Max Collins - The Hindenburg Murders

“Poor bloke’s been sick ever since that first night.”

“No kiddin’?”

“Yes. You probably noticed him coughing and sneezing.”

“No, I can’t say I did.”

“Well, anyway, Eric’s been sick in bed, stuck in the cabin, since he woke up Tuesday morning.”

“Oh, well by all means give him my regards, and a get-well-soon. He was the kind of sounding board a lovesick goon like me needed, just about then.”

Soon after, Charteris excused himself, thinking that either he was a terrible detective or Ed Douglas was a terrific actor-because there had not been the slightest sign that Douglas was stringing him along, that the advertising man might know that Eric Knoecher was dead.

In fact, Charteris didn’t think Douglas did know. Nor was he convinced the man was a spy for General Motors or Admiral America, either. This was simply a middle-aged man who had fallen for a good-looking young woman. It just happened that the middle-aged man was an American working in Nazi Germany and the good-looking young woman was a Jewess.

When Charteris returned to the lounge, Lehmann was again at his accordion, and the Americans, Brits, and even a few Germans were managing a rousing “Home on the Range.” He stopped to whisper in Hilda’s ear that he’d rejoin her soon, but needed to do something first. She nodded, smiled prettily, and returned with gusto to one of the few American songs she knew.

Charteris went over to where Spah was seated with Margaret Mather and her college boys. Margaret fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he somehow resisted the urge to flutter his back at her.

Leaning in, he said to Spah, “Can I have a word with you, Joe?”

“Sure!”

Spah scampered after Charteris like a puppy, following him around to the dining room, where the tables were already set for tomorrow’s breakfast. Not a soul was on this side of the ship, and Charteris sat on one of the benches by the slanting windows and Spah sat next to him, gazing up at the taller man with a curious expression.

“You’re in danger,” Charteris said.

Spah beamed, as if delighted. “I am?”

“Listen to me, and take this seriously. Quit clowning.”

“All right.” But he was still grinning.

“You’re walking that narrow line.”

“What narrow line?”

“Between clown and jackass.”

Spah wasn’t smiling now. “What are you talking about?”

“Steward Kubis is a friend of mine. I got to know him last year, on the maiden voyage. He confided in me that you are on the brink of arrest.”

Spah’s eyes popped open; it was comic but not, for a change, intentionally so. “Arrest? What the hell for?”

“For these continued unscheduled trips to see your flea-bitten mangy hound.”

Spah grinned again but this time it was glazed. “I’m going to be arrested for seeing my dog?”

“You’re going to be arrested for breaking the rules on a Nazi ship.”

“Such stupid rules!”

“Actually, they’re not stupid rules. Are you aware that a passenger train in France blew up today?”

“Yes-it was on the news broadcast they piped in.”

“ You are suspected of planting a bomb, Joe-of hiding it somewhere in the vast framework and skin of this beast.”

“A bomb? That is ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous, perhaps. But not funny. You have a history of associating with Communists and other anti-Nazi elements; you live in America; and you’ve been doing your hilarious Hitler impression for a German audience.”

Spah said nothing; the grin had long since faded.

“No more clowning, Joe-understood?”

He swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

“I need to ask you something else.”

“Anything. Only a friend would say the things you’ve said.”

“Is there anything else these Germans might have on you? Anything you’re hiding?”

“No. My life is an open book.”

“The first night aboard, I saw you talking to my cabin mate, Eric Knoecher.”

“Yes, that’s right. Is he any better? Or still sick in your cabin?”

“Did I tell you that, Joe?”

“Maybe. Or was it Leonhard or maybe Gertrude? Why, is that important?”

“Joe, what did you and Eric Knoecher talk about?”

“Nothing. Fluff!”

“What kind of fluff?”

“He recognized me, like you did, from the stage, and also from the papers, from press I received. That’s what we talked about.”

“What, you in the press?”

“Yes. He asked me about my ‘engagement’ to the striptease artist, Mathia Merrifield. He wanted to know all about her-what red-blooded man wouldn’t?”

“You’re engaged to a stripper?”

“No! It was a publicity stunt-to get Mathia some press. She’s an American girl, a close friend.”

“How close?”

“That wouldn’t be polite; you shouldn’t even ask. Anyway, I’m happily married with a wife and three kiddies, you know that, I told you before, didn’t I?”

“I believe you did. You just left out the American stripper, is all.”

Spah shrugged, made a face. “Anyway, she was going to appear at some theater in Munich, doing what she does best-take off her clothes-and I have some fame there, so we cooked this up. Or her press agent did, I should say.”

And Eric Knoecher was interested.

“Joe,” Charteris said, “hasn’t it occurred to you that this could be used against you? You can be kept out of Germany on moral grounds. Adultery, bigamy…”

“Yes, it was big of me to help the girl get some publicity. So what if they ban me? I told you, I’m not going back to Germany. Just to my wife and kids.”

“Not your stripper.”

“No.” He grinned. “Anyway, she’s still in Munich.”

Charteris waggled a finger in the acrobat’s face. “Joe-we have one more day, partial day at that, on this ship. Keep your nose clean. Let the steward feed your mutt.”

“She’s no mutt! She’s-”

“She’s a pedigreed bitch, I know. Stay away from her.”

That might have been good advice where the stripper was concerned, too; but at least she wasn’t in freight on this ship. As far as Charteris knew, anyway.

The community sing was winding down when Charteris and Spah strolled back. They were concluding with “Muss I denn?”, the beautiful German folk song that spoke of leaving a “little town,” leaving a sweetheart behind. Had Ed Douglas been present-and understood the German words-he might well have broken down and cried.

Charteris walked Hilda back to her cabin. They spent a memorable hour within, and-as she had requested, for the sake of avoiding embarrassment, that he not stay the night-he kissed her at the door and moved across the hall to his own quarters.

Sliding the door open, his hand felt for the light switch; but from the darkness something, someone grabbed him, perhaps emerging from the lower bunk, and yanked him inside, his monocle flying, and he was knocked into the far wall, which gave a little.

Startled, he tried to get his bearings and saw a form, barely identifiable as the back of a gray-jumpsuited crew member, lurch for the door, slide it shut, sealing them into darkness.

Though he could see nothing, Charteris plunged blindly toward where the form had been-as small as the cabin was, there was little chance of missing-and in doing so threw himself into the open arms of his unknown assailant. Powerful arms hugged him, pinning him, crushing him, bones popping, please God not breaking, and Charteris brought a knee up, where it would do the most good.

His intruder howled in the darkness, and-some small night vision coming to him, now-Charteris brought clasped hands down, hard, on the back of the doubled-over figure. Then he grabbed the cloth of the jumpsuit and slammed the bastard into where the washstand should be. And was.