Alma saw him coming a long way off, shoving his way through the crowd on Pier 54. She knew him, and the realization froze her with dread. It was Knucks, the killer.
Edging back into her group of nurse friends on the pier, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tall, hawk-nosed man. Of all Big Jim’s hooligans, Knucks was the worst. He certainly wasn’t there to admire the big luxury liner taking passengers at Chelsea Piers. Every New Yorker knew the Lusitania, even with the name on her bow painted over for secrecy in the Great War. She was still the fastest steamer on the Atlantic, and the most famous once again, ever since Titanic went down.
The hoarse blast of the steam whistle as the big ship called for departure brought Alma out of her momentary trance. The ruffian Knucks hadn’t seen her yet but kept coming, past the celebrities pulling up in their sleek motorcars and the reporters rushing to greet them. His ungainly height made him easy to spot as he pushed through the throng of passengers bound for Europe with their suitcases and steamer trunks.
Alma knew he wasn’t there just to warn her off, or to invite her back into the loving arms of Big Jim Hogan. It would be a snatch, as the hoodlums liked to call it. At gunpoint, if need be—unless Jim had given Knucks the okay to shoot her down right here on the dock, as punishment for running out on him. Or maybe knock her out with his brass knuckles and throw her into the Hudson–yes, Knucks would be just the one for that.
But was he working alone? Alma felt suddenly conspicuous in her white shoulder cape, with the blonde hair that wouldn’t stay put under her nurse’s cap. She ducked in to hide among her four female companions, all of them dressed in last-minute chic variations of nursing garb.
“What is it, Alma?” Florence’s pert face peered up from the shade of the enormous straw hat she’d insisted on bringing, even though it would never fit into a bandbox. “What’s the matter? Do you see someone you don’t like?”
“It’s Knucks—no, don’t look around—the long-necked palooka who’s too big for his suit!” Alma turned aside, raising a white-gloved hand to conceal her face as the big man passed along the dock. “He’s one of Hogan’s gangsters.”
“Where is he?” Demanded Hildegard, their chief nurse. “I’ll give him a talking-to!” The elder woman, who wore a dark-trimmed cape and a bronze Red Cross pin on her cap, wheeled her matronly figure around.
“No, Miss Hildegard,” Alma pleaded, “don’t even look! Let’s just make it aboard without him seeing me.” She kept out of sight behind her companions as the hoodlum moved off down the pier.
“Don’t worry, Alma,” Florence said from under her oversized hat. “We’ll soon be away from here. Won’t we, Hazel?”
“Yes we will,” Flo’s look-alike sister replied from beneath her equally extravagant flowered chapeau. “Far from New York and all its gangster troubles.”
“And off to Europe, with its war and Kaiser and Hun troubles,” the fifth nurse Winnie added defiantly.
“I’d rather face an artillery barrage and a cavalry charge than Big Jim right now,” Alma said, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing attention. “Whatever happens, I don’t want to go back.”
“Never you mind, girls,” the chief nurse declared. “Once our ship has sailed, Boss Jim Hogan and all his thugs can’t turn it around!”
Her words drew Alma’s attention at last to the imposing sight before them. It was the Lusitania’s hull of sea-stained black, crowned by sunlit gray decks. From here it looked like a fairy castle, steep and impregnable, so it seemed to her. Its long row of lifeboats took the place of battlements, and the tall smokestacks rose like towers. From the four evenly spaced gray funnels, smoke floated out over the river as the great ship built up steam. A tall mast on the foredeck, which faced in toward Manhattan’s fast-growing skyline, flew the British Union Jack above the red and gold pennant of Cunard Steamship Lines. Both flags fluttered in a light morning breeze that failed to reach the hurrying, overheated passengers on the dock.
Knucks had passed out of sight down the pier. So, even though their berths lay astern in Second Class, Hildegard led the nurses straight to the First Class gangplank. The line of well-dressed passengers took them smoothly along the ramp with very little waiting, up to the ornate vestibule on the ship’s Shelter Deck. Luckily for them, the crew in First Class seemed to be short-handed, with no ticket checking being done by the few blue-jacketed stewards. There was also no offer of help with their luggage.
Once out on the covered deck promenade, they carried their bags up to the less crowded Boat Deck, open to the sky. Then, to be inconspicuous, they climbed farther upstairs to the very top of the ship. The five of them headed astern past funnels and skylights on the nearly empty Marconi Deck, where the wireless antennas and stays crisscrossed overhead.
“Just look at the view from up here,” Florence said, stopping by the rail. But no sooner had the others set their bags down to rest, than a redhead holding an oversized camera appeared from behind a haystack-sized ventilator and snapped their picture.
Winnie challenged the intruder. “Young man, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Give me that camera plate immediately,” Hildegard demanded, moving out in front of Alma and the rest.
“Now, ladies,” the cameraman said, “I’m with the press. You wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the news, would you?” Removing the glass slide from his camera, the fast-talking youth shoved it into a bag at his hip and just as smoothly reloaded a fresh one. “Tell your friends they can see your May Day portrait in tomorrow morning’s New York Inquisitor.”
“Definitely not,” Alma said, stepping out from the others. “There’ll be no pictures of me, at least. I’ve got to insist that you destroy the one you just took.”
“Oops, sorry, too late,” the redhead said, edging back for another shot. “It’s already mixed in with my morning batch.”
Winnie appealed to him in a kind, big-sisterly tone. “Here now, what would your name be?”
“They call me Flash,” he told her with an impish smile. “No need for my flash pan today, though, with looks that shine out like yours. You’ll probably make the Sunday rotogravure section.”
“Indeed, young fellow!” Hildegard icily came to the bemused Winifred’s rescue. “We find that kind of talk most impertinent.”
“Excuse me, ladies. Is there anything I can do?”
The man who appeared before them was dressed in a brown suit and matching bowtie, in contrast to Flash’s shirtsleeves and suspenders. Above his pomaded black hair he tipped his hat–a brown bowler, more businesslike than the flat straw skimmers worn by most of the male travelers. His manner was serious, his gaze resting impartially on each of the women, until he addressed Alma at the front.
“I’m Matthew Vane, reporter for the Daily Inquisitor. This is my photographer, Lars Jansen–though he likes to be called Flash,” he added as the redhead winced. “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you ladies.” He glanced up at Hildegard’s Red Cross hatpin. “Nurses, are you bound for the war?”
“Mr. Vane,” the chief nurse scolded, “whatever our business may be, we definitely aren’t here to give a press interview. Your assistant snapped a camera slide of my companions and hid it away in that bag of his.”
“Certainly, Ma’am,” the reporter said. “I apologize. His job is to capture anything that seems newsworthy, or that might appeal to our readers. But I can see to it that the photo won’t be printed, since you insist. If you’d prefer a posed group shot….” With a hint of humor in his eyes, he beckoned to Jansen.
“Most certainly not!” Hildegard rebuked him. “We have to hurry along and check into our accommodations.”
“Well, then, let me assist you.” Stooping, Vane snatched up the large traveling bag belonging to the head nurse, along with a satchel and hatbox. “Flash, let’s help these ladies with their luggage. Just sling your camera for now.” Starting astern, he said, “We’re passengers on the ship too, so we may as well get acquainted. This is my last day of reporting here in New York.”
Hazel asked, “Oh, really, Mr. Vane?”
The young nurses closed in quickly on the men, heading off any further protests by Hildegard.
“Are you going to be a war correspondent?”
“Which side will you be on?”
“Call me Matt, Ladies. I’ll be in London for a while, then to Paris and the war front. We may get to Berlin later, by way of a neutral country.”
As they moved chattering along the top deck from funnel to funnel, Hildegard followed with Alma, watchful but seemingly resigned to the intrusion. Matt Vane, lacking any formal introduction, asked where the women were from.
“I come from Concord, New Hampshire, where I took Red Cross training,” Alma’s brunette friend said. “I’m Winnie, short for Winifred, but don’t call me that! I’d rather go under an alias, like your friend Flash.”
The redhead beamed his approval as she went on.
“Florence, here, and Hazel are from Albany upstate.” Winnie indicated the two petite black-haired girls. “They’re sisters, as you can see.”
“So, is it just the nurse uniforms, or are you two twins?” Matt asked, looking at them over his burdens.
“People always ask us that,” Hazel said demurely.
“Yes, but we don’t tell them,” Florence added with a mischievous look.
The silent Alma, watchful at the center of the group, remained un-introduced by the others since she was supposed to be in hiding. She began to feel even more conspicuous because of this, and finally found something to say. “Shouldn’t these chimneys be red?” she asked no one in particular. “They are in all the Lusitania postcards I’ve seen.”
Matt turned to her. “The funnels were painted gray just after England declared war.” Stopping beside one and setting down his bags, he took out a penknife and scratched at the painted steel. “See, there’s red-orange paint underneath,” he said. “The color change has to do with the ship being under command of the British Royal Navy.”
“Does that mean we’re on a warship?” Hazel asked.
“Is it a dreadnought?” Florence eagerly chimed in.
“No, technically just a cruiser. Both the Lusitania and her sister ship Mauretania are.” Matt picked up the bags. “But no guns yet, not so far as I can tell at least. Maury was converted to a troopship, and Lusi has been kept in passenger service, but modified to carry extra cargo.”
“Why Maury and not Lusi?” Florence asked. “I guess they don’t draft girls,” she concluded, to laughs from the others.
“But how can the enemy tell them apart?” her sister asked. “If they’re really twins, I mean?”
“Mauretania is repainted in Royal Navy dazzle colors,” Matt explained. “She’s camouflaged all over to blend in with the sea mists.”
“So, the enemy can’t see her at all?” Florence said wonderingly.
“We should have some of that paint.” Hazel said. “We could put it on Alma, to help her hide.”
Alma felt herself blush at this, but Mr. Vane politely seemed not to notice.
Amid the suppressed giggles, Flash announced, “I saw the Mauretania last year up in Montreal. I photographed her loading Canadian troops for the front. She was gray all over, with guns on the fore and aft decks.”
“Mr. Vane,” Hildegard interrupted, “what do you think about this U-boat scare?” Her grandmotherly gaze was solemn, with a glance to her young charges. “It’s overrated, wouldn’t you say?”
“They were posting German submarine warnings all over the dock,” Hazel chimed in. “And street peddlers are selling black-bordered funeral pictures of our ship.”
“Yes,” Flo added with concern. “‘Lusitania’s Final Voyage,’ the heading said. But you must know all about that, as a reporter.”
“I wouldn’t pay any attention to it,” Hildegard reassured her. “Would you, Mr. Vane?”
Still bundling their luggage along, Matthew Vane paused. Alma saw him hesitate as he looked around at the expectant faces of the young women, all of them volunteers for the greatest war the world had yet known. Finally he said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, ladies.”
“That’s right,” Winnie chimed in. “Lusitania’s still the fastest ship on the ocean. I’d like to see one of those sub tubs try and catch us!”
“Anyway,” Florence added, “we’re in the Royal Navy now.” She gave them all a snappy military salute.
Alma, still worried more about mobsters than any war, stayed separate from the rest. As they approached the stern companionway, she peeked down over the rail and saw something dead-ahead.
“Stop here,” she called to the others in an urgent, hushed voice. “We have to go down those stairs, over there on the port side.”
“That’s starboard,” Matthew Vane corrected her. “Port is this side–your left, if you’re facing forward with the ship. But why?”
Alma just shook her head.
Over her stubborn silence, Winnie said, “There’s someone here she’s trying to avoid.”
Alma shot her a pained look, reluctant to share her troubles with the daily papers.
“Well, it’s not a customs official, I hope,” Matt said, making a show of carefully setting down the nurses’ boxes and bags. “We’re not carrying war contraband, are we?”
Hazel explained, “It’s someone who’s after Alma.” She looked sheepish, as if she might have said too much.
“Is it, now?” Matt said, moving toward the port rail. “Which one?”
“The tall, gawky one with the beak,” Alma finally said in distaste. “He was talking to that steward and gave him something.”
“That’s Knucks!” Flash informed them, already turning back from the rail.
“Right,” Matt said after a quick look over the side. “Born Elmer Steegle—he’s Hogan’s man.” He zeroed in on Alma with a newsman’s intensity. “What’s he got to do with you? Do you know something about his operation? If you’re on the outs with that bunch, I can see why you booked yourself on a fast ship out of town.”
At her reproachful look, Matt added, “Just kidding…Alma, is it? Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be hard to dodge them until this boat sails. Should I go down and distract him?”
“Mr. Vane,” Nurse Hildegard intervened, “you and your assistant have helped us quite enough.” She reclaimed her bags. “Thank you, we’ll go and find our staterooms, alone!”
“Ladies, it’s been my pleasure. Miss Alma…” He gave her a special, respectful nod. “If you need anything else, just call on us. We’re in Suite 34, forward.” He nodded toward the First Class section.
But then, as the women hurried on with their bags, he turned instead to the port companionway, motioning Flash to follow.
* * *
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Matt edged over toward the rail to draw attention away from the open passage that led across to the starboard side. He knew Knucks was serious trouble, an ex-pug and leg-breaker, probably armed with more than just the brass knuckles that were his trademark. But even so, he should be housebroken enough to respect the power of the press, as Matt had seen in his past efforts to interview Big Jim. Knucks was still chatting with the Second Class steward; then his watchful eye caught the two men moving toward him.
“Hiya, Vane,” the hoodlum said loudly, silencing the crewman. “What’s up? You over here coverin’ Lusi’s last voyage, like all yer reporter pals down on the dock?” He looked a little warily from Matt to the cameraman, as if worried that Flash would take his picture.
“I don’t know about that,” Matt said. “If I thought this ship was going down, I wouldn’t have booked passage on her.”
“Oh yeah, dat’s right, yer headed for bigger stuff, a war reporter. Bigger wars den here.” Knucks turned away from the ship steward, who made his escape. “I better wish you a bone voyage.”
“Thanks, Knucks. Is that why you came, to see someone off and tell them bon voyage? Did you deliver a goodbye wreath?”
“Nah, just takin’ care o’ some business. What about yer little stooge dere?” he asked, changing the subject. “He goin’ wit’ you?”
Flash answered, “Sure thing, Knucks. Don’t you know, war photography is the coming thing?” Beaming proudly at the big thug, he stayed a little way back for camera work.
Matt prodded, “And what business does your boss Jim Hogan have here, aboard a British liner? Has he got a piece of the illegal traffic in war materiel?”
“So what’s this, a third degree? You bein’ the grand inquisitor again, from the Daily Inquisitor?” Snorting a laugh at the stale joke, Knucks moved in on Matt. “There ain’t no traffic here, no business, no nothin’. Specially none o’ yours!” He advanced a step but seemed to be held in check, more by the threat of Flash’s camera than anything else.
“Okay, Knucks, cool off,” Matt said with equanimity, having seen his nurse friends disappear astern via the starboard stairs. “I’m just doing my job on my very last day in port. Tell Big Jim so long for me.” He reached up and patted the big goon on the shoulder.
“Yeah, I’ll tell ’im,” Knucks said, wrenching away. “He’ll send you a goodbye wreath, all right, to yer funeral!”