The Hindenburg Murders Page 7

  Or the windows would have served that function had they not been rain-pearled views on a gray cloud.

  Captain Lehmann—again in civilian attire, a brown three-piece suit with a darker brown bow tie—helped Charteris down from the ladder, greeting him with a smile and tight, puzzled eyes.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Charteris.”

  “Well, a surprise, anyway. I need to talk to you and Captain Pruss.”

  The eyes tightened further, then eyebrows in the fatherly face lifted in a shrug. “Come with me, please.”

  The center section was the chart room, a uniformed navigator on duty there. Lehmann led Charteris into the next and largest segment of the aluminum pod, which held the zeppelin’s equivalent of a steamship’s bridge, with its mass of telegraphs, gauges, control panels, and other gizmos, including of course a pair of wheels, standing almost at right angles to each other, the elevator pilot at one, the rudder pilot at the other.

  Lehmann introduced the author to Captain Pruss, the pleasant-looking blond man in his middle forties an unexceptional figure made impressive by the crisp dark blue of his uniform and cap.

  Still, just as Lehmann carried melancholy in his eyes, the new captain of the Hindenburg had tiredness in his, the features of his oval face touched with a surprising softness.

  “A smooth ride, Captain,” Charteris said in German, and the conversation that followed remained in that language.

  “One of the worst trips we have ever made,” Pruss said, his voice a pleasing, mellow baritone at odds with his words. “We like to give our passengers better sightseeing weather than this.”

  “Weather charts determine our course,” Lehmann put in. “But it’s a science very much in its infancy—the captain had a long night.”

  Both men, polite and even solicitous as they were, were waiting for Charteris to explain and justify his intrusion.

  Glancing about him at the various blue-uniformed officers in the control car, Charteris said softly, “I wonder if we might repair to some private area? I have a subject to discuss, gentlemen, that is unlikely to improve Captain Pruss’s opinion of how this voyage is going.”

  Soon they’d gone back up the ladder and forward to the officers’ cabins, ducking into Lehmann’s, which was somewhat larger than a passenger cabin, with room for an aluminum desk; a small, sloping window looked out on the grayness of sky and sea. Lehmann’s trademark accordion—which had so enlivened the maiden voyage—rested on the floor, leaning against a beige-linen-paneled bulkhead. On the single cot lay unrolled architectural drawings.

  “Been working on our house,” Lehmann said, rolling up the plans, slipping a rubber band around them, setting them aside to make room for Charteris on the cot.

  “Ah,” Charteris said, sitting. “You and Marie moving to Zeppelinheim with the rest of the Reederei family, eh, Ernst?”

  “We have a lovely parcel of land,” Lehmann said, nodding, gesturing for Captain Pruss to take the chair at the desk, which Pruss did. “Beautiful beeches and firs all around us… Now, what has you concerned, Leslie?”

  Lehmann remained standing, a quiet assertion of his authority.

  Charteris asked, “May I assume Captain Pruss is aware of Eric Knoecher’s true background?”

  Pruss glanced sharply at Lehmann, who nodded, saying, “You may speak freely.”

  Charteris told the two poker-faced captains of Knoecher’s overnight absence in their cabin, and ran through his reasoning as to the unlikelihood of the “importer” having spent the night with one of the airship’s two unattached ladies.

  “Of course, if Mr. Knoecher likes boys, rather than girls,” Charteris said, “that might require a new line of thought.”

  “Impossible,” Lehmann said.

  “Ah,” Charteris said. “I forgot: there are no homosexuals in Germany. It’s against the law.”

  Pruss said, “What are you suggesting, Mr. Charteris?”

  “I don’t think I’ve suggested anything just yet, gentlemen. But before I do, is there something pertaining to Mr. Knoecher of which I’m unaware? Do you know of his presence elsewhere on the ship, perhaps in the crew’s quarters, or in another passenger cabin, or even in sick bay?”

  The two captains exchanged a solemn glance, and both shook their heads.

  Lehmann said, “Where do you think he is, Mr. Charteris?”

  “Not on this ship—not anymore.”

  Lehmann’s eyes widened and Pruss’s narrowed.

  Charteris reached in his sport-jacket pocket and displayed the fragment of silk, holding it between thumb and middle finger like a little bell to be rung. “I found this caught in a window jamb on the starboard promenade.”

  Lehmann took the silken tidbit, examined it briefly, passed it on to Pruss, who did the same. Then the two captains looked to Charteris with a shared unspoken question.

  “It’s the tip of Mr. Knoecher’s tie,” the author said.

  “Are you certain?” Lehmann asked.

  “Certain enough. I don’t remember anyone else wearing an orange silk necktie yesterday. It’s not exactly the rage, is it?”

  “It does appear to be the tip of a tie,” Pruss said quietly.

  “You can keep that,” Charteris said. “I don’t really have any use for an inch of neckwear.”

  Lehmann said, “Are you suggesting he jumped?”

  “Hell, no! That manipulative, arrogant son of a bitch was anything but despondent. I do think someone may have done the world the favor of pushing him out a window.”

  “Good God,” Pruss said, whitening. He dropped the fragment of necktie onto Lehmann’s desk, as if the fabric had turned suddenly hot.

  Lehmann didn’t whiten: it was more a greening.

  “It’s possible he was killed on board, then disposed of,” Charteris continued cheerily, as if describing the plot of a Noël Coward play, “but my money would be on a scuffle that got out of hand. In the middle of the night, in the early morning hours, those observation promenades are no doubt deserted.”

  “That’s true,” Lehmann admitted.

  “No witnesses, no problem. A quick shove, and slam shut the window—muffling any scream, but unfortunately catching the tip of the tie… The drop itself would’ve killed him, don’t you think? If not, he’d have certainly drowned in the Channel, or maybe frozen to death. I say, are there sharks in those waters?”

  “You don’t seem terribly upset at the prospect of Eric Knoecher’s murder,” Lehmann said dryly.

  “I believe Western civilization will survive the loss—though the sharks are probably in for some nasty indigestion. Still, I felt a responsibility to let you know. Besides which, however deserving a victim Knoecher may have been, this does mean we have a murderer aboard.”

  Lehmann leaned against the bulkhead; he appeared woozy, a rare occurrence on a ship famed for not causing seasickness.

  “And having a killer among us certainly could make for a less relaxing trip than advertised,” Charteris added.

  “We don’t know that Mr. Knoecher has been murdered,” Lehmann said, rather numbly.

  Pruss swallowed, nodded. “He may well still be on this ship.”

  Charteris shrugged. “He might. So I would suggest your first course of action is a search.”

  Lehmann sighed heavily, then straightened; his expression was businesslike but not unfriendly. “We will do just that. Mr. Charteris… Leslie… we… I… would ask a favor.”

  “Certainly, Ernst.”

  “I ask it as a friend… but also, as director of the Reederei, I can offer you free passage, every year hence, a lifetime ‘pass,’ so to speak… if you will cooperate.”

  “Cooperate how?”

  “Keep this to yourself. Share this information with no other passenger—until we indicate otherwise.”

  Charteris smiled half a smile. “All right. I can understand that you don’t want to alarm your passengers.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I understand how damaging this co
uld be to the reputation of the Zeppelin Company… not to mention how embarrassing to Nazi Germany.”

  Lehmann said nothing; he was looking at the floor.

  Pruss stood. “We will have to discreetly search the ship, beginning as soon as possible.” To Lehmann, the captain said, “We will instruct our stewards and our stewardesses, in their daily housekeeping duties, to check every cabin for this stray passenger.”

  Lehmann nodded firmly. “And we’ll search the interior of the ship….” To Charteris, he added, “Which will not be as difficult as you might think. For all its size, the Hindenburg has scant hiding places.”

  “Balloons tend to have relatively few nooks and crannies,” Charteris said. He slapped his thighs and rose. “Well, that’s all I have to report, gentlemen. Just one passenger mislaid; everything else would seem in place, as best I can tell.”

  Pruss was frowning, a little. “No offense, Mr. Charteris—but your flippant attitude does seem inappropriate. A man, apparently, has died.”

  “A man who was in the business of causing misery for others has died. Besides, Captain, it’s my general philosophy that in a world rife with absurdity and cruelty, an arched eyebrow and an ironic aside are sometimes the only defenses against going stark raving mad.”

  Pruss considered that remark, for a moment, but chose not to comment on it, saying instead, “Should anyone inquire about your cabin mate’s whereabouts, please say that he is staying in his cabin, with a cold, and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “All right. But I would have preferred to make up my own lie—that’s what they pay me for, after all.”

  Pruss ignored that, saying to Lehmann, “A moment with you?”

  Lehmann nodded, then asked Charteris to step outside the cabin, which the author did, and perhaps a minute later, the two captains emerged. Pruss nodded to Charteris and walked to the aperture in the platform and the ladder to his control car.

  Lehmann waited until Pruss was out of sight, then whispered to Charteris, in English, “Did you tell anyone what I told you? Did you warn anyone of who Knoecher really was?”

  “Of course not,” Charteris lied. “Did you?”

  “Of course not!”

  The two men continued to speak in English, carrying their conversation onto the catwalk as they made their return trip to B deck.

  Charteris, following Lehmann, said, “You watched, you heard, how that bastard Knoecher manipulated and charmed our friends at supper last night, backing them into politically damaging corners, wheedling virtual admissions of guilt out of them.”

  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

  AS 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 i
t, 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?”