The Hindenburg Murders (10 page)

Lehmann nodded back, glumly.

“Well,” Charteris said, “if I
had
told one of them, and right now I told you who—what good would it do?”

With another backward glance, Lehmann said, “If a murder has been committed on this ship, we’d have a suspect—we’d have a starting place.”

“I disagree. I think whoever I might have warned—whoever
you
might have warned—would most certainly have warned others. It would be the humane thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

Lehmann drew in a breath, nodding again, resignedly. Then he paused on the narrow catwalk, turning to touch Charteris’s arm, holding on to a cable with his other hand. His eyes were pleading. “Don’t betray us, Leslie. Help me contain this. The future of my company, the future of zeppelin travel, may well depend upon the outcome.”

“You have my word.”

“Good.”

They walked, the slightly springy catwalk beneath their feet reminding Charteris of an endless pirate’s plank they’d been forced to walk.

“Ernst—do you think this could be connected to that bomb scare?”

Without looking back, but shaking his head, Lehmann said, “I doubt it. There is no bomb on this ship—the search, the precautions, were too thorough. Besides, Knoecher wasn’t part of that effort.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sabotage is Colonel Erdmann’s bailiwick. The S.D. officers who went over this ship, stem to stern, with the finest of fine-tooth combs, were especially trained for antisabotage duty. Knoecher is not in that field.”

“Ah. He was in the business of looking for traitors, not bombers.”

“Yes.”

“But, Ernst, those are hardly exclusive categories. Suppose your Mr. Knoecher discovered that there was indeed a bomb aboard this airship—and discovered, as well, who’d brought it aboard.”

Lehmann’s head tilted to one side as he walked along, considering that. “You have a point…. All the more reason to allow us to contain this volatile situation ourselves.”

“Fine. And, Ernst, should you need my help in the inquiry, say the word.”

“Help in what way?”

“I studied criminology at Cambridge, and I worked for a time as a police constable. Mystery writers don’t just drop from the sky, you know… sorry—unfortunate image.”

Pausing on the catwalk again, Lehmann turned and smiled warmly. “I appreciate the offer, but I rather think Colonel Erdmann will handle any inquiry, should this go more public.”

“Erdmann will be informed of this.”

“Certainly.” Lehmann pressed on. “He will be my next stop.”

“Do you want me to come along, and fill him in?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. Please go about the business of being just another passenger….”

“Another satisfied customer, you mean?”

They had reached the door to B deck.

Lehmann arched an eyebrow, smiled a little. “More satisfied than Eric Knoecher, I venture to say.”

Then the former captain of the
Hindenburg
reached for the handle, slid the door open, and gestured for Charteris to step on through.

SIX

HOW THE HINDENBURG’S DOCTOR PRESCRIBED SLIPPERS, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS WAS SUMMONED

A
S THEY HAD AGREED LAST
night, Charteris knocked at Hilda’s door promptly at nine
A.M
. The lovely braided blonde appeared at the author’s first tentative rap, almost startling him.

“Do I seem overanxious?” she asked, her smile slightly embarrassed. Her impressive topography was well served by the simple but stylish navy-blue short-sleeved linen dress with white piqué piping, made quietly elegant by white gloves.

“I’m not complaining, my dear—particularly if you’re anxious to see me.”

“The truth is,” she said, sliding the cabin door closed behind her, “I am simply famished—have you been up long?”

“Awhile.” He gave her no particulars regarding the already-busy morning’s events.

Walking arm in arm, the couple paused in the foyer where the A deck corridor came out near the stairs; on one side of the shelf-perched bust of Marshal von Hindenburg was a map of the Atlantic where a steward was moving the tiny red flag marking
the airship’s westward progress. Then the white-jacketed lad pinned a note on the bulletin board, on the other side of the glowering bust, adding to various postings of news, activities, and regulations.

“They have canceled this morning’s tour of the ship!” Hilda said, a finger touching the offending notice on the bulletin board. “I was so looking forward to that!”

“Just postponed till this afternoon, my dear,” Charteris said, reading over her shoulder.

“Why do you suppose they did that?”

“Probably to annoy you. Word has no doubt gotten around how beautiful you look when you wrinkle your nose.”

She smirked at him. “Do you think mocking me is the way to my heart?”

“Possibly, but first I think we should take care of your stomach.”

In the dining room, which was doing a lively business, a steward ushered them to a table for two along the wall. The breakfast smells were appetizing, to say the least, an olfactory promise the fare delivered on: eggs, sausage, ham, salami, cheese, fresh rolls and breads, butter, honey, jams, choice of coffee, tea, or cocoa. Much as on an ocean liner, there was no shortage of food, and good food at that; but unlike an ocean liner, no one was avoiding it, for fear of seasickness.

The airship seemed to have passed effortlessly through the worst of the weather; the ship’s outer fabric had withstood rain and wind and even hail while the passengers within sensed only a murmur reminiscent of surf lapping against shore. The windows of the promenade looked out on a gray, indistinct world, while the bright, lively inner domain of the
Hindenburg,
as evidenced by its dining room, seemed untouched by the passing
storm, passengers chatting gaily, new friends being made, old ones reaffirmed, amid the bustle of stewards and the clink of china and clank of silverware.

“I am glad we are seated alone,” Hilda said, slathering honey on a biscuit—a healthy girl with a healthy appetite. “I don’t mean to be unsociable, but all that political talk bores me.”

Actually, Charteris thought “bored” was probably not the word—“disturbed” was more like it. But he let it go.

“Where is your cabin mate, this morning?” she asked.

“He’s taken cold. Keeping himself to bed. I doubt we’ll be seeing much of him.”

“My cabin was a little chilly. I rang for the steward, and was brought an electric heater—perhaps you could order one up for Mr. Knoecher.”

“He can fend for himself.”

She nibbled her biscuit. “Do I sense you don’t care much for him, Leslie?”

“I would prefer a different cabin mate, and the next time you get chilly, don’t send for a heater.”

Her lips pursed into that kiss of a smile. “You make me hesitate to ask my next question.”

“And what would that be?”

“I was wondering what we might do with ourselves, this morning, now that the ship tour has been canceled.”

“Postponed. Well, assuming making mad, passionate love in your cabin—with the heater off—is not presently an option, how about a friendly game of cards? Do you happen to play bridge?”

“Why, yes I do. And I love it.”

A busboy was removing their empty plates.

Charteris touched a linen napkin to his lips. “Then let’s seek some victims.”

The deep blue eyes twinkled, the smile lines around them crinkled. “Why, are you good at it?”

Tossing his napkin on the table before him, he said, “Among the ways I took money from people, prior to bilking the public for my published lies, was playing bridge. I was, for a time, a professional at a London club.”

Her eyes flared with interest. “You were a gambler?”

“Gambling as a pure sport doesn’t appeal to me. The only games worth playing are those matching your wits against another’s. Like in a good game of poker, backgammon, or even gin rummy.”

“Or bridge.”

“Bridge best of all.”

“You fascinate me, Leslie.”

“Well, hell—I’m trying to.”

Elbows propped on the table, she gazed with quiet amusement at him over clasped hands. “What were some of your other jobs?”

He shrugged, sipped his coffee. “I prospected for gold and fished for pearls, in Malaysia. Worked in a tin mine and on a rubber plantation. Seaman on a freighter. This is all required training for writers, you know.”

“How exotic. How romantic.” She only seemed to be half kidding.

“Oh, terribly exotic, very romantic, all of my jobs—like driving a bus, for instance. Or working as a bartender. I even blew up balloons for a game booth in a traveling fair—but if this balloon springs a leak, don’t expect me to repair it.”

“Why? Don’t you think you have enough hot air?”

He laughed at that. “What a relief!”

“What is?”

“That you have a sense of humor. So many Germans don’t, these days, it would seem.”

“That is all too true, Leslie.”

He reached across the table and took her hand, gently. “I don’t mean to condescend. I’m rather fond of Germany, or at least I have fond memories of it.”

“You spent time in my country?”

“Oh yes. Back in, when was it? Thirty-one, I went open-air hiking all over the fatherland.”

She nodded. “We are big on rucksacking through the countryside, on foot, or bicycle.”

“I remember singing along the roadsides and in country inns with German boys and girls.”

“More often girls, I would guess.”

“Boys or girls, they were so much more charming than their hot-rodding and jitterbugging American counterparts. I have to admit, my dear, that I came away thinking there was a new spirit at large among the youth of your country.”

“You were right—unfortunately.”

“Well, back in thirty-one, ol’ Schickelgruber was just a housepainter turned beerhall politician. I think, without him, that youthful spirit I saw might have developed into something very fine indeed…. But now I’ve gone and done it.”

“What?”

“Dragged politics back in.”

“Are you political, Leslie?”

“Heavens no! The idea of accepting any prefabricated platform is to me the antithesis of sound thinking.”

They strolled to the reading and writing room on the starboard side (passing the window where Charteris had found the necktie fragment). With its comfy chairs at tiny tables and
wall-attached desk trays, this cozy nook, just beyond the lounge, was a retreat for letter writing or curling up with a book or magazine. The linen wall panels were a soothing gray decorated with pastel paintings delineating the development of the worldwide postal service, which struck Charteris as perhaps the dullest subject ever chosen for artistic interpretation.

A white-jacketed steward was on hand to unlock the bookcase and provide periodicals and novels, at no cost, or to sell
Hindenburg
stationery and stamps (letters could be posted to the ship’s mailroom by a pneumatic tube); also free was the loan of chess sets, Chinese checkers, and playing cards.

Charteris was gathering two decks of the latter when he noticed Leonhard Adelt at one of the wall desks, typing; Adelt’s wife, Gertrude, was at one of the round little tables, thumbing through an issue of the American fashion magazine
Vogue.

“That looks too much like work,” Charteris said to Leonhard, when the handsome journalist paused to change sheets of typing paper.

“Good morning, Leslie,” Adelt said cheerily, looking up from his typewriter. He was wearing glasses, and the same dark suit as last night at dinner.

“I don’t type, myself, of course—strictly a dictation man.”

“Really, Leslie? How long does it take you to do a book?”

“Two years.”

“So much dictation!”

“Oh, no—I think about it for two years. The dictation takes two days.”

Adelt rolled his eyes and laughed, then gestured toward the typewriter. “Yes, well, I’m just earning my keep. Frankly, Ernst booked us free passage in return for my writing a magazine article about the joys of zeppelin travel.”

Hilda had joined Gertrude at her table and the two were chatting over the magazine, admiring some fashions and making fun of others. Adelt’s wife wore a pink high-collared frock with a blue floral pattern, short, puffy sleeves, and heart-shaped buttons; her blonde hair was up, and a pink leghorn-style straw hat perched there. Though Gertrude was slightly older than the braided beauty, and had a certain sad tiredness in her pretty face, she was the only woman on the airship whose comeliness rivaled Hilda’s.

“Little early in the voyage to find much to write about,” Charteris said to the journalist.

Adelt half smiled and replied, in that perfect but heavily accented English of his, “I should probably hire you to ghost this piece—it would seem to require a fiction writer. So far this is the most uneventful journey I ever undertook in an airship.”

“Not counting the presence of our friend Eric Knoecher, of course.”

Adelt smirked humorlessly. “I don’t think Ernst would appreciate my mentioning undercover S.D. spies being aboard. But I must thank you again, for the warning.”

“Think nothing of it.”