He introduced himself, making clear that he knew who we were, and we stood, and I shook his hand. We sat again, but he remained standing before us, his hands behind him, and he frowned, rather like a displeased schoolmaster.
“You had no way of knowing,” he said, and his voice was a hoarse tenor, “but Alfred has received tragic news. A Marconigram this morning from Mrs. Vanderbilt arrived, saying Alfred’s closest friend, Frederick Davies, has died, suddenly.”
We made the proper murmurs of sympathy and shock, though I knew only vaguely of the man-he’d been a prominent New York builder.
Rocking on his heels, Williamson said, “A second ’gram just arrived, from a business associate, confirming the sad fact of Freddy’s passing.”
I rose. “Well, we certainly won’t impose on-”
A hand raised in stop fashion. “No. Alfred seems intent on fulfilling this obligation. He promised Staff Captain Anderson he would help you out, on this article of yours.”
“We could reschedule for another time, another day. .”
“No, he would like to receive you. I think he feels the activity might take his mind off the tragedy. But I would ask you to make your stay a brief one, and to avoid any subjects that might be. . bothersome.”
“Anything in particular,” I asked, “that should be avoided?”
Williamson twitched a humorless smile. “You certainly know, even in more unclouded circumstances, that the Ruiz affair is off-limits. . strictly.”
I shrugged. “I had no plans to make any such inquiries.”
Williamson smiled again-this one of a patronizing variety. “Good. . I’ll see if Alfred is ready.”
“Mr. Williamson,” Miss Vance said, good-naturedly, “are you normally Mr. Vanderbilt’s social secretary?”
His frown seemed an overreaction. “No. I’m his friend, his close friend.”
“And a business associate?”
The frown deepened. “Out of our friendship, a certain amount of business has arisen.”
“You’re an art dealer?”
“Miss. . Vance, is it? Do you make a habit of asking questions to which you already know the answer?”
She smiled beautifully. “No-sometimes I seek confirmation of what I have heard. . I seldom accept hearsay as fact. To do so can often be destructive, even in seemingly innocent instances.”
His expression was blank, as he processed this; then he half-bowed, and said, “Yours is a most wise and gracious approach, Miss Vance. . I am an art dealer, adviser, commissionaire and connoisseur.”
“Most impressive,” she said.
“I merely share my views, my tastes, with my wealthy friends who wish to invest in art. And then I share my connections, so that these properties can be purchased.”
I said, “I always considered art something more emotional and instinctive than ‘properties’ in which to invest.”
He seemed both interested and amused. “You know something of art, Mr. Van Dine?”
“Yes. . I’m somewhat of a. . connoissuer, myself.”
Williamson cocked his head, folded his arms. “Have you written anything on the subject I might have read?”
I retreated behind my pseudonym: My extensive body of criticism had been published under my real name, of course. “No-my interest in art is strictly as one who loves it. My writing for the News is rather more prosaic, I’m afraid.”
“Too bad. Perhaps some day you’ll honor us with your views on the subject. What is your chief area of interest?”
“Modern art, I would say.”
“Fauvism, perhaps? Or Cubist works? Picasso? Braque?”
“Actually, I prefer the Syncromists.”
He frowned, almost if I’d said something distasteful. “Really? Well, to each his own. . I much prefer the Orphist color abstractions of the Delaunays, if such things are to be taken seriously at all.”
“I prefer Synchromism,” I said rather stiffly.
“Well, perhaps the work of that fellow Morgan Russell could be said to have merit. But that hack Stanton MacDonald-Wright. .” And he shuddered.
The artist he had just insulted, of course, was my own brother. . but what could I-that is, S.S. Van Dine-say?
So I echoed his own statement: “To each his own.” And hoped my irritation didn’t show, though I could a feel a flush in my cheeks.
“At any rate,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to have even a brief discussion of art with another devotee. . Now, if you’ll excuse me. .”
He had turned back toward the bedroom, when I called out gently, “Oh, Mr. Williamson. .”
He turned, his patience clearly tried. “Yes, Mr. Van Dine?”
“Would you mind sitting in on the interview? I would appreciate your presence, both as a calming one for your friend, and to ask you the occasional question about your views on this ship, and the voyage.”
He nodded another sort of bow. “Certainly. That would be my pleasure.”
When he had disappeared into the bedroom, Miss Vance turned to me with a grin and glittering eyes. “Nicely done.”
“How so?”
“Getting Williamson to stay. We need him just as much as we need Vanderbilt.”
And this was true, of course-Williamson had also been on the late stowaway’s list.
When Vanderbilt entered, followed by his art dealer friend, he was obviously not at his best. His complexion seemed gray, his eyes laced with red, and the expression he wore when introductions were made-and I stood to shake his hand-seemed fraught with melancholy, despite his polite smile.
“Forgive my informal attire,” he said, referring to his brown silk dressing gown.
He and Williamson were in chairs facing us as we sat on the comfortable settee.
“We understand you’ve received sad news,” I said, “and we would like to express our condolences.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Vance said, sitting forward, hands clasped. “We would certainly understand if you wished to put this interview off-”
“No,” the millionaire said, raising a hand in gentle interruption. “The distraction is a welcome one-and I’m sure you’ll make pleasant company. . more pleasant than I, I’m afraid. I beg your patience.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Would you like to say anything about Mr. Davies, for the readers of the News?”
“You may quote me that I have known no finer, kinder man.” His eyes looked into memory. “We were classmates at Yale. . travelled extensively together. He and my sister Gertrude were almost married. . but that’s not why you came.”
“Nor do we mean to pry,” I said, and I began with unoffending queries about the Lusitania, and what it was about the ship that made it a favorite of his. I scribbled this pap down into my notebook, dutifully, for perhaps five minutes, before venturing into more significant waters.
“I take it you’re making a point of it,” I said, “travelling to attend the International Horse Show Association meeting in London. . despite the war, I mean.”
“You may be misinterpreting my actions,” he said patiently. “This war is a very real thing-we can’t pretend that our lives can go on, unaffected.”
“I understand last year’s annual meeting was cancelled, due to war concerns.”
“Yes. Last year’s show was cancelled, also, as you may know. But the general feeling over there, now, is that the war is going well enough to resume the fall event.”
“You must agree with that view, if you’re attending, sir.”
“I respect it.” He paused, and seemed to be mulling something over; then he glanced at Williamson, who shrugged. “As a favor to my friends at Cunard, I could give you a small piece of news. . if you would agree not to wire it home, until after the association’s meeting next Tuesday.”
“Certainly.”
He drew in a deep breath. “I will be announcing, at the annual meeting, that I will not be racing this season. There’s a war on, after all-and while perhaps giving up four-in-hand racing doesn’t compare to the sacrifices of some, it is a symbolic gesture I can make.”