Knucks pushed open the door to get a breath of morning air, but instead he inhaled damp fog. It reeked of sea stink too, like back home by New York harbor. And the smoke pouring down from the same lousy chimneys. Just like home, without even a breeze to blow away the soot.
A sudden, shuddering blast of the ship’s foghorn made him edge back into the stairwell. Nobody in sight, but then the fog shrouded everything. Straight off to the side, he could see the ship’s rail and nothing else, just blank grayness. Craning his neck fore and aft, he saw a dozen feet of empty walkway fade away into nothingness. The damp air stuck rank and heavy in his throat, almost as bad as the coal dust and sweat down below decks.
Still, he decided, fog could be an advantage. For the job he had to do, this was better than nighttime. He could find his way in the murk, but if anyone spotted him he could just disappear. With the decks deserted and the few sailorboys on lookout for ships and rocks, he had the run of the place. Fog muffles sound. The long drawn-out noise of that blasting foghorn would cover a lot, like a smothered yelp of somebody being snatched, or a body splashing down over the side–but only if it was timed just right.
Now to find Smyte. The little rat wasn’t here up top, where he was supposed to be, and Knucks wasn’t gonna waste any time waiting around. The steward must be hiding out in his cabin astern, down in steerage. That meant diving back into the smelly, noisy rabbit warren he’d gotten so sick of on this rotten trip. It was worse than the tenements back at Red Hook in Brooklyn. At least those old shacks didn’t bob and dance around and make you throw up all over the place.
The sounds grew louder as he descended—no foghorn down here, just the thrum of the churning propellers a few feet below him, and those jolting engine vibrations you could never get used to. The rooms on this stern deck were tiny and cramped, as Knucks knew from his previous visit. But a lot of them were empty, with most of the doors shut. Smyte, not one to mix in the stewards’ bunkroom, had taken over a cabin in this deserted section. Knucks didn’t want to knock and draw attention. He just twisted the latch and stepped in.
Smyte, lying on one of the cots, looked surprised. “Knucks, hello! You’re early; I was just going up to meet you on deck—”
“Early, hell! I’m sick of waiting around for you.” Knucks strode into the middle of the cabin and stood there, his balding skull brushing the low ceiling with each sway of the ship. He stared down at the little Limey’s shifty eyes.
“This ferryboat ride is nearly over, and you haven’t gotten me what I want. This is when we’re going to settle things, right now! You know where that dame is, right, where she sleeps?”
“Yes,” the Englishman stalled, “but it’s difficult.” He twitched nervously on his bunk. “It’s forward in First Class, and it’s not easy for me to get up there—”
“So you haven’t gotten inside, right? And you don’t have what I asked for, the book? Do they even have it?”
“Well, they didn’t sign anything into the ship’s safe, I can tell you that. But I haven’t gained access to the room yet, I’m afraid.” The white-clad steward shifted uneasily in the big gangster’s looming shadow. “I’ve watched the place for hours, and gotten a passkey, but with the four of them coming and going, there’s always someone in there.”
“What? Four nurses, you mean?” Knucks felt his temper rising. “Don’t they go out together for meals?”
“No, it’s two couples, and one of the pairs generally stays in when the other goes out. It makes it hard—”
“Couples, what? Now Maisie is living with two men?”
“Well, yes, it’s this Maisie, or Alma Brady as they know her, another nurse, and the two fellows who booked the First Class cabin.”
Crum, so that’s how it stood with the little tart! Serious business maybe, and not just dame stuff. Knucks felt an icy chill settle over him. “What cabin is it?”
“It’s 34, on B deck,” Smyte said, sounding nervous.
“These men, who are they?” He bent over and gripped the shoulder of the steward’s unbuttoned white jacket, hauling the little man toward him. “What’s their names?”
“Well, they seem to be press correspondents. Alma’s beau is signed on as Matthew Vane, and the other girl keeps company with a Lars Jansen…”
“What, the reporter and that red-headed pest of his?” Knucks could hardly believe his ears. “It’s Matt Vane and his buddy they’re palling around with, and sleeping with?”
“Yes, well, he is red-haired, the other one.”
Knucks felt his temper going through the roof, a blind rage building. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this before now?”
“Well, I only found out yesterday,” Smyte said, brushing feebly at the hard fist jammed against his shoulder. “Please, Knucks, let go. You’re getting coal dust on the coat.”
Knucks ignored him. “You’re telling me that this dumb floozy, the one I’m supposed to keep quiet, has been living with a reporter for a New York paper, sharing his crib, spillin’ out her heart to him? And his sidekick too, a photographer? Not to mention the other little trick staying with her, and all of their friends? All this time they’ve had the goods I wanted, for them to read, take pictures of and show to people! And you’re only telling me now?”
The steward writhed in the hoodlum’s iron grip. “You’re right, Knucks, it’s a difficult situation, almost impossible. I don’t know what we can do—”
“Do?” Knucks threw the steward back down on the creaking cot. “I know what to do. I’ll have to kill them all, at least the four of ’em. That’s the only way to keep a loudmouth reporter quiet. He saw me on this boat, didn’t you know that? If anything happens to his girlfriend, if he or his friend gets to a wire, it’ll be all over the New York papers, with my tintype next to it.” He swiped both his fists in the air in a fury. “Holy bleeding Jesus, when I get my hands on that little strumpet!”
“Knucks, now let’s think about things,” Smyte said shakily. “How in God’s name are you going to do away with four people on a ship like this?”
“How? I’ll shoot ’em, that’s how!” Reaching behind his back, he whipped the pistol out of his belt. “Bam, bam!” He jabbed the air with his reliable little Colt. “Then I’ll throw the bodies overboard.”
“All right, but wait,” Smyte said, trying to wave Knucks quiet with his palms up before him. “What if there are witnesses? You can’t put four bodies over the rail.”
“No witnesses,” Knucks said, feeling determined. “I’ll do it in the cabin when the foghorn blows, so no one hears, and then shove ’em out the porthole. If only two of them are there, I’ll wait for the others to get back.”
“A human body doesn’t fit through these portholes,” Smyte said with a nervous glance over his shoulder.”
“It doesn’t, eh?” Knucks said keeping the pistol in his hand. “So what do you suggest?”
“Can’t we just forget it, and go on with our lives?”
“Are you kidding?” Knucks said. His professionalism was insulted by the Englishman’s tone. “I was given this job to finish one way or another. If I double-cross who I’m working for—no names—I’ll be the one who ends up in the drink!”
The little Limey was thinking fast. “Well then I’d say, we just take what we want and threaten them to silence. Even a press story is no good without proof, once we take the book and their photo plates. If your boss back at home is so all-powerful, he can just have the girl picked up after we get ashore. I’m sure he must have plans for that, in case you fail.”
“Fail?” Knucks grunted, outraged. “I didn’t spend no week scuttling coal just to fail. Not like you did, you little runt! In my line of work if you fail, you don’t get to live to regret it. I’ve got to shut that blonde up…or black-hair, or whatever she is now. I won’t mind putting a few slugs into that smart guy Vane either, him and his little punk.”
“Well, I don’t know, Knucks,” Smyte said, pulling back carefully and swinging his feet off the bunk. “I didn’t really sign on for any killings. Once you get your hands on the girl, what you do with her is your business. But I don’t want any part of a bunch of bloody murders.”
“Then gimme the key.” Knucks stretched out his hand, the one not holding the gun. “The pass key for room 34!” he added when Smyte hesitated. “Hand it over.”
Reaching into the pocket of his smudged, rumpled coat, the little Brit produced the key and surrendered it into Knucks’s big hand. “Don’t lose it, and don’t get caught with it, if you please. I don’t want it traced back to me.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Knucks said, looming over the steward. “There won’t be no tracin’ nothin’ to you, not for long. Remember how you were so worried about witnesses? Well, there’s gonna be one less witness, right now.” He slipped the key into the pocket of his coal-blackened gray coat.
Smyte froze back against the wall, still seated in the bunk. “You can’t shoot me! There are stewards in the cabins around us. They’d hear.”
“You’re right,” Knucks said, reversing the pistol in his hand. “But guns are dangerous. They can kill people lotsa ways. Especially smart little Limey bastards like you.”
Whipping the gun down against the side of Smyte’s skull, he stopped the cry for help before it was more than a moan. His left mitt emerged from his pocket wearing the shiny brass knuckles, his trademark, and now he worked the little man over, viciously but silently, left, right, left. There was no sound but thuds and the squealing of bunk springs, until the Brit lay limp on the blanket.
“See, you were right,” he whispered over the body. “No witnesses.”
The crummy little steward turned out to be right about something else, too. A dead body, even one as scrawny as his, couldn’t fit out through the porthole…at least, not without some last-minute folds and adjustments.
* * *
The repetitive noise of the foghorn brought Alma slowly to wakefulness. Its patient, relentless blasts vibrated through the cabin, as if the ship itself were the instrument, a giant tuba afloat on a foggy sea. The monotonous noise vexed but also comforted, assuring her the ship was smothered in a soft blanket, and they were under protection. To feel even more secure, she gathered the covers around her and snuggled up against the warm bulk of Matt in their bed.
“Mmm. Looks like morning.” He opened his eyes, blinking at the faint gray light coming in through the bedroom’s gilt-edged porthole.
“The morning of our last day at sea.” Alma said regretfully. “Unless we lie here fog-bound for days, that is.”
“We’re still making way,” Matt observed. “Not anywhere near full steam, but I can feel it.”
“Too bad,” she said. “Right now I wish the voyage would never end.”
“Be careful what you wish for.” He said it in his wry comedic way, taking her in his arms as he did so. “But really, I know what you mean.”
“Well, what could be better? We’re here together, happy and with our friends, cut off from war, politics and crime, all the world’s troubles.” She sighed and stretched herself in his relaxed embrace. “Why go any farther? What’s ahead of us that‘s better than what we have right here?”
Matt shifted his embrace. “We’ve plenty to think about, besides the state of the world. Like getting safely ashore at Liverpool, not being spotted, and hanging onto our luggage.”
“All the baggage from my old life,” Alma sighed. “I’m not sure it’s worth keeping.”
“It is,” Matt assured her. “Mine, too, especially my war journal and Flash’s pictures. They could be at risk in port. Not everyone would be pleased with what we’ve been doing on this trip. That reminds me.”
Rolling away from her, he consulted his watch on the bed table. “The best may be yet to come. I have to go soon, right after breakfast.”
While he sat up in bed, Alma yawned and stretched. “An early breakfast, you mean? I could second that. I seem to have developed quite an appetite this trip.” Rolling after her lover, she twined her arms around his silk-pajamaed middle. “That is, if you don’t want to order up room service and lie here all morning.”
“I’d love to.” He turned to stroke her black-dyed hair and plant a kiss on her upturned face. “But we’d better get a quick bite below. I can’t risk missing this appointment.”
“Sounds important.” She sat up with a sheet draped about her. “Who’s it with–or should I say whom, to a writer?”
“Sorry, dear, I can’t say,” Matt delivered a firm kiss to her already-pouting lips. “I hope you’ll understand, my darling,”
Turning to the wardrobe, he added, “You must know, a reporter’s sources often insist on remaining confidential. And if today really is our final day at sea, it’s definitely my last chance to get the information. It may take me a couple of hours.” He took out a dark brown suit and a pair of well-worn shoes.
“I don’t know,” Alma said, dragging her sheet with her as she rose from the bed. She’d known she would have to deal with this again, and yet when surrendering herself to Matt, she’d resolved to respect his professional privacy. “I might get Winnie up. Will Flash be going with you?”
“No,” he said. “If there are pictures to take, I can snap them.” As he spoke, he took the discreet-looking satchel with his camera gear out of the closet. “I’ve already told him to look after you ladies, and to be at your disposal while I’m occupied.”
“Sounds pretty serious,” She stepped behind the cabin’s oriental screen to don a bathrobe. “This must be an important meeting for you.”
“Big stuff,” Matt affirmed, tying his shoelaces. “It could be the journalistic payoff of this entire voyage–aside from your revelations, of course. That’s a windfall I never really expected.”
“As your secretary, I should go along,” Alma said. “You may need some notes taken, or an extra pair of eyes and ears.”
“Well, thank you, my love,” Matt said, giving her another peck on the lips, “but I don’t think this individual would be too pleased at anyone else knowing his identity. Or hers, yes, of course.” He smiled. “But don’t worry. It’s a he, I’ll admit that much.”
* * *
With Alma following close behind, Matt slipped out of the cabin through the darkened parlor, where their shipmates lay asleep in a huddle of blankets. He envied them the luxury of a morning together and had no wish to disturb them. Yet here he was, denying the same blessing to Alma, his newly devoted love who, after her recent hardships, was so much more in need of comfort and security. What kind of a man was he to leave her just now? Frowning, he suppressed a sigh. Like so many others in this modern mechanized world, he was a man who believed in his work, a man with a job to do.
The two navigated the ship’s electric-lit corridors in silence, not daring to hold hands. A few other passengers had begun to stir, probably roused by the foghorn. For speed and privacy, Matt led Alma straight to the upstairs mezzanine of the Grand Saloon, where breakfast was being served from a long buffet table. Matt requested the eggs shirred over crayfish tails, and Alma the delicate French crêpes with fruit and cream. The white-clad waiter took their order. Matt chose a table hidden behind a pillar, and the food came to them with almost no waiting.
He took time from his breakfast to admire Alma, framed against the ballroom’s electric-lit dome. She was no fashion plate this morning, having put on knits and flat shoes, probably in the vain hope of accompanying him.
But with hair hastily pinned up, her face was still radiant—with love for him, it thrilled and pained him to realize. Here they were together, surrounded by the clink of crystal and silver and the pleasant murmur of voices. How much longer, he wondered, could this tranquility last? Not long, at the speed the ship was going. His thoughts turned to the immediate future.
“Getting clear of the port will be our biggest challenge,” he told her. “If Liverpool is like New York, it’s full of watchers—smugglers, spies, customs agents and cops, some of ’em crooked. Someone with Big Jim’s pull might even bribe a petty official to detain you on false pretenses, turn you over to his henchmen, or deport you back to New York.”
“I’d rather die than go back,” Alma whispered, her romantic glow instantly fading. “I’d rather face a torpedo here and now than one of Jim’s…human torpedoes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too concerned about it. If Jim had agents aboard this ship, I’d worry about them keeping you on board and stowing you away below decks for the turnaround trip to New York…drugged, maybe, or locked in one of the empty Third Class cabins. But without having to fret about that, we should be able to get through the port. Getting you off Lusitania is only the first hurdle.”
“Wherever I go” Alma said glumly over her crêpes. “I’ll have to worry about being shanghaied like a drunken sailor. White slavery is no joke.”
Matt tried to comfort her. “It shouldn’t be so bad once the heat is off, as the crooks say. You were right to change your hair. Beautiful as it was, those blonde tresses drew attention.”
“They drew yours from the start, I could tell.”
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you. But now it’s not so bad. You’re just another lovely girl, and they’re a dime a dozen. To really hide, you should grow a mustache.” He smiled, ready to duck in case she flung a crêpe at him. “But seriously, once we get on the train in England, we can go anywhere. We’ll split off together as a couple, if it seems safer—just make sure you know where to join up with your nurse friends. Or else stay with me. I may actually be needing a secretary.”
Alma’s gaze met his, but her voice sounded dubious. “That would hardly be laying low,” she pointed out. “Not with you in the news spotlight. If we have to separate, you and I, it will be difficult, but I can do it.” She spoke deliberately, and Matt could tell it was a hard prospect for her to face. “I do have a decent livelihood ahead of me now, thanks to Hildegard and the Nurse’s League. Actually,” she picked up after a moment’s pause, “I’m more worried about Winnie and Flash. These few days have been such a life-changing experience…life-saving really, dear, for me.” She reached out and laid her hand on Matt’s beside his plate.
“We can work something out.” Discreetly he clasped her hand. “Flash and Winnie are mature enough to handle things. If we two have to split off, I’ve told Flash we’ll offer to help you to your destination. Then we can decide. There’ve been a lot of partings in this war, and there’ll be more.”
Withdrawing his hand, he took out his pocket watch. “Speaking of which, I have to go right now. Can you make it back to the cabin on your own?”
“I’d rather go with you,” she appealed to him. “I have a feeling that you’re off on another one of your secret explorations, and I don’t like to think of you doing it alone.”
“Now, don’t be silly,” Matt said, rising to avoid further interrogation. “I just have to go meet someone. The worst that could happen is losing the camera for the rest of the voyage, if Inspector Pierpoint turns up.”
Taking Alma’s arm, he led her through the saloon’s mezzanine entry. “We’re all better off if I go alone. And I’ll stand a chance of really learning something.”
“Where is this meeting supposed to be?” she asked, trying not to be petulant. “I promise not to spy on you.”
“We’re to meet on the Boat Deck forward, portside,” he said with a peck on her cheek. “But from there, we’ll certainly go somewhere out of sight.”
Turning fully to her in the now-vacant corridor, he enfolded her in a brisk embrace. “I plan to be back at the cabin by noon. But give me another hour after that before you start to worry. Promise?”
“I promise.” She sealed the vow with a lingering kiss. “All right,” she said, letting him go at last. “Good luck.”
“Good luck to us all.” With mingled regret and relief, he strode off down the passage.
* * *
After watching Matt disappear, Alma turned toward the stairway to their cabin. There must be danger, she told herself, or he would have given her the name, if only in a sealed letter. Assuming that there was some name, and that he wasn’t lying…trying, as ever, to protect her.
Well, he could take care of himself, that seemed clear. And a good thing, too, if he planned to survive the war. But of course it troubled her. She had so looked forward to their morning together, and to their whole final day. Was this to be all she would have of their new, joyous love, just a few precious hours?
Matt’s offer to take her with him in England had seemed sincere, and a part of her yearned to accept. But did he really understand himself that well? Would he be able to sustain it, or would he lose interest in her? Already he was off on his own, more in love with his job than with her. Or maybe it was a tie, a photo-finish as Flash would say.
Even marriage, in wartime, was uncertain, and she didn’t think she dared go from one impossible situation straight into another. She would not risk becoming a burden to the man she loved. Better to prove, first, that she could sustain herself, and to have something to fall back on, even if it meant the risk of losing him.
How dismal. Their talk over breakfast had turned her thoughts to the future, to their parting and the dim, terrible times ahead. Would her pure happiness of this morning ever return, or would she now live in dread, vainly wanting to cling to Matt and hold back time itself? Had the grieving already begun?
Consumed by such thoughts as she drew near their stateroom, she was slow to recognize what stood before her eyes in the corridor. It was a man, large and ungainly, clad all in filthy gray-black, his face and hands hideously smudged with soot. It must be one of the coal stokers, the Black Gang as they called them.
But no, as he came near, that wasn’t the gang she knew him from.
It was Knucks, Big Jim’s henchman, the one she’d eluded on the pier. No doubt of it…in spite of all the soot, the ugly leer taking shape on his face made him familiar.
“Well, Missy, fancy runnin’ into you,” the specter said, showing his yellow teeth in a grin. “If it ain’t little Maisie, right here to greet me…in your new hair and all. Is that a wig? C’mere, Maisie Thornton, you!”
In a heartbeat Alma turned and ran. She dashed away down the corridor, hearing the hoodlum’s heavy steps start up behind her. It was still early, and no one was out in the passage. Nobody to hear, no door standing open. She ran forward a few dozen paces, and then up the stairway…heading toward Matt, who knew this threat and had dealt with it before. Better, in any case, that she led Knucks away from their cabin and the innocent lovers inside. Luckily, her nurse’s shoes were fit for running.
But on the stairs, her first burst of panicked speed was already wearing off. Each breath seared her lungs as she climbed, and her legs lost their impulsive strength. Behind her the mobster’s clumping footfalls consumed two or three stairs at a time, relentless. She could even hear Knucks’s coarse breaths, like the impatient rasping of a lion on the hunt.
Reaching the stairway’s end, she burst out the door into fog, thick and swirling, rolling aft against the ship’s motion. She lunged forward into its flow, flinging the stair door behind her. But it never slammed, caught instead by her pursuer. She dashed past lifeboats, swung outboard now with ropes and oars ready. She thought of hiding in one, but the fog wasn’t thick enough, and her nemesis was too close. Had it been a mistake, she wondered, to come out on deck? She sensed that when Knucks caught up with her, he would fling her straight over the rail, without even time to plead for her life.
“C’mon, little missy,” she heard him panting behind her, “Wait up for me, I won’t hurt you! I just want the money back, and the other stuff you took. Maybe a little kiss, too, that would be nice!” After his taunts came the grating blast of the foghorn, which startled her, almost making her stumble.
No one was there on the fogbound deck to see or hear, no strollers idling in the damp chill. The officer’s bridge was still out of sight, no telling how far ahead. Anyone above on the Marconi Deck might see the chase, but they’d be helpless to interfere. She had no breath left to call for help. Running was all-important.
“Atta girl, Maisie,” her pursuer taunted, “slow down and let me nab you! A fast little runner you are, but pretty soon you’ll run out of ship.”
It was hopeless, she knew. She could actually feel the impact of his steps on the deck underneath her pelting feet, could almost feel his hands on her and his hot breath on her neck. Then she felt it, one big fist scuffing her shoulder.
In a sudden, futile impulse of defense, she spun around and struck him across the face with the back of her hand, even as he collided with her and bowled her backward down the deck. “Get away from me,” she heard herself gasping. “Leave me alone!”
“You little hussy, you’ll pay for that.” Looming tall and barely brushing the side of his face where her blow had struck, Knucks darted out one hand and seized her shoulder. He pinned her painfully by it as she tried to twist free, and clamped his other hand over her mouth. “Now honey, don’t you bite!”
Just then from inboard, other footsteps came racing. “That’s enough, Knucks! Let her alone!”
It was Matt, and he didn’t wait for the hoodlum to obey. Rushing in with fists cocked, he struck Knucks on the face and body. The goon was forced to defend himself, letting Alma pull free.
“Go ahead, run,” Matt called to Alma over his shoulder, darting in like a prizefighter to deliver more blows. She staggered back a few steps, but stayed to watch, utterly exhausted and still captive.
“It’s you, the lousy scribbler,” Knucks growled. “You’re no Jack Dempsey!”
Without even bothering to go for a weapon, the big ruffian seized hold of his attacker in both long arms and wrestled him over to the rail. “I got no time to mess with you, Vane,” he said, applying his full size and leverage against the flailing reporter. “If anybody’s goin’ in for a swim, it’s gonna be you first!” Snarling his threats, he bent the lesser man back over the water.
Alma, instead of running, used the one thing she’d learned in all her days with the gangsters. Coming up behind Knucks as the two men grappled, she aimed a kick straight up between his legs with the toe of her sturdy nurse’s brogan. She felt it connect.
“Why, you rotten floozy!” Knucks yelped. He faltered with the pain, but still pinned his male assailant off-balance against the rail with one arm. The other hand he whipped around his back, pulling a pistol out from under his grimy coat. “I’ve had enough of fooling with you!” He pointed the gun at Alma, but then said, “Nah, yer boyfriend first.”
He pressed the muzzle against Matt’s chest, waiting for…what?
The foghorn blast came then, and in the same instant the gunshot hammered out, the report dulled and dislocated by the fog and shuddering noise.
To Alma, in a much deeper fog of horror, it all seemed unreal, impossible…as if the shot had come from nowhere, from somewhere outside. She watched the unfolding tableau as the big figure of Knucks, not Matt, grasped his chest, dropped the gun, and turned paler underneath his soot. Suddenly from behind her, a figure brushed past toward the giant and, with Matt’s help, shoved him back against the rail. Then Knucks went over, his big, thrashing shoes the last thing to disappear in the fog. The two men stood looking down as a faint splash sounded, and then turned back to her. Beside Matt stood the well-dressed Mr. Kroger, the German spy, pocketing his own pistol. While brushing off and straightening his fur-trimmed coat, he glanced down and kicked the gangster’s fallen weapon overboard after its owner.
“Somebody might have heard that shot,” Matt said, even as Alma flew into his arms, sobbing with relief. “And the body will wash all the way astern—someone could see it. We’d better get going.”
“Come along,” Dirk Kroger said in his gruff accent, leading the way. “I’ll take you where no one would ever look.”