Read Online The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B

“That’s a bit romantic, isn’t it?”
    But both Anderson and Miss Vance gave me sharply sober looks that said otherwise.
    “With all due respect,” I said, “surely you’re leaping to unfounded conclusions.”
    “These are not conclusions, Mr. Van Dine,” the female private detective said. “They are possibilities . . . all too credible, I’m afraid.”
    “But this is a passenger ship,” I insisted. “I’ve seen for myself that there are no guns aboard.” I looked imploringly at Anderson. “Please tell me the Lusitania is not transporting munitions!”
    “We are not,” he said. But then he added, “We do have limited materials that might be considered contraband, by some . . .”
    That was a fascinating admission; under other circumstances, I would have been grateful for it.
    “. . . but the point is, the Germans are desperate to halt the export of munitions and other war supplies to Britain and her allies. Just because this ship is not at this moment doing so, that doesn’t remove the threat of such in the future . . . or of the Lusitania ’s ability to be easily converted into a battle cruiser.”
    “Disabling a British steamer of this size,” Miss Vance said, shaking her head somberly, “would be most desirable for the Germans . . . making this ship an obvious target for saboteurs.”
    I was pondering that disturbing fact—and it seemed a fact to me now, not just an opinion—whenMaster-at-Arms Williams returned with his revolver. He seemed nervous, his forehead beaded with sweat.
    Miss Vance held out her hand, and smiled sweetly at him, as if accepting a dance at a ball. “May I?”
    Williams looked curiously at the staff captain, who said, “Go ahead—she’s the ship’s official detective, after all.”
    She took the revolver into her graceful, ungloved hand, and the bulky weapon seemed shockingly at home there. She even smiled down at it, as if welcoming an old friend.
    “When I have the drop on them,” she said to Anderson softly, almost a whisper, “I’ll stay in the doorway. You and Mr. Williams and Mr. Van Dine rush in and quickly search the men, head to foot—pat them down for weapons.”
    Startled by my inclusion in this raiding party, I asked, “And if I should find any?”
    She beamed at me and the blue eyes sparkled. “Why, remove them.”
    I nodded dutifully.
    “Unlock the pantry, Captain,” she said, so lightly it didn’t seem the command it was. “Stand aside, everyone. . . .”
    Anderson positioned himself nearest the door, Williams fell in after him along the corridor wall and—at Miss Vance’s gestured command—I tucked myself next to the door along the wall on the opposite side. The staff captain used his key in the lock, then pulled down the handle and shoved the door open.
    Miss Vance was smiling—something delightfully demented in that smile, I might add—as she stood at the open doorway, aiming the gun in at them, like a stickupartist robbing a stagecoach, an image that suited what she said: “Put ’em up, boys!”
    Then she took a step back and, almost imperceptibly, nodded in a manner that sent Anderson and then Williams and, yes, me scrambling into that cramped pantry.
    The three stowaways stood crowded together, but with their hands high and their eyes on the fierce, pretty (and pretty fierce) woman in the doorway. I took the one nearest me, the dark-blonde average fellow, and “patted him down” (as Miss Vance had put it), finding no weapon. Anderson did the same with the brawny blonde one, whom I’d earlier tripped up; and Williams was checking the skinny tall dark-haired stowaway, who seemed the youngest of the trio, and the most anxious.
    No guns or knives or anything resembling a weapon was found.
    Nor was any identification or even personal items, for that matter.
    Williams handcuffed the stowaways—hands behind their backs, Miss Vance suggested, to prevent any “Houdini nonsense”—and Williams (to whom the distaff