Charteris had two appointments, actually. The second was with Hilda, at her cabin, to fetch her for an eight o’clock supper; and the first was with a shower.
The shower, to be precise, as this was the only one on the airship (or for that matter on any airship, this being a true first), and Charteris had signed up for 7:15 P.M. Morning reservations for this choice B-deck convenience were well nigh impossible, but at least freshening up before supper—a late supper, anyway—was an achievable goal.
He waited politely for the previous occupant to exit, then he went in, used the toilet in the adjacent changing room, hanging his clothes up on the hooks, leaving his monocle on a shelf, and headed into a cubicle where he stood naked and cold awaiting an unseen steward to turn on the wasser. Above him was a nozzle that seemed big enough to bathe everyone on the ship in one blast.
But he had been warned by Chief Steward Kubis to “be quick about it,” because the spray cut off automatically after three minutes, in an effort to conserve water, and if you were all soaped up at the moment, that was your problem.
“Airships must ration everything by weight,” Kubis had told him. “Even the shower water is gathered and stored as ballast in dirty-water tanks.”
Despite the shower’s rather limp-wristed water pressure, he had managed to soap up and rinse off by the time the nozzle dribbled to its preordained stop.
When, half an hour later, Charteris left his cabin to fetch the lovely Hilda, he was bathed, shaved, trimmed and waxed (mustache only), cologned, pomaded, and clothed in his white jacket and black tie, black shoes shiny as mirrors, looking at least like a million bucks.
Hilda, of course, looked like two million. She, too, had managed to book a shower, and smelled of lilacs, her blonde hair flowing to her shoulders now, shoulders that were beautifully bare thanks to a slim sheath of a dress that was all pleated black romaine, ruffled with pink and green satin ribbon.
“We are a pair,” Charteris said, as he walked her to the dining room, where a table for two along the wall awaited.
“I never saw a more handsome man,” she told him, as they waited for their Beaume Cuvée de l’Abbaye 1926, a fine red wine from the airship’s “cellar.”
“It would take a better writer than yours truly,” he said to her, “to do your beauty justice.”
Pretty corny stuff, he knew, but it felt very good, and even very real. They were holding hands and the look in her deep blue eyes promised a memorable evening.
They ate lightly if thoroughly of mixed green salad, cheese, fresh fruit, pâtés à la reine, and roast filet of beef, medium rare. Both declined dessert and sat drinking coffee, listening to the rain beat its insistent but trivial tattoo on the ship’s skin, watching lightning-flecked charcoal clouds roll by.
The storm had kicked up again, the ship on a wild ride into pelting rain and torturous head winds—if they were doing fifty knots now, Charteris figured, they were lucky—but the mood it lent to the romantic evening could not have been better conjured by Merlin himself.
“I love the rain,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
“I love it in Malaya—the tropical storms sheet down like a waterfall, they beat the roof like a drum, stream from the eaves in a hundred miniature Niagaras. I’d sit at an open veranda and watch it come down, with great dewdrops condensing on the glass of wine I held… the air suddenly cool, fresh, temporary relief from a steaming heat.”
She squeezed his hand.
He went on: “I love it in Corsica, too—spluttering on the taut cloth of a tent top, peering out from that precarious shelter to watch the drops dancing on the rocks, running down to drench a parched ravine.”
Now she was holding his hand with both of hers.
“I’ve watched thunderheads,” he said, “building over the mountains in Tirol, bursting over the green valley where I didn’t even have a tent, just a ground sheet to pull over my sleeping bag and hope that not too much of it would creep in… which it invariably did.”
“I love the rain,” she said.
“Ah, but you live in the city. Rain is just a nuisance in the city. To feel the excitement of the rain, you have to be where the rain belongs—out in the open, where you can see it falling all around you, separated from it by the least possible protection necessary to keep you dry—and sometimes not even that.”
“I love it, too,” she said.
“I’ve always been a sucker for rain—but, you know, I never loved the rain more than I love it right now. Right this moment.”
“I love it.”
They made love in her cabin, twice that night, and then they slept snuggled together in the lower bunk—the sound of rain nowhere near them, but they imagined they heard it.
They imagined they heard it clearly and well, though the only real thunder was the muffled sound of snoring from the cabin next door, leaching through the linen-covered foam panels of the wall.
DAY THREE
WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 1937
NINE
HOW THE HINDENBURG PROVIDED A PUZZLE, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS POSTED CARDS
WELL OUT OVER THE ATLANTIC, the Hindenburg loped along, stoically battling forty-five-knot head winds. Severe electrical disturbances continued to create a radio blackout, though occasional messages did get in and out—at six A.M., thirteen kilometers east of St. John’s, Newfoundland, one thousand kilometers southeast of Cape Farewell, the airship sent a message reporting continued electromagnetic storms and requesting weather information. Two and a half hours later, a transmission made its way through from Canada, informing the Hindenburg radio operator that lighter rains waited ahead.
Outside the slanting promenade windows, a cold, gray morning glided by even as Chef Xavier Maier’s fabled fresh rolls warmed the tummies of the airship’s pampered passengers.
Leslie Charteris and Hilda Friederich were latecomers to breakfast, barely beating the ten A.M. cutoff. They had slept in, cuddled in the lower bunk of her cabin, Charteris in his T-shirt and boxers, Hilda in a lacy slip. She had sent him off, a little after nine, to his own quarters, mortified by a knock at her door.
Charteris had slept through it, but apparently a steward had come by to make up the cabin—seemed Hilda had neglected to hang the little “Do Not Disturb” placard on the door handle—and she was suddenly embarrassed.
“Who cares what some steward thinks?” he said to her, pulling his trousers on. “If they have the poor manners and lack of sense to come around at such an ungodly hour, they can—”
But he hadn’t finished his thought, and had barely buckled his belt, when she jostled him out into the hallway. Shoes and socks in hand, he told the door, in a firm voice, that he’d return in half an hour, to escort her to breakfast. A noncommittal, nonverbal response from behind the door was just ambiguous enough for him to take as a “yes.”
Barefoot, he had returned to his cabin, washed up, shaved, slipped into fresh underthings over which he slung studiously casual attire, chiefly an open-neck light blue sport shirt, gray flannel trousers, and blue plaid sport jacket. Staring at himself in the small mirror, brushing his mustache with a thumbnail, he frowned at his reflection, thinking, What’s missing from this picture of perfection?
Then he gave himself half a grin, shook his head: his monocle.
Sometimes he thought he should abandon the silly prop, but the simple truth was he either had to wear the thing or accept the indignity of reading glasses. And, of course, he was too goddamn vain for that, at such a tender age. Thirty, in just seven days, a single week left of his twenties…
He’d forgotten the damn chunk of glass in her cabin, of course, and when he stopped by to pick her up, she almost blushed as she smiled and handed the little round object to him, delicately, holding it between her thumb and forefinger like an entomological specimen.
He tucked the monocle into place, and gave her his most charming smile. “You look lovely to me, my dear, with or without this chunk of glass in.”
And
she did look lovely, of course, in a dark yellow crepe dress and jacket ensemble with a white cravat, her hair back up in braids. Did the latter signal that, though she’d let her hair down last night, today was another day?
“I feel a little foolish,” she said.
“Whatever for?”
“For rushing you out like that. I apologize.”
“Well, I won’t accept your apology.”
Eyelashes batted over her deep blues. “No?”
“Because it’s unnecessary. I should have had the proper decorum to slip out before dawn like any good philanderer.”
She drew in a breath, then let it out in that rough-edged laugh he so adored. “You are shameless.”
“Thoroughly.”
Breakfast was typically Hindenburg opulent: oranges, bananas, scrambled eggs with cheese, two kinds of sausage, and those luscious warm pastries and rolls with honey and a rainbow array of jellies and jams.
In between nibbles of grape-jellied roll, she said, “You are not a philanderer, Leslie. After all, I am not a married woman, and you are not a married man.”
“To tell you truth,” he said, applying strawberry jam to his own roll, “technically I am. My divorce isn’t final for several months.”
“Still, you are unattached. As am I—I too am divorced.”
“You’ve been married?” He knew she had spoken of a boyfriend who died in the Spanish Civil War, but marriage hadn’t come up before.
“Twice,” she said. “That should not surprise you, considering last night.”
“When flying above the world, a worldly woman would seem an apt companion.”
A one-sided smile twitched her cheek; her eyes were fixed on him. “You remind me so of my first husband—he was an artist, too.”
“I’m glad to be thought of in that way—but I take it you mean he worked in oils on canvas.”
“Yes, and in watercolor. He really was not a wonderful artist by any standard, or even a successful one—but he was a beautiful man, with a big well-shaped head and strong round shoulders.”
“He does sound like me.”
She laughed a little. “I was only nineteen, and he was at least forty. We were together a long time.”
“How long is a long time?”
“Six years. Then, one day, he just left. He was gone for over a month, two months I think. My bad luck was that when he did come home, he found me with someone else. He beat the poor boy to a pulp, then stormed out again. That was the last I saw of him—the divorce was handled in the mails.”
Charteris sipped his black coffee. “He does sound like an artist. Was your second husband any improvement?”
“Not really. He owned a bar in Frankfurt. I am afraid I was attracted to him for more practical reasons, though he was fine to look at, too. I met my boyfriend—the patriot—and then my second marriage was over. Not after six years, that time—just six months.”
“Why are you sharing this with me, Hilda? Do you expect me to be shocked?”
“No. I expect you to understand that there have been many men in my life—you owe me nothing but these days, these wonderful days. And nights.”
“That’s a very modern outlook.”
“Thank you, Leslie.”
“But what if I develop old-fashioned ideas?”
A tiny smile flickered on the full lips, glistening with lipstick and just a little jam, in one corner. “I like you, Leslie.”
“I had assumed as much.” He reached across and gently thumbed away the jam.
Her chin crinkled in another smile, and then she said, “You see, I like men. Most women do not. Oh, they say they do—but what they are after, most women, is house and home and security. They do not see what I see in a man—or at least, some men.”
“Which is?”
Her eyes narrowed and glittered. “An opportunity to live a larger life. Without a man there is no way for a woman to get beyond a limited sphere of influence, of experience.”
Somehow he didn’t think this meant she was a gold digger: he took her at her word. It was adventure she wanted; a life worth living, not dishwater dull.
Nonetheless, the only adventure awaiting Hilda, after breakfast, was a shared puzzle with Gertrude Adelt in the starboard side’s reading and writing room.
“A thousand little gray-and-blue pieces,” Gertrude said, as the two attractive women drew up around a small round table, “and, properly assembled, we’ll have a magnificent picture of this very airship.”
“Sounds like a perfectly dreadful way to waste a morning,” Charteris said, eyeing a certain individual across the room, “but I won’t stand in your way.”
Nodding to Leonhard Adelt, who was pecking away at a typewriter at one of the wall desks, still earning his keep via that article on zep travel, Charteris headed over to a small table where a stocky man in his mid-fifties sat with a stack of postcards as thick as a Manhattan phone book.
The man—who wore a rumpled brown suit about the same color as his thinning hair, with pleasant if rather lumpy features—was Moritz Feibusch. Charteris had never met the man, nor had Feibusch been pointed out to him. But Charteris—newly minted amateur detective that he was—had deduced the identity of the fellow who sat addressing the cards, imprinting the back of them with an inkpad’s rubber stamp, referring to a small black notebook as he did.
Feibusch had been sitting with William Leuchtenburg at a table for two along the wall in the dining room at every meal thus far. The other tables had invariably been taken by romantic couples—this singular instance of two men sitting together, Charteris surmised, represented the pair of American Jews who had been segregated together.
Also, he had recognized Leuchtenburg as the singing drunk from the bus, and knew as well that the Jews would not be seated at a table larger than one of the two-seaters—wouldn’t be practical, and Germans were, if anything, creatures of efficiency.
Pulling up a chair, Charteris said to Feibusch, “That’s quite a stack of cards you’ve got there. Do you really have that many friends?”
The lumpy features were pleasant enough, particularly with the man’s ready smile. “I have my share of friends—but there’s always room for one more. I’m Moritz Feibusch, from San Francisco.” He extended a hand that had seen its share of work.
Charteris took it, introducing himself.
“I heard about you!” Feibusch said, brightening even further. “You’re our ship’s celebrity!”
“Just goes to show you that it isn’t always cream that rises to the top.”
Feibusch let out a single hearty laugh. “Well, Mr. Charteris, I must admit, not everybody in this little black book is a dear friend. In fact, most of them are business accounts.”
“And it doesn’t hurt to treat business acquaintances like dear friends.”
“Surely doesn’t. I figure just about anybody would get a kick out of getting one of these….”
And Feibusch handed Charteris a pre-postage-affixed picture postcard with an airbrushed pastel painting of the Hindenburg in full flight against a blue sky, a tiny ocean liner looking insignificant and lost in the blue ocean below. Turning it over, Charteris saw that Feibusch had written the address in by hand, but the space for a message was stamped: “Greetings from the maiden voyage of the Hindenburg,” also hand-signed by Feibusch.
“Very nice,” the author said. “Of course, this isn’t the maiden voyage….”
Feibusch shrugged. “It is for me. Anyway, when I bought these cards from Steward Kubis—two hundred and some!—I noticed the rubber stamp and asked what it was, and he told me, and I asked if I could use it. It was left over from last year. He didn’t see why not. And neither did I.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Feibusch?”
“Moritz, please, make it Moritz. And may I call you Lester?”
“It’s Leslie, and of course you can.”
“I’m in tuna fish.” Feibusch paused in processing the postcards, turning toward Charteris. “Broker of
canned tuna fish and other canned goods, and fancy goods.” He beamed, shaking his head. “Now, fancy goods, that’s what’s took off like a rocket ship.”
“Fancy goods?”
His eyes went wide with enthusiasm. “Packages of preserves—sugared oranges and lemons, raisins, dried prunes, peanuts, cashews—all done up in pretty gift boxes with cellophane wrapping. Like a hatbox you can look down into, and see all the delicious candied fruits and nuts. All tied up with a pink ribbon, and set off like so with apple blossoms—much better than flowers! Perfect for weddings, ship sailings, especially Christmas. The Germans, Viennese, Hungarians, they all love my gift boxes.”
“You’re quite a salesman, Moritz. I’d buy one of the damn things, if you had one with you.”
Feibusch leaned close to the author, conspiratorially. “If I had one of the damn things along, trust me—I’d sell it to you.”
They both laughed, then Charteris said, “Say, don’t let me interfere with your efforts, there.”
“Thanks,” Feibusch said, and resumed his addressing, stamping, and signing, a one-man assembly line. “Please do keep me company, if you like. It’s rather a relief to”—he glanced about—“sit with someone who’s sober.”
“I noticed your friend does like to keep lubricated.”
“He’s in the bar now. Before lunch, and, oy, he’s already putting it away like Prohibition’s going to start up again any second. He’s a nice enough man—Leuchtenburg is his name— prominent sort, president of his own company. But he’s been pickled since day one.”
“Why? Other than he likes it, of course.”
Now Feibusch’s eyes narrowed. “I think he’s resentful of these Germans.”
“He’s German himself, isn’t he? A German-American, anyway.”
“German-American Jew. That’s something else altogether. Why do you think we’re stuck together, him and me? If you don’t have a concentration camp handy, at least herd the Jews around one table, right?”
“It has gotten unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant! These Germans, they’ve gone mad. I sell to groceries, butcher shops, bakeries, dairies—and do you know I have to go in the back door, do business in the back room? Because out front, in the window, it says, ‘Jews Not Admitted.’”
The Hindenburg Murders Page 11
