Max Collins - The Hindenburg Murders

“Please, Leslie,” Lehmann began, his expression grave. “Be reasonable-”

“Do you know what a real murder, widely reported in the press, could do for my book sales? I can see the royalties now….”

Silence filled the cabin, touched barely by the distant thrum of diesels and raindrops dancing lightly on the ship’s sheath.

Finally, abruptly, Erdmann stood. “My men and I will handle this. Discreetly.”

Lehmann looked up, narrow-eyed, at the Luftwaffe colonel. “I believe that’s a wise course of action.”

“When we have your bitten assailant in custody,” Erdmann said, “we’ll inform you. Perhaps you’d like to confront him yourself.”

“Perhaps I would,” Charteris said. “I believe he’ll give up his friend Spehl, and you’ll have Eric Knoecher’s murderer in custody-and no publicity problems whatsoever.”

“We’re in agreement, then,” Lehmann said, looking toward Pruss. “Colonel Erdmann and his men will handle this inquiry.”

The captain nodded. “I have to get back to the control gondola. Gentlemen.”

And Pruss slipped out.

Charteris got to his feet. Yawned. “I believe I’ll have breakfast. Getting the hell knocked out of me has worked up an appetite.”

Erdmann said, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You know, one thing apparently has not occurred to you yet, Fritz.”

“And what would that be… Leslie?”

“The unanswered question.”

“Which is?”

“If Spehl is our man-and I believe he is-what was his motive for dumping Knoecher overboard?”

Lehmann jack-in-the-boxed to his feet, asking, “What are you saying?”

“If Spehl is a saboteur, then never mind comical ol’ Joe Spah taking the occasional unsupervised stroll, aft. Who better than a rigger to tuck a bomb away somewhere in the skin of this airborne monster?”

And Lehmann, his expression more grave than ever, sat back down.

Erdmann merely nodded, in affirmation of Charteris’s assessment, as the author made his way out of the cabin, and down the planklike gangway to the entry to B deck.

Because this would be a short day-landing at Lakehurst was expected for around four P.M.-Charteris and Hilda had agreed to take an earlier breakfast than usual. But it was still a good hour before he was due to knock at her door. Before going back to his cabin, he strolled to the portside promenade, to view another gray, rainy dawn.

The dining room was already doing a brisk business. Some of the passengers, convening for the trip’s final breakfast, were casually attired in pajamas and bathrobes. Others were already spiffily done up in their arrival outfits. Miss Mather, in a blue dress trimmed lacy white, was seated with her college boys, flirting, laughing. The trio of businessmen-Douglas, Morris, and Dolan-were having a rather silent breakfast, wearing seemingly slept-in suits, and looked hungover, which was not surprising, considering how much time they spent in the smoking room/bar area.

“Lester!”

Moritz Feibusch, seated alone at a table for two against the linen-paneled wall, was waving at him. Charteris strolled over and sat for a few moments with the pleasant, lumpy-faced tuna-fish man.

“Just so you know,” Feibusch said, “I’m giving up.”

“Giving up?”

“I’m at a hundred and fifty and who-knows-how-many postcards and, oy, my poor hand is swollen from signing my name. How do you famous people stand it, all the autographs?”

“Endorsing checks from publishers makes up for it. You have the whole day in front of you, Moritz. You can still make your quota.”

“No. This is my birthday trip, Lester, remember? For once, I’m going to sightsee. We’ll be flying over Boston and New York and I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Where’s your friend-Leuchtenberg?”

“I think the drinking finally caught up with him. He should have a Hindenburg -size head about now.”

A steward brought a cup of coffee to Charteris, who chatted with his friend in fancy goods for a few minutes, then returned to his cabin.

It was still too early to knock at Hilda’s door, so he used the time to prepare his papers for customs and pack his things. He left the shaving kit out, in case he should decide to freshen up before landing in New Jersey; but otherwise he was ready for arrival. Then he left the cabin and angled across the hall to Hilda’s door.

He gave her a good-morning peck. “You look even more beautiful than usual, my dear.”

Which of course she did. Today, for the first time, her braids were tucked under a stylish, raffishly angled hat-a shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed straw hat, a vivid rose color matching the rose-and-pink-and-black floral design of her white crepe dress with attached cape and long tight sleeves. It was a slinky affair that made her look tall and slender without downplaying her curves.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, her arm tucked in his, as they moved down the cramped corridor.

“Sound and deep. I couldn’t have slept sounder if a building had fallen on me.”

She laughed. “You are so funny.”

A laugh riot, he thought inside his throbbing head.

In the dining room, they sat nibbling fresh rolls, saying little. Charteris was distracted by the knowledge of the behind-the-scenes investigation in progress; but there was also a certain sense of loss, knowing his comely companion on this journey would soon be exiting his life. As he was usually the one who drove the conversation, the couple settled into silence broken only by the occasional comment about how good something tasted, the clink of dishes and silverware, and the patter of rain gently pelting the skin of the ship.

“You are quiet today,” she said, buttering a biscuit.

“It’s always sad, when a pleasant journey ends.”

“Has it been pleasant for you?”

“You’ve made it so. Hilda… I hesitate to ask this, since you made it clear that ours is a… temporary friendship.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “What is it, Leslie?”

“It’s just that I know a shipboard romance in most instances should be tucked away in one’s memory book, each party moving his or her own separate way.”

A wonderful smile blossomed. “Are you saying you would like to see me again, Leslie? After we land?”

“The thought has crossed my mind. You’re visiting your sister in New Jersey, and I’m heading to Florida, to see my daughter… but I’ll be back in that part of the world next week, to meet with New York book and magazine editors.”

“I would love to see you again.”

He raised his coffee cup in salute. “Just for old times’ sake. That’s what this will all be by next week, you know-memories, old times.”

Suddenly passengers were crowding around the promenade windows. Charteris and Hilda rose from their table to join them, finding a place along the slanting Plexiglas, where they discovered the sun was finally out, the fog burning off, the vast blue shimmer of Boston Harbor revealing itself below, ship whistles blowing them a robust welcome to America.

Holding hands, he and Hilda watched as the airship-at an altitude of merely five hundred feet-coasted over suburbs, people tinted blue in the ship’s shadow as they would run out of houses to gaze up and point and wave, cars pulling over along roadsides as drivers got out to get a better look, dogs barking wildly, and, in rural stretches, barnyards where stirred-up pigs and fluttering chickens reacted in apparent terror, which for some reason elicited giddy laughter from the high-flying sightseers.

Miss Mather flitted to his side, beaming, saying, “Is it ridiculous for me to feel so happy?”

“Not at all,” he told her. “I feel the same.”