The Titanic Murders Read Online Free Page A

steel-and-glass roof. Among millionaires British and American alike, he felt decidedly like a poor relation. A dozen men, divided between this boat train and the similar one departing from Paris to Cherbourg where the Titanic would make a brief stop, netted a total worth approaching $600 million.
    Futrelle, on the other hand, at the conclusion of this European trip, was bringing home $30,000 in cash advances and contracts from publishers in Holland, Germany, France, Sweden and England. To the likes of John Jacob Astor or J. P. Morgan, this sum which seemed so grand to Futrelle would be pocket change.
    Acting as his own agent, Futrelle had for a number of years been making regular trips overseas to maintain his contacts (and contracts) in European publishing. Many transatlantic travelers were the free-spending nomad rich with their endless retinueof maids and valets; others were captains of industry to whom North Atlantic crossings were business necessities. Futrelle liked to think of himself as belonging to this second group.
    “Jack!”
    The gruff voice was a familiar one, rising above the top hats and bowlers; but Futrelle at first did not place it.
    Then, cutting a path through the crowd, the man who belonged to the voice revealed himself: in a long black topcoat with an appropriately military cut, and a black garrison cap, came the formidable form of Major Archibald Butt, a tall broad-shouldered figure in his mid-forties, trimly mustached, with dimpled, jutting jaw. Even out of uniform, he was the exemplar of the military man.
    Archie’s hand was extended as if he were charging with a saber. The Georgia-born major’s Southern accent was gently intact: “Jack! Jack Futrelle, is it really you, old man?”
    “It’s me, all right.” Futrelle shook the major’s hand, and said, “Like you—older, fatter, no wiser. I don’t believe you know my wife….”
    Introductions were made and Archie, admiring May, said, “She’s a lovely bride, Jack. How did you manage it?”
    “No earthly explanation can cover it.”
    May was atypically speechless. Major Archibald Butt’s household-name fame had nothing to do with wealth; he was the military aide to President Taft, and had been Roosevelt’s aide-de-camp prior to that. Diplomat, soldier, novelist, Archie Butt moved in the highest circles, politically and socially.
    Finally May managed, “Jack, you never mentioned that you knew Major Butt… that you were friends….”
    Futrelle, his arm around May, said, “Archie and I were coworkers at the Atlanta Journal, years ago, before you and Imet… and before he traded journalism for the army… hell, man, should I be calling you Major Butt?”
    “No, no… we’ll not stand on formalities at this late date. I take it you’re boarding this boat train, for the Southampton dock?”
    “Yes. You’re taking the Titanic as well?”
    Archie nodded. “Heading home after a little mission to Rome for the president.”
    “Do tell! The Vatican?”
    “Delivered a letter to the pontiff thanking him for creating those three American cardinals.”
    Futrelle laughed, shook his head; his friend had been pompous and puffed up with himself even before his celebrity. “To think I beat the pants in poker off such a high mucky-muck as you.”
    Blustery as he was, Archie could still take a jest. “Perhaps aboard the ship you’ll have another opportunity—but I may have improved in the intervening years.”
    “I doubt it,” Futrelle said.
    May shot her husband a look for taking such liberties with so important a personage, unaware of the nights he and the major-to-be had closed down any number of Atlanta saloons.
    Something about Archie did strike Futrelle as changed, however—of course, no one was impervious to the passage of time, but the weariness, the sadness in the eyes of the seemingly cheerful major did give Futrelle pause.
    Through the crowd of swells another figure emerged, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a dark gray