The Hindenburg Murders (13 page)

Erdmann blinked. “Know what, Mr. Charteris?”

“That Spah left our tour group—when was this, perhaps half an hour ago? He was allowed by Dr. Ruediger to leave the group, unattended, presumably to visit his dog.”

“Unattended,” Lehmann said, hollowly.

“Quite unattended—unless you consider his dog to have provided adequate supervision. He had plenty of time, alone, Ernst, to plant a bomb somewhere in the folds and flaps of your baby’s tummy.”

“We will have that area searched,” Captain Pruss said.

“Splendid idea. Personally, I think Joe Spah is merely a clown—clever or obnoxious, depending on your tastes. Who else is on your list, Colonel?”

Erdmann dug a small notebook from inside his sport jacket. Flipping it open, thumbing to a certain page, he said, “Let us begin with the obvious—one of our Jewish passengers, a Moritz Feibusch, a broker of canned goods from San Francisco.”

“An American?”

“Naturalized—German-born, with many relatives in his native land. While Mr. Feibusch has a commendable reputation as a businessman, he has spent an unusual amount of time in Germany this year—he had been there since January—and may be attempting to arrange expatriation of a number of friends and relatives to the United States.”

Charteris laughed dryly. “Why would Uncle Adolf care about that? Fewer Jews in Germany would seem to be a felicitous state of affairs from the Nazi point of view.”

The Luftwaffe colonel was shaking his head. “Not when officials have been bribed and corrupted to do so. At any rate, this explains Mr. Feibusch’s presence on Knoecher’s list. Interestingly, Mr. Feibusch’s rather constant companion on this trip—a Leuchtenberg, William G., of Larchmont, New York—is
not
one of your missing cabin mate’s ‘subjects,’ though he too is an American Jew, an executive with Alpha Lux, a manufacturer of gas filters.”

Lehmann interjected, “The two men are not traveling together—they were
thrown
together as a result of a seating arrangement.”

“Seating arrangement?” Charteris asked.

Nodding, the
Reederei
director said, “We were instructed to seat the two American Jews together—it’s a common practice, such segregation. From what I’ve observed, Mr. Leuchtenberg has spent the entire trip inebriated. If he’s a spy or a murderer, he’s an extremely adept actor.”

“It’s Joe Spah who plays a drunk in vaudeville,” Charteris said. “I believe Leuchtenberg must be the fellow who was singing German folk songs in the back of our bus.”

Lehmann nodded. “Most likely. He would seem harmless.”

“You apparently haven’t heard him sing,” Charteris said, flicking ash onto his saucer. “Though considering Leuchtenberg’s line of work, he’d have knowledge of the dangers and capacities of hydrogen.” Charteris glanced Erdmann’s way. “Who’s next, Colonel?”

Flipping a page, Erdmann said, “A cotton broker from Bremen named Hirschfeld. George W. Very successful, and on the surface his credentials would seem impeccable.”

“Now, Fritz, don’t tell me he made the mistake of being born Jewish, too.”

“No. Despite his name, he is not a Jew; but his mother was American, a Texan. He is thought to have dangerous connections. He spends much of his time in America, New York particularly.”

“He spends time in New York! He does sound like a dangerous character.”

Erdmann ignored the author’s sarcasm and pressed on. “The wealthiest man on this airship, no doubt, is Nelson Morris, of Chicago, Illinois.”

“I’ve met him. Meatpacking magnate.”

“Yes—and Jewish. With his enormous financial resources, he is in a position to help those of his persuasion back in Germany.”

“Actually, I don’t think they’re persuaded into being Jewish, exactly—but do go on.”

Erdmann glanced down at his little notebook. “Morris is traveling with a friend named Edward Douglas.”

“I met him, as well. Advertising man.”

“Knoecher didn’t give me much background on Douglas, other than to say the S.D. has him pegged as a spy. He was a naval officer in the Great War and has remained in Europe ever since.”

“All right.” Charteris blew a smoke ring. “I can approach him easily enough. What about the third man in their party? The perfume king—Dolan?”

“J. Burtis Dolan. Strong French connections, but not considered a major risk.”

“Who else?”

“Well, there’s a woman named Mather—”

“Not Margaret Mather! What possible harm could that spinster do?”

“She travels widely in Europe and America. She is precisely the sort of ‘innocent’ who makes an ideal courier. In addition, she has Jewish friends in Massachusetts.”

“I’m sure she’ll prove to be a regular Mata Hari.”

“I take it you’ve met her as well.”

“Yes, Fritz, it’s a small world on an airship. We held hands on the bus.”

“To each his own.” Erdmann thumbed to the next page, but didn’t bother looking at it. “The final pair of names on the list I know will be familiar to you—I saw you dine with them last night.”

“What, the Adelts, I suppose? Jew-loving journalists—the worst kind!”

“Mr. Charteris, these two are being considered for reeducation.”

This seemed to alarm Lehmann; his eyes flared, nostrils. “Good God, man! Where?”

“Dachau.”

Lehmann turned pale.

Erdmann added, “Knoecher was making an evaluation.”

“It’s, it’s, it’s absurd,” Lehmann said. “Leonhard Adelt is my biographer! I’ve known him for many, many years—and Gertrude, too! Certainly they’ve had their difficulties with the current regime, but that is hardly uncommon, these days.”

“
I
did not place them on the list, Captain,” Erdmann said, rather solemnly. “These are names Knoecher gathered. Whether they deserve reeducation is for someone else to judge.”

“What is Dachau?” Charteris asked.

“A concentration camp,” Lehmann said, his voice hushed, his eyes hooded.

“I would call that a motive for murder,” Erdmann said.

Charteris said nothing, but silently agreed.

“Keep in mind the Adelts are Catholics,” Erdmann continued, “and are understandably upset about the recent arrest of over one thousand monks and nuns on sex-crime charges. In addition, the Adelts are both known to have Jewish and leftist international connections.”

Lehmann’s pipe had gone out. He didn’t bother to relight it.

Charteris flicked ash onto his saucer. “Anyone else on the list?”

“No,” Erdmann said.

“No crew members?”

“Certainly not,” Lehmann said. “We’re a family, the
Reederei
.”

“Is he right?” Charteris asked Erdmann.

“Knoecher said nothing of suspecting any crew member—who of course have passed S.S. and S.D. scrutiny. So, Mr. Charteris—you will help us?”

Charteris stood. “I’ll poke around—discreetly. But I think we both know that there was at least one more name on that list of Knoecher’s.”

Lehmann lowered his gaze and Erdmann smiled, faintly; but Captain Pruss, confused, said, “Who, Mr. Charteris?”

“Me,” Charteris said, and went out.

EIGHT

HOW THE HINDENBURG CONSERVED WATER, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS FOUND A CABIN MATE

C
HARTERIS STOPPED AT THE BAR
outside the smoking room, to collect a double Scotch and water. He sipped it, finding it to his liking—he appreciated good solid drinks, as opposed to samples of pale faintly tinted water—then ordered a second one.

Once inside the sealed smoking room, it was rather a bother to deal with that turnstile contraption you entered through, and of course you had to leave any burning cigar or cigarette behind upon returning for more libation.

Its air pressure regulated somewhat higher to keep out any stray wisps of hydrogen, the smoking room was a veritable chapel of combustion precaution: that single electric lighter on a cord, which smokers were clumsily sharing, the peachwood flooring in place of the more easily burning carpet found elsewhere on the ship, those automatically self-sealing ashtrays that swallowed tapped-in ashes. Charteris, resting his drinks on a table, could only grin as he matched a Gauloise, thinking of the director of the
Reederei
—within a few yards of this airtight
chamber—puffing away at his pipe and inviting his cohorts to light up.

Douglas and his friends Morris and Dolan were seated in one corner, lost in conversation, wreathed in smoke. This was apparently a male preserve, though Charteris knew of no rule against women joining in the tobacco idolatry. The air was as filled with masculine braggadocio as it was with cigarette, cigar, and pipe fumes. English seemed to be the language of choice, as various world problems were tackled—sit-down strikes, Japan’s intrusion into Manchuria, Stalin exterminating “enemies of the working class,” the war in Ethiopia, the war in Spain.

What a relief it was to have these problems resolved.

These discussions were in part prompted by a news broadcast piped in, first in German, then in English. One of the more mundane reports had to do with the price of cotton rising both in Europe and the U.S.A., up from nine to twelve.

A tall-dark-and-handsome brute in his mid-thirties, impeccable in his gray three-piece Brooks Brothers, responded to this pedestrian report thusly: “Yippee!”

So it was that Leslie Charteris, boy detective, made his first deduction: the rangy, character who’d howled like a cowpoke was George W. Hirschfeld, cotton broker, son of a Texas mother.

As the news report concluded, Charteris ambled over to where the
Hindenburg
’s answer to Gene Autry stood at the railing beyond which the floor-set windows revealed an atmosphere almost as gray and smoky as the one in here. The man Charteris took for Hirschfeld was holding a big glass of beer, a man’s man’s drink, in a well-manicured hand.

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Charteris said in English, cigarette drooping from his lips, a Scotch in either hand, “that was an enthusiastic response to a pretty dull piece of news.”

“Depends on your point of view, son.” His mellow baritone bore a peculiar distinction: the man had, simultaneously, German and Texas accents. The author had never heard anything quite like it.

“Again, I don’t mean to stick my nose in,” Charteris said, “but exactly what point of view might that be?”

“Let’s just say a man has to have the ability to separate the wheat from the chaff.” He waved dismissively toward their fellow smokers with a hand bedecked by several gold-and-precious-jeweled rings. “For instance, these poor fools around us listen to war news, to politics… the Pope wants the Reich to leave the Church alone, the Reich is up in arms about being accused of that Guernica bombing…”

“Yes. Important enough topics.”

“Not in this man’s opinion. I’m more impressed with hearin’ that
Gone with the Wind
won the Pulitzer, or that General Motors declared a dollar a share. The technicians in Hollywood are out on strike, did you know that?”

“I missed that one.”

He narrowed his eyes and shook a finger at Charteris. “Did you know there’s an effort afoot to close down the burlesque houses in New York?”

“Perish the thought.”

“Perish the goddamn thought is right.” The big man snorted, threw back some of the beer. “Now
that’s
important—like the Kentucky Derby’s important, or the affair between the King and Mrs. Simpson is important…. Let these other poor boobs eat up that slop about war and politics and religion. Give me show business and business business, every damn time.”

Charteris tasted his Scotch. “Are you an American?”

“Technically I’m a German. But I got a Texas momma, and I grew up in the U.S. of A., for the most part. Name’s George Hirschfeld, of Lentz & Hirschfeld, Bremen—hell, you can’t shake my hand with those drinks in it. You must be one two-fisted drinker!”

“Under these conditions I am.”

“Hey, a table’s opened up over there—care to join me?”

Hirschfeld settled into the booth side and Charteris took a chair with a small round table between them. They were seated near the railing and the windows. Charteris set down his drinks, and extended his hand.

The author was in the midst of a too-firm grip with the German Texan, and was starting to introduce himself, when Hirschfeld said, “I know who you are, Mr. Charteris.” He mispronounced it Char-
teer
-us. “You’re the mystery writer. Your detective’s the Saint, right?”

“It’s
Chart
-eris, actually. Are you a reader of mine?”

“No.” Hirschfeld was firing up a Pall Mall—Charteris’s favorite American brand, coincidentally. “No offense, but I gotta read too much, in my work—reports, newspapers, charts, and God knows what all. For relaxation, I’m more a movie man, myself.”

“Well, they’re probably going to make my stuff into films, pretty soon. RKO just picked up the rights.”

This seemed to impress the cotton broker. “Yeah? Who’s gonna play your detective?”

“I’m lobbying for Cary Grant. I presume I’ll get Grant Withers.”

Hirschfeld laughed at that, a deep, raspy sound. “Broadway and Hollywood—that’s what America’s really about.”