Taking the Titanic Page 3

  “You’ve read too many dime novels,” she said, smiling despite herself.

  “Darling! I may be a thief,” I admitted. “But I make it point to steal only from the best. Those plots come from the classics of literature! Or the nickelodeon—I can never quite remember which.”

  Celia pulled down the bed quilt and cast off her light robe.

  “I need to rest up a bit before I face another dinner with those awful busybodies,” she said with a sigh.

  Celia turned down the lamp on the nightstand and climbed under the covers. I waited for a moment and then removed the last of my clothing and slowly approached the bed. I lifted the heavy satin quilt and eased my naked body down onto the cool sheets.

  A foot roughly shoved me onto the floor.

  “Say now!” I protested. “You can’t expect me to spend the entire voyage sleeping on that torture rack of a couch! Why, a child could barely fit on it!”

  Without turning, Celia spoke in her coolest, most even tones.

  “As I made clear on the first night we met, Mr. Bowen, ours is strictly a business association. You freely agreed to my terms. Now you may help yourself to a pillow. But if you attempt anything more than that, you will again find yourself confronted by my gun. Pleasant dreams, darling.”

  Chapter 8

  Nigel Bowen

  Atlantic Ocean

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 3:30 PM

  I was being followed.

  It was the oddest sensation, all the more unexpected for occurring within the confines of a ship, even one as large as the Titanic.

  I was in a foul mood from a frustrating attempt at napping on that infernal couch. Since I needed my wits about me this evening, I thought it best to avoid the bar in the smoking room and have a good sweat in the Turkish baths as second-best relief.

  But as I was ambling along one of the middle decks, I was suddenly overcome with the certainty that I was being observed. At first I thought it just lingering paranoia after my nerve-racking escape from Southampton. I casually glanced behind me but saw only a harried steward bustling one way and an exhausted laundress lumbering the other.

  I slowed down as I came to a passage that was one story above the squash court. I paused and looked down through the viewing window. Below, Vogel was trying to teach his son the proper way to hold a racket. Noticing me, they both gave friendly waves. As I returned the greeting, I saw in the reflection a large bald man just down the hall behind me. He lingered for a moment and then, catching my gaze in the glass, briskly turned and headed down a side passageway. I quickly followed in the direction he had gone. The side passage was empty so I went up a deck and, seeing another empty passage, went up the next flight of stairs. Finally, I came out onto the Boat Deck, the level on which the lifeboats were kept; there weren’t any in the restricted first class area as they tended to block one’s view of the ocean.

  There were a few passengers at the rail staring out to sea. The bald man was standing with his back to me, nonchalantly smoking a cigar and chatting with an older steward. I wondered if there was a way I could test my hunch that he was tailing me beyond running wildly across the deck to see if he followed.

  Glancing around, I saw Emily Moore sitting in a deck chair, reading. She was an auburn-haired young girl, pretty if rather starchy; I wasn’t sure if stiffness was her true nature or the result of her domineering father’s influence. I decided to find out—and see if Miss Moore could be of use in testing my bald friend.

  “And what are proper young ladies reading these days?” I said, startling her. “A rousing western or a dreary romance?”

  Emily smiled sheepishly. “Oh! I’m afraid I’m not a very good example of a proper young lady.…”

  She held up her book to reveal a lurid detective novel, colorfully entitled The Woman Stealer. The crudely drawn cover showed a bound and gagged young woman being fought over by two men.

  “I’m shocked!” I cried. “As I’m sure your father is by such sensational material.”

  Taking her arm, I firmly lifted her out of the chair.

  “Let’s give him even more to be outraged about,” I said. “Take an unchaperoned turn about the ship with a married man.”

  “Well, I don’t—” She tried to protest, but I had already pulled her in the opposite direction of Baldy. I led her down the passage I had just come out of. When we got to the first staircase, I glanced back. A waiter with a room service tray paused at the Boat Deck door and backed up to allow someone to come in. I hurried our pace down the stairs.

  “Is this a stroll or a race, Mr. Bowen?” Emily asked, a bit breathlessly.

  I quickly took her through another passage, then all but dragged her down a staircase at the far end. I looked back, but Baldy was nowhere in sight. A trio of officers passed by and, now wanting to stall, I stopped one of them.

  “Officer, could you tell us where—er, the Boat Deck is?” I asked him.

  “But we’ve just come from there!” Emily protested.

  I looked down the hall and sure enough, Baldy was coming down the stairs; seeing me, he instantly doubled back. Whoever he was, he was terrible at masking his mission. I wondered if that was the point.

  “Oh, of course!” I laughed. “I meant…oh, the squash court.”

  The officer looked at me queerly. “You’re standing in front of it, sir.”

  I nodded my thanks and opened the door for Emily. She looked at me oddly and, as there was no one in the court, slowly entered it.

  “I’m afraid I really don’t understand you, Mr. Bowen.”

  Closing the door behind us, I looked up at the viewing window. Baldy was now one deck above looking down at us. He was one of those men who had a cruel look about him even when he was smiling, which he was doing. He bared his very white and very sharp-looking teeth and slowly nodded to me before casually strolling off. He had wanted to be seen, after all.

  “Mr. Bowen!” Emily said in testy confusion, hands now on hips. I couldn’t blame her—my actions had probably made me look like a lunatic.

  “Forgive me, Miss Moore, but…” I stuttered. “Well…I simply wanted a little alone time with you.”

  Emily looked at me with a stunned, wide-eyed expression—one that very quickly bloomed into a grin of delight.

  “Oh, how romantic!” she gasped. She fell into my arms and pushed me up against the door. “Darling!” she murmured.

  I felt I had little choice but to take her in my arms and kiss her deeply—all the while making sure we were flat against the wall beneath the viewing window so no one above could see us.

  Emily sighed with excitement as I cooed into her ear, “Dear—dearest!”

  Oh, and reaching into the folds of her voluminous skirt, I also lifted her expensively beaded bag.

  Chapter 9

  Nigel Bowen

  Atlantic Ocean

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 5:30 PM

  Celia slapped me with such startling harshness it echoed in our tiny bathroom.

  “My dear!” I cried. “That truly hurt! It’s a fine day when a man can’t show a little affection to his wife without being assaulted.”

  I rubbed my aching cheek in a feeble attempt at sympathy. Celia calmly put away her towel and lightly pushed past me out the bathroom door.

  “I’m beginning to think you like it,” she said over her shoulder. “But I’ll review the terms of our arrangement as many times as you require: our marriage is just a front, and if you don’t keep your hands to yourself, I’ll plug you full of lead.”

  Smiling broadly, she began choosing her evening gown, all the while clutching her thin robe against her body. Though I’d never seen my “wife” undressed, the clinging silk left little to the imagination.

  “You have strange notions of propriety,” I observed as I dropped onto my couch/bed. “For a whore.”

  Celia’s hairbrush missed my temple by a whisper and thumped loudly against the cabin wall; her throwing arm was clearly as able as her catching.


  “I am not a whore,” she said calmly. “That was a disguise I used to find a partner.”

  I held up my hands and pretended to cower in the couch.

  “And a most convincing disguise at that.” I smiled. “One wonders what could have driven you to such lengths.”

  “Well, I could hardly take out an advertisement.” She sighed. “Listen, Nigel, picking pockets and winning at cards is all well and good, but some of the wealthiest and most prominent persons alive are aboard the Titanic. I want to set our sights on bigger game! Listen, if we—”

  “Why do you get to plan everything?” I interrupted, annoyed. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have some thoughts about this operation?”

  There was a knock at the door, and for a moment I thought it might be my bald friend paying a visit. But it was just a scullery maid bringing Celia fresh towels.

  “Evening, Mr. Bjornstrom, sir,” she said with a light curtsy.

  As she entered the room, I suddenly noticed that Emily’s handbag and Phil’s watch were sitting plainly out on the bureau—directly where the woman was headed! Not knowing how else to create a distraction, I reached out and pinched her bottom.

  The maid whipped around in startled indignation and the towels went flying. Celia looked up in surprise at the commotion but quickly saw the items on the bureau. As the maid angrily bent to retrieve the towels, I took the moment to discreetly sweep the stolen goods into the top drawer.

  The air was understandably strained, so I pulled out a few shillings and handed them to the woman. She took them with great reluctance—the same spirit in which they were offered, for she was most unattractive.

  After she huffed out the door, I turned to Celia. “I hope your ambitious plans for bigger game include covering our tracks more carefully, my dear. That was an unforgivably sloppy oversight.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t felt the need to make yet another pass at me, my attention might not have been diverted!” she retorted.

  “Oh, all right.” I sighed now with true irritation. “I resign my campaign of seduction; forgive me for being quite swept away by your mystery and beauty. As it is, I have other matters on my mind. I was followed today.”

  Celia gathered her robe and picked up a fresh towel. “Who would follow you? One of your acquaintances from Southampton?”

  I mulled over the suggestion. “Hmm, I wonder. He certainly wasn’t one of my fellow card players, but it’s possible they sent some mug on their behalf. Where is this fabled gun of yours, anyway?”

  “Make another pass and it will appear in an instant!”

  I threw my hands up. “Celia, I’m convinced you went to finishing school in a military barrack.”

  She laughed and reverted to her mock Cockney. “Oh, no, why, only the finest con-tee-nental salons for a fine lady like me-self, guv!”

  She gave me a saucy wink and back kick as she opened the bathroom door, but her action caused her flimsy robe to slip off one shoulder. Against the porcelain skin of her back, two lengthy purple-red scars stood out so vividly it was as if the wounds had been inflicted that very morning.

  She closed the door.

  Chapter 10

  Celia Bowen

  Atlantic Ocean

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 7:30 PM

  “Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the matter, Celia dear,” Nigel said to me across the dining table, his words slurred. “But I’m told that in traditional marriages—which you never tire of reminding me that ours is not—the man does what he likes, when he likes.”

  The other diners watched silently as Nigel threw back the rest of the wine in his goblet and sloppily poured another—at least his fifth. “So we will proceed with my plan: a nice game of bridge with the stakes raised to celebrate our second night at sea!”

  Nigel lifted his glass to me, then looked drunkenly around at the other gentlemen, who were clearly uncomfortable with his words and manner; the ladies were aghast. I gave Nigel a warning glance that he’d gone too far. He just stared back at me.

  “I don’t know what you are trying to communicate with that dire look, dear wife,” he said in an ugly tone. “But as I’m sure you have other, more ambitious and grandiose plans for the evening, I suggest you get to them.”

  “See here, old man,” Phil piped up with an angry red face. “Your tone is most objectionable. You’ve had enough for one night.”

  Nigel turned to him with a hostile glare. “Afraid to give me the chance to win back some of my money, old man? Or are you just grateful for the chance to rush to my wife’s defense?”

  I stood up as calmly as possible. The other ladies at the table turned and gave me sympathetic looks. I guessed there’d already been discussion about how much money Nigel had lost—now it would be about how disgraceful his manner was. And after the glances the ladies had been giving their husbands, I doubted Nigel would be able to initiate the smoking of cigars, let alone a card game.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said to all, “I feel a slight headache…”

  Surprisingly, old man Davies beat Phil to his feet.

  “Do me the honor of letting me escort you, Mrs. Bowen,” he said, giving me an earnest look. “As you’ve already seen, there are disreputable characters all over this ship.”

  “Is that quip directed at me, older man?” Nigel snarled.

  “You foremost, among others,” Davies said with quiet dignity as he gently took my arm. As he guided me away from the table, I overheard Nigel say, “Tough luck, Phil. The bigger bank account always wins. With her anyway.”

  Davies and I stopped in the lobby of the luxurious À la Carte Restaurant and he waved a bill at the attendant for my wrap. He then said, “Perhaps a short walk would make you—well, might put a more soothing end to the evening?”

  I nodded and we walked slowly out onto the deck. Davies cleared his throat, then paused and pressed a hand to his stomach. He seemed in pain, but upon seeing my wondering look, he brushed it off.

  “Just some indigestion. I must say, your husband’s coarse behavior makes me feel that much more ashamed about my own toward you this morning.” He sighed regretfully. “A man of my class gets to be my age and, well, he thinks the world and anything in it is his for the taking—or at least he tries to convince himself that it is. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “It’s already forgotten, Mr. Davies,” I said with a smile. “But I’ll always remember your kindness this evening.”

  We continued our walk for some time, at least an hour. Like so many successful and long-married men, Davies was desperately lonely. At first he tried to explain how the unhappiness of his marriage had influenced his advances toward me. But soon the many aspects of the Titanic grabbed his attention, as it did apparently all the men onboard. He excitedly pointed out that the vessel was the largest man-made moving object ever built, it had cost well over seven million dollars, there were over two thousand passengers aboard, and the ship had twenty lifeboats.

  At last we came to the passage containing my cabin. Startled, Davies brought himself up short.

  “Good lord, I’ve talked your ear off!” he exclaimed outside my door. “It is you, Mrs. Bowen, who have shown the greater kindness tonight by indulging me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I enjoyed our walk tremendously!” I insisted. “It took my mind off…”

  I let my words sadly trail away and Davies looked at me with what seemed genuine concern. He waited while I entered and flicked on the light. I turned to him and held out my hand.

  “All marriages have their troubles, Mr. Davies,” I said with a smile of resignation. “Whether a marriage of thirty years or three days.…”

  He took my hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it for a full ten seconds. As he looked up, I was astonished to see tears in his eyes.

  I covered his hand with mine and gently smiled. Davies paused, then pulled my body against his. I looked up at him with astonishment.

  “You wonderful, beautiful woman…” He sighed.<
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  I had just started to push him away when someone staggered into the room with a grunt. Davies turned around and gasped at the sight of Nigel, who was disheveled and clearly even drunker than before.

  “Well, I seem to be throwing off all your plans tonight, dearest,” he sneered. “Here’s another curveball: look what I found.”

  He reached into his open jacket.

  And pulled out my gun.

  Chapter 11

  Celia Bowen

  Atlantic Ocean

  Thursday, April 11, 1912, 9:45 PM

  Davies stepped in front of me, protecting me with his body.

  “Bowen! Don’t be a damned fool, put that gun away!” he hissed.

  Grinning drunkenly, Nigel brought the gun up to his eye level and playfully aimed at the older man.

  “Would be quite a scandal, eh?” Nigel taunted. “Blue blood shot after making love to woman of questionable background aboard world’s most famous ship. Pretty headlines for your wife and daughters to read, eh?”

  Davies drew his body up to full height. “How dare you threaten me with blackmail! Have you no decency?”

  Nigel stumbled and fell onto my bed—all without taking the gun off Davies. “You’re not in the best position to lecture on decorum, Mr. D; not with your hands full of my wife.”

  I stepped out from behind Davies.

  “Nigel, put that gun down,” I begged him. “What madness has gotten into you? What will the other passengers think of you—of us?”

  Nigel’s smirk dropped. “I can tell you what they think of me, darling. I’m a cad who can’t hold his liquor, a swine who doesn’t appreciate his beautiful wife, and…a broke bugger who just lost every cent they had on this ship.”