The Hindenburg Murders Read online

  Praise for The Titanic Murders…

  “Collins does a fine job of insinuating a mystery into a world-famous disaster… [He] manage[s] to raise plenty of goosebumps before the ship goes down for the count… Whether your interest is disasters, forgotten writers, or good murder mysteries, Collins is able to deliver the goods.”

  —Mystery News

  … and for Max Allan Collins

  “No one can twist you through a maze with the intensity and suspense of Max Allan Collins.”

  —Clive Cussler

  “Max Allan Collins blends fact and fiction like no other writer.”

  —Andrew Vachss, author of Flood

  “A terrific writer!”

  —Mickey Spillane

  “Max Allan Collins masterfully blends fact and fiction… Transcends the historical thriller.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “Collins displays a compelling talent for flowing narrative and concise, believable dialogue.”

  —Library Journal

  “No one fictionalizes real-life mysteries better.”

  —Armchair Detective

  “An uncanny ability to blend fact and fiction.”

  —South Bend Tribune

  “Collins has an outwardly artless style that conceals a great deal of art.”

  —New York Times

  “Collins’ blending of fact and fancy is masterful—there’s no better word for it. And his ability to sustain suspense, even when the outcome is known, is the mark of an exceptional storyteller.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Probably no one except E. L. Doctorow in Ragtime has so successfully blended real characters and events with fictional ones. The versatile Collins is an excellent storyteller.”

  —The Tennessean

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 1999 Max Allan Collins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-10: 1612185177

  EAN-13: 9781612185170

  To Joe Pittman—for helping keep the Collins balloon aloft

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  DAY ONE: MONDAY, MAY 3, 1937

  ONE: HOW THE HINDENBURG VOYAGE BEGAN IN A HOTEL, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS MADE NEW FRIENDS

  TWO: HOW THE HINDENBURG DISEMBARKED, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS MET TWO WOMEN

  THREE: HOW THE HINDENBURG FLOATED INTO THE NIGHT, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS SHARED A CABIN

  FOUR: HOW THE HINDENBURG DELIVERED THE MAIL, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS SLEPT ALONE

  DAY TWO: TUESDAY, MAY 4, 1937

  FIVE: HOW THE HINDENBURG MISPLACED A PASSENGER, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS WALKED THE PLANK

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

  SEVEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG LOST CONTACT WITH HOME, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS WAS RECRUITED

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

  DAY THREE: WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 1937

  NINE: HOW THE HINDENBURG PROVIDED A PUZZLE, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS POSTED CARDS

  TEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG SHADOWED THE TITANIC, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS MET A FAN

  ELEVEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG’S ERSTWHILE CAPTAIN ENTERTAINED, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS HAD A CALLER

  DAY FOUR: THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1937

  TWELVE: HOW THE HINDENBURG BUZZED BOSTON, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS TUGGED A PANT LEG

  THIRTEEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG TOURED NEW YORK CITY, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS SPENT HIS MARKS

  FOURTEEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG MADE A DETOUR, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS PLAYED A HUNCH

  FIFTEEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG ALIGHTED AT LAKEHURST, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS DEBARKED

  SIXTEEN: HOW THE HINDENBURG SMOLDERED, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS BURNED

  A TIP OF THE HALO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Though this work is fanciful, an underpinning of history supports the events depicted in these pages. The author intends no disrespect for the real people who inspired the characterizations herein, nor to take lightly the disaster that took so many lives, and brought an end to the golden age of the airship.

  “A finger of intense radiance appeared suddenly on one of her sides, unfolded upwards with a swift blossoming, and pointed into the sky with a burst of glare….”

  —Leslie Charteris

  “It must have been an infernal machine.”

  —Ernst Lehmann, Hindenburg captain, from his deathbed

  DAY ONE

  MONDAY, MAY 3, 1937

  ONE

  HOW THE HINDENBURG VOYAGE BEGAN IN A HOTEL, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS MADE NEW FRIENDS

  DESPITE THE ELEGANT SURROUNDINGS, IT had all been vaguely demeaning—thirty-six well-heeled passengers scheduled to board the airship Hindenburg, herded into the main dining room of the Frankfurter Hof by Zeppelin Company representatives, quasi-military in their midnight-blue uniforms. There amid the hotel’s tall mirrors and burnished mahogany columns, under the unforgiving eyes of customs officials in Nazi-style black-and-gray uniforms, baggage was screened by bulky X-ray machines, suitcase linings frequently knifed loose; sealed packages were rudely unwrapped, shaving kits disassembled, bon voyage candy boxes slitted open, perfume bottles uncorked, flashbulbs and flashlights and other dry-cell battery-operated gizmos seized like contraband. The suspects at the end of a murder mystery were treated with more dignity.

  That was a subject with which Leslie Charteris was well acquainted—murder mysteries—as the dapper Englishman was the creator of the popular “Saint” stories. At a muscular six-foot-two, with his monocle, Clark Gable mustache, and jet-black, brushed-back hair, Charteris could easily have posed for book-jacket representations of his fictional Saint—Simon Templar, the “modern Robin Hood” who extracted booty (and vengeance) from criminals.

  Despite the urbane veneer, however, the man in the chalk-line oxford-gray herringbone two-button suit conveyed an unmistakable air of the exotic. His thirtieth birthday little more than a week away, Charteris had been born in the British colony of Singapore, his mother English, his father a wealthy Chinese surgeon, which lent his handsome features a distinctly Eurasian cast.

  He’d been born Leslie Charles Bowyer Yin (a descendant of Shang dynasty emperors) but had legally changed his name to that of his literary pseudonym, ten years or so before; “Charteris” was an expansion of “Charles,” but also a nod to notorious gambler and rake Colonel Francis Charteris, founding member of the Hellfire Club.

  Charteris was doing his best not to be annoyed; the day outside the hotel was a dreary, overcast one, drizzling intermittently, discouraging excursions to the Altermarkt or the Liebfrauenkirche or other Frankfurt tourist attractions. Several hours ago, the passengers had been gathered here and required to read and abide by a compendium of regulations far more restrictive than those of any ocean liner. And it was now four o’clock P.M., as this humiliating procedure dragged on—interesting treatment for passengers paying $400 one-way passage to America.

  His two suitcases passed inspection, but there’d been a tense moment at the inspection table when the young Aryan customs agent had asked the author in perfect but stiltedly spoken English, “Are you a Communist or anarchist?”

  And Charteris had replied, “Are there any other choices?”

  This seemed to puzzle the lad, who wa
s in the process of checking the author’s passport and tickets, and Charteris had done his best to amplify: “Communists rarely wear suits from Savile Row, and as for anarchists, everybody knows they can be identified by their untidy whiskers and the round black bombs behind their backs—the ones with the sputtering fuses?”

  The young Aryan was frowning now, but a trim, somber gentleman in his early forties, his graying blond hair combed back on an oblong head, stepped forward.

  “This gentleman is a friend of mine,” said the formidable fellow—whom Charteris had never seen before in his life.

  The young customs agent nodded curtly, as if to a superior officer, though Charteris’s rescuer, despite an obvious military bearing, wore a nondescript three-piece brown business suit.

  As the pair of bags were tagged and stickered (a bold “C” for Charteris), the author was passed through. He sought out his savior—some passengers were pacing, others had taken seats at the linen-covered tables—and spied the gent standing by himself near an ornately gilt-framed mirror.

  “Thank you,” Charteris said to the man. “Comes in handy having a friend in high places, doesn’t it? By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Erdmann, Mr. Charteris.” He extended a hand and the two men shook, firmly. “Oberst Erdmann… but my friends call me ‘Fritz.’”

  “Well, thank you, Fritz, for the assistance.”

  Charteris offered Erdmann a Gauloise from a silver cigarette case; the German accepted the smoke, Charteris plucked one out for himself, then—his lighter having been confiscated by the customs agent—reached for a book of Frankfurter Hof matches off a nearby table, lighting first Erdmann’s cigarette, then his own.

  “That young man doesn’t have much of a sense of humor,” Charteris said, exhaling smoke. “You’d think a civil servant in a country run by a man with a Charlie Chaplin mustache might enjoy a laugh.”

  The somber face creased in a smile, though the lines around the man’s pale blue eyes did not tighten. “Mr. Charteris, your wit may be wasted on this trip. Things aren’t as gay as they were on the maiden voyage of the LZ-129.”

  The LZ-129 was the Hindenburg, and Charteris had been among the celebrities on the maiden voyage just a year earlier. Precautions had been few, tickets and passports handled expeditiously.

  “I appreciate the advice, Fritz, though it’s a shame—that really was a lovely voyage. Did we meet, then, and I’ve somehow misplaced you in my memory?”

  Smoke curled like a question mark in front of the German’s face. “We haven’t met, sir, but you are after all a famous man.”

  “What branch of the military are you in? Or do I have the privilege of speaking to a member of the S.S.?”

  Another smile creased Erdmann’s face. “What makes you assume I’m with the military?”

  “You and those other two gentlemen”—Charteris pointed, discreetly—“are the only passengers whose luggage was not searched, and pockets not emptied.”

  “… Luftwaffe.”

  “Ah. Security?”

  “Strictly aboard as observers.”

  “Oh, of the topography of France and England, you mean?”

  Erdmann sighed smoke. “The current political situation makes it a necessity to avoid France, and take a detour around England, by way of Holland…. Mr. Charteris, I hope you take my advice to heart. You could have been in a great deal of trouble if I had not interceded. Those ‘customs agents’ are S.D. officers.”

  Charteris frowned, glanced back at the customs table. “I know of the S.S., but I’m afraid the S.D. is new to me.”

  “The S.D. is the S.S.—the security branch. That young man you were… what’s the term? Ribbing? That young man has the absolute ability to forbid embarkation to you or any passenger whose presence might be deemed by him ‘detrimental’—without redress or refund.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’m heading to Florida for a birthday party… mine.”

  Erdmann bowed, slightly. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Charteris.”

  “Call me ‘Leslie,’ please—after all we’re old friends, aren’t we, Fritz?”

  Now at last the eyes joined Erdmann’s mouth in a tight smile. “I’ll have to read one of your books… they must be quite amusing.”

  With another half bow, Erdmann retreated, joining his two Luftwaffe comrades at a table.

  Red-jacketed waiters had begun threading through the dining room, taking orders for, and serving, cocktails—to assuage the restlessness and annoyance of these put-upon passengers.

  Charteris ordered a Scotch and water, specifying Peter Dawson, and leaned against a manteled wall, studying his fellow travelers, spotting no apparent Communists or anarchists at all among a group that seemed fairly evenly divided between English speakers—Brits and Americans—and Germans. The author could eavesdrop in these and several other languages, if necessary.

  Most shuffled through the indignity of the baggage-check process without much ado, though one little fellow made Charteris’s skirmish pale to insignificance.

  Wearing a jaunty golf cap, bow tie, powder-blue suit with matching sweater vest, and blue-and-white shoes, the small figure was at once dapper and clownish. His diminutive stature was emphasized by a gigantic dog on a leash who seemed to obey his master’s every thought, much less command. The brown-and-black Rin Tin Tinish police dog was beautifully groomed and obviously highly trained, sitting and standing and moving through the customs line at seemingly subliminal prompts.

  Charteris had seen the man, if not the dog, before, though he couldn’t place him. The round face, the elfin features, reminded the author of comedian Bert Wheeler, of the Wheeler and Woolsey team, and somehow Charteris felt sure the sporty figure was in show business.

  The little man, or anyway his dog, had attracted considerable attention, upon their entrance; but man and beast were unassuming enough as they waited on line. Tucked under the arm that controlled the dog’s leash was a paper sack covering a gift-wrapped package, an oblong box probably containing a child’s toy, and in his other hand he carted a good-size, battered blond suitcase haphazardly adorned with decals indicating years of European travel.

  But upon reaching the head of the line, the little man with the big dog became a huge problem. The customs officials did not know what to make of the beast, whose master shrugged off their concerns by informing them, in German, that arrangements had been made for Ulla, which was the dog’s name.

  The same humorless young Aryan Charteris had encountered did not take kindly to the little man’s dismissive manner. Tickets and passport were reluctantly deemed to be in order; then the customs agent pointed to the paper sack under the man’s arm.

  “What is in the box, Mr. Spah?”

  “It is a gift for my daughters. Put it under your X-ray machine, but please don’t spoil the gift wrap.”

  The young agent took the paper sack from the passenger and, without removing the gift-wrapped box, held it up and shook it.

  “Please be careful!”

  The agent sneered, ever so faintly, and withdrew the brightly wrapped package and began to tear off the colorful paper, like a greedy child at Christmas. Mr. Spah became agitated, throwing his hands in the air, making eye-rolling expressions of disgust, which his dog noted with stoic indifference—apparently it had seen its master worked up before.

  The young agent withdrew the lovely Dresden doll, eyeing it suspiciously; he lifted its lacy skirt and had a peek underneath.

  “It’s a girl, dummkopf,” Mr. Spah snapped.

  The agent glared at Spah, then carted the doll to the bulky X-ray machine and had a look at its insides. Finally, the doll rudely dumped back into the ruined gift box, the package was handed back to Spah, who clicked his heels together and thrust his arm forward in a parody of the Nazi salute, replacing the sieg heil with a German variation of the Bronx cheer.

  That was when Charteris—who was smiling around his dangling cigarette—remembered who the little
man was.

  The customs agent, embarrassed, infuriated, was glaring at Spah and his dog, clearly trying to decide whether to detain this passenger. Perhaps intimidated by the dog—who could have torn the young Aryan’s throat open, quite easily, a sight Charteris at this stage might have relished—the agent curtly passed the passenger on.

  “Ben Dova,” Charteris said, approaching the man and animal, adding in German, “I saw you at the Crystal Palace in London.”

  The little man beamed; he had a wide smile that brightened up his entire face, like a switched-on lightbulb. Spah extended his free hand for a shake, which Charteris accepted, once he’d shifted hands with his Scotch and water.

  “You prefer English or German?” the little man asked, in the latter.

  “English, if you don’t mind,” Charteris said, in that language.

  They sat at a small linen-clothed table, the police dog sitting beside his master at a tiny nod of a command.

  “‘Ben Dova’ is my stage name,” the little man said, stroking the animal’s neck. His German accent was faint. “I’m Joseph Spah—Joe. And you are?”

  “Leslie Charteris.”

  Spah’s elfin features bunched in thought. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “Perhaps you’ve read a ‘Saint’ story.”

  Spah snapped his fingers and his dog looked at him curiously, as if trying to translate that into a command. “The mystery writer. Not a reader myself, but my wife is.”

  “From that”—and Charteris nodded toward the unwrapped gift Spah had set on the table—“I deduce your family’s in America. I might have thought you lived in Germany.”

  Spah shook his head, his expression one of disgust. “I’m a native of Strasbourg, but I’ve lived in the States for going on twenty years. Long Island.”

  “You working that dog into your act?”