Like most artists, however, I have an irresistible inclination toward resonance-double meanings and second levels. And while it is true that I regard my mystery novels as voyages of entertainment, “vacation reading” that encourages my patrons to board the S.S. Van Dine for a good trip, that “S.S.” did indeed have a secondary shade of significance, which at the time seemed clever and now merely strikes me as (I shudder to admit) cute.

At the time of my ill-fated voyage on the Lusitania, I was in no position to travel first class; frankly, managing the fare for second class would have been a trial, and even steerage a stretch. In March of 1914, a year and two months prior, I had suffered through the indignities of second class; the food, accommodations and company were of a different order than my trip to Europe the previous spring, as editor of The Smart Set.

My brother Stanton-the eminent Modernist painter who pioneered the Synchromist movement-was living in London in early 1915. I had spent almost a year with Stanton in Europe-first in Paris, then London-before returning on the Olympia in March, leaving him to stubbornly serve his muse.

Our sojourn in Europe had been well-intentioned-Stanton sought a suitably sympathetic climate in which to paint, I to pursue writing (both criticism and fiction)-but in retrospect our timing could have been better. A continent withered by war and gripped by nationalist hysteria was hardly conducive to creativity.

In April of 1915 I began to cast about for a way to return to Europe, and convince Stanton to return stateside. But the condition of my finances-and, frankly, of my health-was less than ideal.