in order to prevent blackmail, do their best to discover whatever might be… worth discovering.”
    “We’re back to doctors again. Preventative medicine.”
    Crafton nodded curtly. “Only by finding out for you, our client, what skeletons in the closet might exist, of a sort that could be discovered by less scrupulous individuals than ourselves, can we protect you—our client.”
    “Only you do that investigating beforehand—before someone like me is officially a ‘client’… just as a time-saving measure?”
    “That’s well said… but then, words are your business.”
    “What happens if a client isn’t interested?”
    Crafton’s expression darkened. “Then we can’t protect you. The… sensitive information might fall into the hands of the sensationalist press, or be placed before business associates, or business rivals, or in some instances law-enforcement authorities…. The consequences could be serious, and unfortunate… even grave.”
    “That would make a bully idea for you, Crafton—a grave.”
    He shrugged. “I’m quite immune to threats, Mr. Futrelle… though I suppose coming from a man like you, I should take them seriously.”
    “A man like me?”
    “A man with your… mental aberrations.”
    Futrelle laughed and it echoed across the balcony and down the marble-and-oak staircase. “Is that what you think you have?”
    Crafton leaned forward, his walking stick between his legs, his hands resting on its gold crown. “Mr. Futrelle, in 1899, you suffered a complete mental breakdown. You were unable to continue in your position at the New York Herald and were hospitalized. Shortly thereafter you sent your children away, to their grandmother, and your wife and various doctors attended to your needs, in private….”
    Very quietly, as if he were speaking to a small child, Futrelle said, “I was the telegraph editor at the Herald during the Spanish-American War… from Manila Bay to San Juan Hill, the news flowed in constantly. I was working twenty-four hours a day, and like many newspapermen, I was a burned-out case, after a time. I spent several months away from the pressures of that job, in a little cottage that belongs to my wife’s sister. When I felt up to it, I took a job offer from Mr. Hearst with his new Boston American, where I started publishing my ‘Thinking Machine’ stories and made lots of money… none of which you and your fellow extortionists will ever see. Not one red cent, sir.”
    Crafton shrugged slowly, his tiny dark eyes widened. “If you don’t feel that your public, your publishers, will be put off by your mental aberrations, sir, your, your… dementia, then—”
    “Listen, you damned little weasel—my public and my publishers care nothing about me except that I keep coming up with good stories. If my screws are loose, well then I’m colorful and more interesting—do you know the slightest thing about Edgar Allan Poe? Please, do me a favor, publicize away… my sales will go up.”
    “We’re not bluffing, sir.”
    “Neither am I. How can I best make my point? I know… Please, just for a moment, sir, come with me.” Futrelle rose. Hecurled a finger. “Come along, man—I won’t bite. I’m not really a lunatic.”
    Crafton rose, suspiciously, gathering up his gloves and hat and walking stick.
    Futrelle slipped an arm around the much smaller man’s shoulders and walked slowly with him toward the balustrade of the balcony. “I think you’ve misjudged people like myself, and have attracted more trouble than you know.”
    “Are you threatening me again, sir?”
    “No, no! Just giving you some advice. Are you aware that you’re being