The Hindenburg Murders d-2

by Max Allan Collins

  Rain beating an uneven tempo on the umbrella, they walked out onto the runway, the plump silver airship looming; they couldn’t seem to get far enough away from it to get a decent look at the beast. Finally they stopped and he tilted back the umbrella and they both gaped, unable even from this distance to take it all in without moving their heads side to side, a motion that seemed to express their disbelief. Monocle flecked with droplets, Charteris squinted behind the glass and opened his other eye wide as he surveyed the airship he and Hilda would soon be flying.

  The overall impression was of a stupendous streamlined seamed silver specter; but here and there were markings and mechanical manifestations that indicated this was indeed, for all its size, a man-made object. Perhaps a quarter of the way back from the nipplelike mooring cone, lower-case Old English lettering spelled out in red the designation: HINDENBURG. Almost directly below, underneath the belly of the flying whale, extended the boothlike control gondola, seeming ridiculously small. Moving aft, fairly low, lay a long narrow bank of observation windows; farther aft, toward the final third of the ship, perched the propellers of an engine car, like a bug hopping a ride. Another such bug was farther aft still, but between it and its prop-driven predecessor, higher up, were bold block numerals: D-LZ129. Toward the tail, a rocketlike fin separated the rudder-bearing fins above and below-both of which wore the Nazi hakenkreuz-the swastika.

  “It is impressive,” Hilda said.

  “Size isn’t everything,” Charteris pointed out, and-as she seemed to ponder this concept-walked her toward the ship, skirting puddles.

  Despite the drizzle, the Hindenburg was not without spectators to see her off, prominent among them a detachment of Hitler youth in their Nazi uniforms, and a brass band in blue-and-yellow finery, their instruments festooned with matching streamers. Right now they were playing a German folk song, “Muss I denn?”-which, coincidentally, that drunk had already executed (in several senses of the term) on the bus.

  A pair of puny-looking aluminum retractable stairways served as the gangway of the ship; between the two sets of hinged stairs, stewards collected umbrellas-the underbelly of the ship providing a roof away from the rain-as the passengers climbed up the flimsy steps into the Hindenburg.

  Immediately, ooohs and aaahs of pleasant surprise drifted up the stairwell, as only passengers who (like Charteris) had flown this very ship before could have anticipated such splendid surroundings. Unlike the zeppelins that preceded her, the Hindenburg boasted two decks of luxury-liner lavish passenger accommodations. (Even the grand Graf Zeppelin had housed its passengers in a cramped gondola slung under the ship.)

  At the first landing, Hilda paused-taking in the sleek modernity of the surroundings, the soothing pale peach-linen walls, the rich rust-color carpeting, the gleaming chrome railings-until Charteris guided her toward the stairs that led on up.

  As they climbed, Hilda glancing back at him, Charteris said, “The bar and smoking room are that level-B deck. We’re headed up to A deck, where the cabins and dining room are, and the observation area, so we can watch the world shrink as we lift off.”

  Hilda smiled and nodded at this news. She was still snugged into her trench coat, and Charteris admired the pistonlike action of what appeared to be a fine female bottom beneath.

  At the top of the stairs, an ample aisle extended laterally across the ship. Charteris was pleased-in fact, relieved-to see that the bust of Marshal Paul von Hindenburg still held its position of prominence on a high central shelf overlooking this foyerlike area, off of which the cabins were accessed; Dr. Eckener had bragged to Charteris, on the maiden voyage, that he’d refused to replace the bust with one of Der Fuhrer. Considering the repressive treatment the passengers had received going through customs, the author wouldn’t have been surprised to see Hitler’s glowering picklepuss in the place of the ship’s namesake.

  Charteris took Hilda’s arm and-following behind several other passengers, who were still moving slow, taking it all in-escorted her to the starboard side, where a spacious lounge was outfitted with modernistic tables and chairs of an aluminum chrome so light a child could lift them.

  The lounge-dominated by a huge mural-style wall map with sailing ships, denoting the routes of famous explorers-was bereft of the feature that had been its most popular item on the maiden voyage: the lightweight yellow pigskin-covered aluminum Bluthner baby grand piano, around which Charteris and his wife, Pauline, had so often stood as Captain Lehmann played. He and Pauline would offer slightly tipsy renditions of Cole Porter, to the delight of their fellow passengers. “Cheek to Cheek” had been their showstopper.

  “Leslie,” Hilda said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he said, realizing he’d paused in reflection, now moving on, dismissing a pang of loss that he told himself was for the Bluthner baby grand but was in fact for his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Let’s find a nice front-row seat.”

  Separated from the lounge by an aluminum railing, an observation deck ran the length of the starboard side (a similar one would be found portside). A number of passengers-Miss Mather among them-had found positions along this promenade. Padded upholstered rust-orange benches, now and then, sat at a right angle to the wall of big slanted windows, offering an aquariumlike view on the world below.

  Right now that view was of the Nazi Boy Scouts and that blue-and-yellow-garbed brass band, as well as several dozen spectators-friends and relatives denied permission to go aboard before castoff, waving their bon voyages in the rain.

  Charteris and Hilda had just taken one of the seats-barely room enough for two, but a pleasant sort of crowding, the author thought-when the brass band began to play “Deutschland uber Alles.”

  “Ah,” Charteris said, “we’ll be casting off soon…. Would you like to remove your raincoat?”

  “No, thank you. I rather enjoy this breeze.”

  The slanting windows were open, letting in cool evening air but no rain; even at cruising speed, Charteris knew, nasty weather could not find its way in these ingeniously rigged windows, which had a generous shelflike sill. Unfortunately the blaring German band-somewhat off-key-was having no trouble getting in.

  When the band had completed the ponderous anthem, the crowd applauded and cheered and whistled; above this clamor came a voice over the ship’s loudspeakers, a blaring announcement in German that could be heard outside, as well.

  “Will the wife of Colonel Erdmann please come forward!”

  So Erdmann of the Luftwaffe was a colonel-but unlike the stockyard king from Chicago, Nelson Morris, Fritz hadn’t bragged about the fact.

  From the crowd stepped a slender woman in a green-and-white gingham dress and large-brimmed green straw hat, protecting herself and her stylish attire under an umbrella. Even at this distance, it was apparent that Mrs. Erdmann was a strikingly attractive woman. A steward ran to greet her and escort her to the ship, the pair walking out of view from the promenade windows.

  “Privileges of military men,” Charteris muttered, glancing around to see if Erdmann was on this side of the ship.

  He was, but not with the others, at the slanted windows-the Luftwaffe colonel had taken a seat, by himself, in the lounge area, which was otherwise unpopulated, his hands folded on the table, his expression an odd amalgam of glum and anxious.

  Soon the woman in green and white emerged on A deck, appearing like an apparition; and she was indeed striking, Charteris noted-brunette, slenderly shapely, her face a pale oval, as perfect and lovely as the image on a cameo brooch.

  Erdmann sprang to his feet and she rushed to him. They embraced, not kissing, not speaking, just clutching each other with a passionate intensity that caused most of the passengers witnessing this private moment to turn away, out of respect, or embarrassment.

  But Charteris watched. As an author, he had trained himself to observe and this farewell was both touching and unusual. Erdmann’s wife was grasping her husband so tightly her knuckles had whitened; and when they finally drew away, her fa
ce was streaked with tears. He withdrew a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket, dried her face with it, then pressed it into her hand. They kissed, briefly, and he walked her toward the stairs, both of them disappearing from view.

  Charteris caught Miss Mather’s gaze, down the promenade; the spinster was frowning as her eyes sent him a question: Had Erdmann, too, had a premonition?

  “What do you make of such an emotional auf wiedersehen?” Hilda asked.

  Charteris shrugged. “That gentleman is involved with ship security. He may know something we don’t.”

  “I cannot say I like the sound of that.”

  “I can’t say you’re alone.”

  Then a voice blared over the loudspeaker, first German, then English: “Schiff hoch! Up ship!”

  The band began to play again, a reprise of the national anthem; figures were scurrying below, loosening mooring lines, unhooking the nose cone at the bow, searchlights on the field fanning the great ship as if at a motion-picture premiere. Diesel engines sputtered to life, but on the observation deck, the sound seemed muffled, even remote.

  Down on the runway, Mrs. Erdmann had not rejoined the crowd-she stood closer to the ship than anyone else, staring up at the windows, waving with the handkerchief her husband had given her to dry her tears. And indeed Erdmann stood at the promenade windows, now, staring down at his wife, his hand raised in a frozen wave that uncomfortably resembled a Nazi salute.

  Then Mrs. Erdmann and everyone else on the airfield grew smaller.

  THREE

  HOW THE HINDENBURG FLOATED INTO THE NIGHT, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS SHARED A CABIN

  At 8:15 P.M. the HINDENBURG, on a northwesterly course, making for the Rhine River at Cobenz, sailed into an overcast-cloaked twilight. Below, the Hitler youth belied their adult uniforms and became the children they were, running after the silver airship as it rose, as if pursuing a balloon whose string had slipped through their fingers. Nazi caps flew from their heads as they raced after the shrinking ship, until the airfield fence at the pinewoods brought a sudden stop to their carefree chase. The hatless boys gazed up at the great ship, an airfield searchlight holding its circular beam on the tail fin where rode their beloved swastika; then the spotlight switched off, ship and symbol disappearing into the gathering darkness.

  In the well-lit world of A deck on the Hindenburg, Charteris and his new friend, Hilda Friederich, were standing at the windows now, the author catching the young woman, when she seemed to lose her balance.

  “I am sorry,” she said, breaking from the brief embrace. “I’m afraid I am a trifle dizzy….”

  “It will quickly pass,” Charteris said, knowing this reaction was typical of dirigible departure, a momentary disorientation caused by the sight of the ground swiftly receding and the people below growing smaller and smaller, combined with the absence of any sense of motion, of any awareness of being airborne.

  He himself did not experience this sensation, however; to Charteris, there was only a feeling of buoyancy, a lightness, as if gravity had suddenly lessened. The start of a journey by any other mechanical means-airplane, railway, motorcar, tramway-could not compare with the smoothness, the effortlessness, of a zeppelin casting off.

  For a few minutes Charteris and Hilda stood at the windows, watching the darkened forests and farmlands of southern Germany glide by, stroked by the airship’s single spotlight, like a prison searchlight seeking an escaped felon. The lights of farmhouses and an occasional ancestral castle would flicker through the darkness, and now and then a speeding train would reveal itself, throwing sparks from its smokestack, bidding the zep hello by way of its long mournful whistle. The drone of wind stirred by the airship’s cruising speed of eighty knots drowned out any engine sound, adding to the surreal effect of sightseeing by night.

  A familiar voice just behind him caught Charteris’s attention: Ed Douglas, the advertising man, had flagged down a white-jacketed steward.

  “Where’s this fabled smoking room, anyway?” Douglas demanded. “And can a man get a drink there?”

  Charteris could see Douglas’s companions-Colonel Morris and Burt Dolan-seated in the lounge, waiting and watching with anticipation as their emissary went forward.

  The steward, a narrow-faced youth of perhaps twenty-two, said, “The smoking lounge is below us, on B deck, sir-and, yes, there’s a fully outfitted bar.”

  “Good! Where exactly?”

  “Starboard side, all the way back, sir-”

  Douglas had turned away, heading back to his friends, when the steward called out to him.

  “But, sir! For certain technical reasons, the smoking room cannot be opened until we’ve been aloft for three hours.”

  “What? The hell you say!”

  “Safety precaution, sir. The bar is open-you see, you enter the smoking room through an air-lock door in the bar.”

  Douglas’s mustache twitched with irritation. “All right, then. Least we can drown our damn sorrows.”

  “There will be a light supper served, sir, in the dining room, at ten P.M.”

  “I’ll be drinking mine.”

  The advertising man returned to his comrades to report this dire news, the steward moving on. Charteris and Hilda, who had both overheard this exchange, shared a smile.

  “How terrible to be held so under tobacco’s sway,” Hilda said.

  “I have to admit,” Charteris said, “I’m little better. But I take solace in knowing that, prior to the Hindenburg, there was no smoking at all on zep flights…. Would you like me to help you find your cabin?”

  “I would.”

  They were almost neighbors. Charteris had been assigned cabin A-49/50 near the portside stairs, and Hilda was in A-31/32, just down the narrow hall a few doors. After the spacious promenade and lounge, these windowless, glorified closets came as something of a shock-they were no better, or for that matter no worse, than a first-class railway sleeping car.

  Hilda’s room-if a six-and-a-half-by-five-and-a-half cubicle could be so designated-had pearl-gray linen walls, a rose in a wall vase, cupboards over a fold-out washstand; her suitcase was on a small fabric-and-aluminum stand and an aluminum ladder, drilled with circular holes to lessen its weight, leaned against the top bunk.

  “Bathrooms and shower are on B deck,” Charteris said.

  “A shower on an airship? That must be a first.”

  “Oh, it is-but there’s only one, so you have to make a reservation, I’m told.”

  “Well,” she sighed, surveying her tiny world, “at least I do not have a roommate.”

  Charteris leaned an arm against the bunk. “Would you like one?”

  She had been just about to finally undo the belt of her trench coat, but now she paused, smiling faintly, as if thinking better of it.

  “You are rather bold, are you not, Mr. Charteris?”

  He leaned forward, just a bit, and kissed her on her full mouth-a short but promising kiss, which she accepted, if not quite returned.

  “At times,” he said.

  Smirking in a not unfriendly manner, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him gently toward the door. “Perhaps you should check out your own quarters before trying to replace them.”

  “Fair enough… Shall I stop by just before ten? We could have supper together.”

  “What, and eventually breakfast?”

  “Now who’s bold?”

  She squeezed her pulchritude past him, reached around to grasp the sliding door’s handle and gently nudged him out. “I’ll meet you at the dining room at ten.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “No it is not-it is just supper.”

  She closed the door on him-and over her wicked little smile-and he walked to his cabin grinning, whistling a jaunty tune (one he’d worked out for the Saint, should those Hollywood people ever come through on their promises). He opened his cabin door with the key provided in a Reederei “Welcome Aboard” packet given the passengers at the hotel during the customs process, and found qu
arters identical to Hilda’s, with two exceptions.

  First, the linen-covered panels of his cubicle compartment were beige, rather than pearl gray.

  And second, he did have a cabin mate.

  The man was lanky, blond hair slicked back like an Aryan George Raft, with a pale, narrow, well-grooved, sharp-featured face including eyes so light a blue they almost disappeared. He wore a tan suit and orange tie and was probably pushing forty.

  “I guess we are in this together,” the man said in German, with a ready smile. He was putting a suitcase up on the top bunk, Charteris’s bag already resting on the single luggage stand.

  “Leslie Charteris,” the author said, extending his hand.

  “Knoecher-Eric Knoecher.” He took Charteris’s hand in an indifferent grip. “I’m from Zeulenroda.”

  “That’s in Germany?”

  “Yes. Are you English?”

  Charteris nodded. “I live outside London. I’m a writer by trade.”

  “Really! I’m in the import business. You speak German well…. I know some English, if you prefer….”

  “German is fine.”

  “No, please-I can always use the practice.” Carefully, thoughtfully, Knoecher asked, in English, “What sort of books do you write?”

  “Mystery novels. Thrillers.”

  Knoecher raised his eyebrows, impressed. “I don’t read much fiction but I know such books are popular. Well-what are we to do with these cramped quarters?”

  “Sleep. I think we’re expected to spend our upright time in those spacious public rooms.”

  “They are very nice…. By the way, you can have the top bunk, if you like. I just was looking for someplace to stow my suitcase.”

  “No, this is fine.” Charteris sat on the lower bunk; Knoecher was standing, arms folded, leaning back against the washstand wall. “I’m a little surprised to have company, though, since I understand this flight is underbooked.”

  “Is that right?”

  Charteris nodded. “I think they’re only a little more than half capacity. There should be plenty of cabins.”