The Hindenburg Murders Read online

  “I would.”

  They were almost neighbors. Charteris had been assigned cabin A-49/50 near the portside stairs, and Hilda was in A-31/32, just down the narrow hall a few doors. After the spacious promenade and lounge, these windowless, glorified closets came as something of a shock—they were no better, or for that matter no worse, than a first-class railway sleeping car.

  Hilda’s room—if a six-and-a-half-by-five-and-a-half cubicle could be so designated—had pearl-gray linen walls, a rose in a wall vase, cupboards over a fold-out washstand; her suitcase was on a small fabric-and-aluminum stand and an aluminum ladder, drilled with circular holes to lessen its weight, leaned against the top bunk.

  “Bathrooms and shower are on B deck,” Charteris said.

  “A shower on an airship? That must be a first.”

  “Oh, it is—but there’s only one, so you have to make a reservation, I’m told.”

  “Well,” she sighed, surveying her tiny world, “at least I do not have a roommate.”

  Charteris leaned an arm against the bunk. “Would you like one?”

  She had been just about to finally undo the belt of her trench coat, but now she paused, smiling faintly, as if thinking better of it.

  “You are rather bold, are you not, Mr. Charteris?”

  He leaned forward, just a bit, and kissed her on her full mouth—a short but promising kiss, which she accepted, if not quite returned.

  “At times,” he said.

  Smirking in a not unfriendly manner, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him gently toward the door. “Perhaps you should check out your own quarters before trying to replace them.”

  “Fair enough… Shall I stop by just before ten? We could have supper together.”

  “What, and eventually breakfast?”

  “Now who’s bold?”

  She squeezed her pulchritude past him, reached around to grasp the sliding door’s handle and gently nudged him out. “I’ll meet you at the dining room at ten.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “No it is not—it is just supper.”

  She closed the door on him—and over her wicked little smile—and he walked to his cabin grinning, whistling a jaunty tune (one he’d worked out for the Saint, should those Hollywood people ever come through on their promises). He opened his cabin door with the key provided in a Reederei “Welcome Aboard” packet given the passengers at the hotel during the customs process, and found quarters identical to Hilda’s, with two exceptions.

  First, the linen-covered panels of his cubicle compartment were beige, rather than pearl gray.

  And second, he did have a cabin mate.

  The man was lanky, blond hair slicked back like an Aryan George Raft, with a pale, narrow, well-grooved, sharp-featured face including eyes so light a blue they almost disappeared. He wore a tan suit and orange tie and was probably pushing forty.

  “I guess we are in this together,” the man said in German, with a ready smile. He was putting a suitcase up on the top bunk, Charteris’s bag already resting on the single luggage stand.

  “Leslie Charteris,” the author said, extending his hand.

  “Knoecher—Eric Knoecher.” He took Charteris’s hand in an indifferent grip. “I’m from Zeulenroda.”

  “That’s in Germany?”

  “Yes. Are you English?”

  Charteris nodded. “I live outside London. I’m a writer by trade.”

  “Really! I’m in the import business. You speak German well…. I know some English, if you prefer….”

  “German is fine.”

  “No, please—I can always use the practice.” Carefully, thoughtfully, Knoecher asked, in English, “What sort of books do you write?”

  “Mystery novels. Thrillers.”

  Knoecher raised his eyebrows, impressed. “I don’t read much fiction but I know such books are popular. Well—what are we to do with these cramped quarters?”

  “Sleep. I think we’re expected to spend our upright time in those spacious public rooms.”

  “They are very nice…. By the way, you can have the top bunk, if you like. I just was looking for someplace to stow my suitcase.”

  “No, this is fine.” Charteris sat on the lower bunk; Knoecher was standing, arms folded, leaning back against the washstand wall. “I’m a little surprised to have company, though, since I understand this flight is underbooked.”

  “Is that right?”

  Charteris nodded. “I think they’re only a little more than half capacity. There should be plenty of cabins.”

  Knoecher frowned in thought. “Well, perhaps we could complain.”

  “I don’t mind the company, Eric, if you don’t. Besides which, I’m endeavoring to make the point moot by getting into the good graces of a lady passenger I recently met. She doesn’t have a roommate—yet.”

  “Ah! A shipboard conquest, so early?”

  Charteris smiled, shook his head; like Ed Douglas, he was craving a smoke. “Early stages, and I don’t like to think of it as a ‘conquest’—that’s so ungentlemanly. Rather a… new friend that I hope to make.”

  This remark was not lost on the German, who grinned; his English was good enough to grasp the double entendre.

  A sharp knock interrupted their conversation. Charteris rose and opened the door to find a familiar figure—Chief Steward Heinrich Kubis, whom the writer had become well acquainted with on the ship’s maiden voyage.

  “Welcome, Mr. Charteris,” the chief steward said. His German-accented English was impeccable.

  “Heinrich! I rather hoped you’d be aboard.” Charteris put one hand on his friend’s shoulder and extended the other for a warm clasp.

  Looking past Charteris to his cabin mate, the steward said, “I hope I am not intruding, gentlemen.”

  “You’re a welcome sight,” Charteris said.

  In his late forties, about five-foot-nine, dark blond hair brushed back, bright blue eyes perpetually a twinkle, Kubis was a cheerful, suave veteran of such fashionable hotels as the Carlton in London and the Ritz in Paris. He had also been the first steward ever to serve aboard an airship.

  Charteris introduced Knoecher to the chief steward, and after some polite small talk, Kubis said, “Captain Lehmann would be honored to welcome you aboard, personally, Mr. Charteris. If you would come with me, sir…”

  In the narrow hallway, the chief steward said, “I just finished your book.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “The Saint in New York. Exciting, if a bit bloodthirsty.”

  They walked single file in the cramped corridor, the steward leading the way, glancing back as they conversed. Charteris was amused by Kubis, who catered to famous passengers, keeping up on all the society columns.

  “I appreciate the business, Heinrich. Did you read it in German or English?”

  “German. Very good translation, sir.”

  “Yes, I’ve taken a look at the German versions—the fellow they’re using isn’t bad. Is it true Captain Lehmann is merely observing on this flight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many captains do you need on one trip?”

  “Well, this time we have five, sir.”

  “Five!”

  “There are more airship captains available, at present, than airships—but we hope, with this new American sister fleet imminent, that may all change.”

  Charteris had supposed they were headed to the control gondola, but Captain Lehmann was instead waiting in the chief steward’s office on B deck, starboard, near the tiny bar and the much-yearned-for, still off-limits smoking room.

  The office also served as Kubis’s quarters, which were about twice the size of a passenger cabin, but nonetheless hardly spacious, with both a cot and a desk, flush against opposite walls. After ushering Charteris into the cubbyhole, Chief Steward Kubis departed, both as a practical matter of space, and out of respect to these two men.

  Captain Lehmann rose from the desk to greet the author with a smile and
a handshake. The captain looked smaller in civilian clothes—a gray three-piece suit and darker gray bow tie. Suddenly Charteris realized the fiftyish Lehmann was an unprepossessing figure out of his usual snappy midnight-blue captain’s uniform—short, stocky, his thin dark graying hair combed back, Lehmann seemed an unlikely candidate for war hero or principal director of the Zeppelin Company, both of which he was.

  Lehmann had struck Charteris, on the ship’s maiden voyage, as a kindly, soft-spoken father figure, with a surprising wellspring of good humor, as demonstrated by entertaining the passengers with his accomplished piano and accordion playing. Around his eyes and mouth were lines etched by a lifetime of smiles; but in the pale blue eyes in the egg-shaped face, a new melancholy seemed to have settled.

  Charteris knew, at once, something was wrong.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Charteris,” the captain said in German, and the conversation that followed was in that tongue. Lehmann gestured to the cot, adding, “Forgive the limited seating.”

  Charteris sat. “I’m delighted to see you again, Captain—though I’m disappointed you’re not at the helm, this trip.”

  “That’s a luxury an executive like myself can rarely, if ever, indulge in,” Lehmann said. “You’ll meet Captain Max Pruss, and you’ll like him—no nonsense, confident… I trained him myself. Former Graf Zeppelin captain.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Do you think I would willingly trade hands-on airship command for overseeing passenger operations and crew recruitment?”

  “No. But I rather supposed Dr. Eckener enjoyed that kind of thing—has he retired?”

  Lehmann shook his head, wearily. “It’s very sad, Mr. Charteris. Very sad indeed—we worked as comrades for almost thirty years, but politics has ruined all that.”

  “Dr. Eckener alienated himself with the brownshirt boys, I take it.”

  “Yes. And he assumes, wrongly, that I am one of them—he calls me a Nazi, and many others in the company, loyal zeppelin men, he condemns as ‘collaborators.’”

  “Eckener is a wonderful man, but blunt, not to say irascible.”

  “He is indeed all of those things. I assure you I am not a Nazi, Mr. Charteris, not a party member—I seek only to keep our ships flying in troubled skies.”

  “The atmosphere has changed, since my previous voyage,” Charteris said, and briefly filled Lehmann in on the indignities of the customs process.

  Lehmann shook his head forlornly at this report. “I do so regret that. I remember fondly the good times we had on the maiden voyage, you and your lovely wife…. I am sorry to hear that you and Pauline have parted.”

  “On friendly terms.” He adjusted his monocle. “She abided my wandering eye longer than most women would. The fault was mine, entirely.”

  “Forgive me for prying into personal matters.”

  “Not at all, Captain. May I do the same?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Your boy was ailing, when last we spoke. An inner-ear infection, I believe. Is he well?”

  Lehmann smiled tightly; there was no mirth in it. “Marie and I lost Luv, Easter Sunday last.”

  “No! Oh my God, Ernst. I am so very sorry.”

  As a father himself, dealing daily with mere separation from a beloved child, Charteris knew how deeply such a tragedy could wound.

  And now the author understood the sadness in this gentle soldier’s eyes—how a warrior who had won the Iron Cross, twice, could become that most pathetic of figures, a heartbroken parent.

  “We suffer our sorrows,” Lehmann said, “and yet we go on—you write, I fly. There is escape in work.”

  “There is indeed.”

  The captain shifted in the hardwood chair. “I invited you here for more than social reasons, Mr. Charteris—much as I enjoy your company. As you know, we have an increased security presence on this ship.”

  “Yes—I met Colonel Erdmann.”

  Lehmann nodded. “Colonel Erdmann mentioned to me—in a friendly way, I might add—that you expressed to him some concerns… specifically, about the possibility of a bomb scare.”

  “The precautions being taken suggested as much.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, because loutish security men, causing a commotion about possible sabotage, can be as damaging to the Zeppelin Company as the discovery of a bona fide bomb.”

  “Were you warned that a bomb might be aboard?”

  Lehmann sighed. “You should know, Mr. Charteris, that virtually no zeppelin flight, particularly in these difficult days, goes untouched by such concerns. Time bombs have been uncovered a number of times on zeppelins in the past—the Bodensee, the Nordstern, recently on the Graf Zeppelin. Even the Americans had a sabotage problem, with their Akron. The S.D. have an increasingly challenging task to protect our passengers from enemies of the Reich.”

  “I should think,” Charteris replied, with mock innocence. “After all, there are so many enemies to choose from, when so many nations are alienated, so many people of various racial, political, and religious backgrounds are persecuted.”

  Lehmann managed another smile—a tired one. “I personally have no problem with such talk, Mr. Charteris, and though I might agree with you in at least some instances, certainly you’ll understand my need for… discretion.”

  “Certainly.”

  Now Lehmann frowned. “What I don’t know is if you understand your need for it. Discretion, I mean.”

  “… I see.”

  “Perhaps you don’t. The gentleman sharing your cabin, Mr. Knoecher—the importer?”

  “Yes?”

  “What he imports, Mr. Charteris, is information. He is an undercover S.D. agent.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh’ indeed. The Reederei was instructed to provide Mr. Knoecher to you, as your cabin mate.”

  “Why in heaven’s name?”

  “Because you are outspoken. Mr. Knoecher is not aboard this ship seeking a bomb—his specialty, I understand, is ferreting out information about both his fellow countrymen and foreigners who do business in Germany.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Perhaps you can make certain assumptions yourself. But those with skeletons in their closets—racial, political, religious skeletons, to quote you—might do well to steer Mr. Knoecher a wide path.”

  Charteris shifted on the cot. “Well. Thank you for the warning. He certainly seemed pleasant enough—even innocuous.”

  “Yes. That is his… special gift.” Lehmann rapped on the desk, with the knuckles of his right hand. “I hope you will keep in mind that we never had this conversation. Should Mr. Knoecher and those he works for learn of my… indiscretion, in sharing this information with you… I could well be added to his list.”

  Touching his heart with an open hand, Charteris said, “Ernst, I’m grateful to you—though I doubt I have anything to fear, from Mr. Knoecher.”

  “Mr. Charteris, everyone has something to fear from the likes of Mr. Knoecher.”

  A knock at the door seemed to put a period at the end of the captain’s sentence.

  “Yes?” Lehmann called, in a firm, loud voice that reminded Charteris this man had indeed been a captain and a soldier.

  Chief Steward Kubis peeked in. “Captain, I apologize for interrupting, but there is a matter I wonder if you would mind handling—I prefer not to bother Captain Pruss at this stage of our voyage.”

  “Understood. How can I be of help?”

  “One of our passengers insists that he must feed his dog himself.”

  “His dog?”

  Charteris, still seated on the cot, said, “I think you’re about to meet Joseph Spah, more popularly known as Ben Dova.”

  And Spah, who’d been waiting in the hallway, squeezed his compact frame past the chief steward and joined Charteris and Captain Lehmann in the cramped cabin. The little man in the powder-blue suit and matching sweater-vest had a wooden bowl lettered ULLA in one hand and a bag of dog food tucked under his other arm.


  “Captain, forgive my rudeness,” the acrobat said in German, then he noticed Charteris and said, in English, “Ah! My friend the mystery writer! Leslie, perhaps you will help me convince the good captain that only I can feed my dog.”

  “I think you’ll find Captain Lehmann a reasonable sort,” Charteris said, not wanting to get involved.

  Back to German, Spah continued, words tumbling out of him, “This is the Reederei’s responsibility, Captain. I wanted to ship my dog to New York by steamer, but your people at the ticket office talked me into shipping Ulla on your zeppelin. They said many, many animals had made the trip, birds, dogs, cats, fish, even deer, no problem. They promised I could feed and handle my dog myself—she’s young and skittish and must be frightened back in your dark hold.”

  “I understand your concern, Mr. Spah,” the captain said, “but I’m sure your dog will be well cared for.”

  “You don’t understand, Captain—this dog is royalty! She is Ulla von Hooptel, with pedigree papers!”

  “Everyone’s a ‘von’ in Germany these days,” Charteris said dryly, catching the chief steward rolling his eyes, “even the dogs.”

  Patiently, the captain said, “Mr. Spah, your dog is in our animal freight room—that’s all the way aft at Ring 62. It’s a precarious passage.”

  “Not for an acrobat!”

  “He’s right, Captain,” Charteris said, and explained who Spah was.

  “For months I’ve trained Ulla for my act,” Spah said. “She leaps at me from behind, and I pretend to fall down. She won’t know what to do without me! She’s such a sweet dog, Captain—please!”

  Lehmann chuckled, as if having a problem so petty were a relief after talk of bombs and Nazis.

  “Mr. Kubis, escort Mr. Spah to his dog.”

  Charteris stood. “Is it all right if I tag along, Captain? I’m not an acrobat but I think I can maintain my footing. Always wanted a glimpse at the innards of this beast.”

  Lehmann shrugged, standing, saying, “I see no harm. Mr. Charteris—we’ll spend more time together, as the trip progresses.”

  With another handshake, Charteris said, “I hope so, Captain.”