The Lusitania Murders by Max Allan Collins

write her correspondence after lunch.”
    “Can I escort you to her?” I asked.
    “No . . . I’m a big girl, gentlemen. I’ll find my way.”
    And the individualistic Miss Vance nodded to us, and moved off down the promenade, or actually up—she was heading toward the entryway where an elevator or stairs could convey her to her employer.
    “Interesting woman,” Anderson said.
    “Fascinating.”
    “Probably a suffragette,” he sighed.
    “Probably,” I said. “But then, no one’s perfect.”
    Anderson suggested we sit for a moment, and we did. He told me he hoped to help me arrange interviews, and offered to do whatever he could to make my access to the ship and its passengers as complete as possible, and my voyage a pleasurable one.
    “We’re grateful to the News for this opportunity,” Anderson said, “to show potential passengers that this war scare is no reason to avoid travel.”
    “Well, that’s a wonderful attitude, and quite the opportunity for a journalist. . . . And I’m happy that you seem willing to give me a sort of Cook’s tour, as I do want to write about the ship itself, and not limit my work to these celebrity interviews.”

    Anderson’s smile was wide and infectious. “That’s good news, Mr. Van Dine. Shall we start?”
    Of course, Anderson wouldn’t have been as cooperative if he knew I was here to search out contraband; so I worked hard to make a friend of him. It’s not a pretty thing, but money was involved—and, anyway, if the Cunard line was using passenger ships to transport war materials, the practice should be exposed. Passengers—like myself, about whom I cared greatly, after all—would be at risk, if this indeed were happening.
    The tour I received was certainly complete, and the company entirely amiable—though I did not press Anderson with overtly prying questions, and neither did the good staff captain duck any of my queries . . . even those of a more sensitive nature.
    “What about these rumored guns supposedly hidden on deck somewhere?” I asked him, about midway in our tour.
    “Like most rumors,” Anderson said, half a smile digging a hole in one cheek, “there’s a certain basis in fact . . .”
    I tried not to reveal the inner excitement I felt at this revelation.
    “. . . but the reality is rather less sinister, as I will demonstrate.”
    At the appropriate moments during my tour, the staff captain pointed out to me four deck platforms—two forward, two aft—with mountings awaiting three- or six-inch guns. Either caliber would require dockside cranes, Anderson assured me, and such weapons could hardly be camouflaged, “much less hidden.”
    This disappointed me, but I instinctively believed Anderson—his frankness seemed obvious, and his character appeared lacking in guile. (Nonetheless, in my spare time,I prowled every foot of deck space above the waterline; peering beneath any recess or overhang, checking under every winch, I saw no guns mounted or unmounted.)
    Though Anderson’s affable candor impressed me, I did not yet feel comfortable enough with him to broach the subject of contraband—that, I felt, might come later. I would make it a priority to establish a friendship with the man, in hopes of learning more.
    Anderson definitely was the man to whom I needed to get close: He admitted that “the internal distribution of the cargo” was very much his responsibility.
    “And I do not take that responsibility lightly,” he assured me. “Faulty cargo planning can materially affect the trim of the ship, you know.”
    “Indeed,” I commented, though truthfully I had not a clue.
    Surely I could have asked for no more friendly nor knowledgeable tour guide. Anderson, anxious to impress the press with the Cunard line’s superiority, began with the fabulously luxurious public rooms of Saloon class, which might have been lifted bodily and set down on the ship out of some splendid hotel or exclusive London club. In addition to the