Max Collins - The Hindenburg Murders

“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.”

Soon Chief Steward Kubis was leading Spah and Charteris down the B-deck keel corridor, unlocking a door that led onto the lower gangway, which the steward illuminated with a flashlight.

They were traversing nothing more than a blue-painted plank of aluminum. Here within the zeppelin’s dark interior, the thrumming of diesel engines was distinct, a powerful presence.

“Passengers are never allowed back here unaccompanied,” the steward told them, as his flashlight found the gangway before them. “Afraid there’s not much to see at night, Mr. Charteris.”

Indeed the bones of the flying whale-struts and arches and wires-could barely be made out in the darkness. There was only a sense of vast black emptiness all around. It took five minutes to reach the stern, where-within a netted-off baggage area-the dog sat in an enclosed wicker basket.

Spah, speaking baby talk to the police dog, let her out and she nipped playfully at him, barking joyfully. Hugging the dog, Spah almost fell backward, acrobat or not, and Charteris caught him, steadying him on the shelflike floor of the baggage area.

Swallowing, holding the animal close to him (she was damn near as big as he was), Spah muttered, “What would happen if we fell?”

The chief steward said, “You would tear through the linen skin, most probably, and hurtle seven hundred feet into the Rhine.”

They fed and gave water to the dog, and returned her to her wicker basket, then left to rejoin the well-lighted world of the passenger area. It was almost ten o’clock P.M. and humans had to eat, too.

From the portside promenade, which had slanting windows identical to those on the starboard side, Charteris and Hilda stood looking down at the glitter and glow of Cologne at night. Before long, silhouetted against the manufacturing center’s expansive profusion of lights, the Gothic towers of the city’s famed cathedral revealed themselves, stretching toward the airship like ghostly fingers.