The Red Zeppelin (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 2)

by Jack Treby

  Kendall finished the point he was making and Miss Tanner nodded her agreement; but Karl Lindt snorted derisively. She rolled her eyes and met my gaze across the floor. I smiled despite myself. It was clear she had no more liking for the German than I did.

  ‘Are you travelling alone?’ Mr Kaufmann asked me politely, interrupting my thoughts. I was wondering how long we could stand together on the promenade before common courtesy would force one of us to attempt conversation. The German had buckled first.

  ‘Yes, just me. Oh and my valet. A bit of business in America. Thought I might as well travel in style.’ I had recovered my wits enough, now, to lie with conviction. ‘Are you on a business trip as well?’

  Kaufmann nodded. ‘To Rio. Herr Lindt and I are travelling together, to attend a business conference in Sao Paulo.’

  ‘Sounds a bit dull,’ I said.

  ‘That is the nature of business, sadly.’

  I scratched my chin. ‘Have you known him long? Mr Lindt?’

  ‘For several years. We are colleagues.’ Kaufmann’s voice lacked a certain warmth, I noticed, when talking of the younger man.

  ‘But you’re not friends?’

  ‘No. We work together. He has a good business brain but he is not...the easiest of men.’

  ‘Rather opinionated?’

  ‘He enjoys a robust discussion.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’ Kaufmann was far more of a diplomat than I was. We gazed out to sea again.

  ‘You are feeling better now?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes. Never been much good with heights. But it doesn’t seem so bad, over water. There’s no way to tell how high up you are.’ The clouds were few and far between at the moment, just a few light wisps against the bright blue sky and most of them well above us. ‘We could almost be skimming the surface of the sea,’ I observed.

  ‘It is a beautiful view,’ Kaufmann agreed. Behind us, a steward was banging a small gong. ‘Ah, I think lunch is about to be served.’

  I sighed. Time to head back into the throng.

  The Zeppelin was under capacity and only three dining tables had been laid out. My valet had joined Annabel Hurst at one of these tables, alongside the mad woman from Cabin 2, whose name, I had learnt, was Adelina Koenig. Sir George Westlake, the noted explorer, was sitting opposite her, laughing heartily at some bland comment from another Briton, a Mr Frederick Gray. I was uncomfortable seeing my valet sat at table with these august personages – especially Sir George, who was a world renowned adventurer – but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Even servants have to eat and the captain would not hear of a paying passenger dining with the crewmen below decks. I just hoped the other diners would not take offence. Sir George seemed to be in his element, regaling the passengers with tales of his latest Antarctic expedition, and I was content to leave them to it.

  Josef Kaufmann seated himself at the second dining table, on the opposite side of the room. This table was presided over by our host, Captain Herntz Albrecht. It was generous of the captain to find the time to eat with us rather than in the mess with his fellow officers but it was unfortunate he had been lumbered with the runts of the passenger litter – a ginger haired Englishman and a little Spanish chap whose name I had not yet caught. Kaufmann greeted them all politely. Mr Finch, the Englishman, was a stockbroker, apparently. He had a perpetually anxious look on his face. The Spaniard was bald and bespectacled with a rather fine moustache. He was tucking his napkin into the top of his shirt, in preparation for the first course.

  A chef in a traditional white mushroom hat was carving meat at an adjacent table and several stewards, also decked out in white tunics, were rushing around the dining area, ladling out the tomato soup and serving the wine. The smell of beef permeated the saloon and my stomach began to rumble. I was finally starting to regain my appetite.

  At my own table, as I had feared, a heated debate was in progress, drowning out Sir George at the far end. Needless to say, Karl Lindt was at the centre of it.

  ‘It is not a question of education,’ he declared firmly, as I took my seat opposite him. ‘The fact is some races are genetically inferior to others.’ His eyes were glowing with pleasure at the sound of his own voice. ‘How else can you explain the differences in attainment between one society and another? We Germans have built great airships that fly through the sky. Yet the aboriginal peoples of Australia do not even have the capacity to grow their own food.’

  ‘The beef looks nice,’ I said, tucking my napkin into place and taking a slurp of hot soup. I was determined, this time, not to get involved in the debate. Young Heinrich was pouring out the vino, but I waved him away. I have never liked wine. I did briefly consider ordering a proper drink but I would wait to see how my stomach coped with the beef and tomato first.

  ‘I doubt there’s much opportunity for growing crops in the desert,’ Thomas McGilton observed, in reply to Mr Lindt.

  ‘That did not stop the Egyptians,’ the German responded smugly. ‘Rot, bitte.’ Heinrich poured out the wine. ‘And like the Egyptians, within any racial group, there is always an elite. There are the Pharaohs and there are the slaves, even if we no longer call them slaves.’

  McGilton was tiring of the debate. ‘Isn’t this conversation getting a little bit heavy for the dinner table?’ he asked, politely. ‘There are ladies present.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ Miss Tanner said, downing her soup spoon. ‘I’m always interested to hear differing opinions. What is your view, Mr Kendall?’

  The American had a glass of white wine in his hand, which Heinrich had just poured out for him. He raised the glass to his lips and considered the matter carefully for a moment. ‘The differences in development between cultures is striking,’ Kendall admitted. ‘Genetics may well play a role in that. But there may be other factors that we are not aware of. The aboriginal people were isolated from the rest of humanity, whereas the peoples of Europe and the Middle East have had thousands of years to interact with each other. It is much easier for ideas to spread and develop if a number of cultures are operating in close proximity to each other. Each will aid the development of the other. But Herr Lindt is correct, in that every society has hierarchies and it may well be that certain groups are more naturally suited to authority than others.’

  ‘Blood will out, is that it?’ McGilton asked, sipping his tomato soup with some scepticism.

  ‘The great families of Europe did not rise to their positions of power by simple accident,’ Lindt stated firmly.

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said, reluctantly throwing my twopenn’orth in. ‘But breeding isn’t everything. I’ve known fellows from the finest families who are absolute idiots.’

  ‘There are variations within any group,’ Lindt conceded. ‘But you cannot deny that your own heritage is superior to that of, for example, an African tribesman. You would not expect a coloured man living in a mud hut in Senegal to be your intellectual equal.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ McGilton cut in. ‘But he hasn’t had the same advantages as we have.’

  ‘A decent education,’ I agreed. ‘Hundreds of years of scientific progress. And, yes, you’re right, Mr Lindt, a fair amount of breeding, too. But give the fellow a few hundred years and I’m sure he’d catch up. That’s what the British Empire is all about. Offering native peoples the world over a bit of a leg up. Saving them all that bother of doing it for themselves.’

  ‘If only that were true, Mr Bland,’ Lindt replied. He dabbed his lips with the edge of his napkin. He had finished his soup in record time, especially in light of all the talking he had been doing. ‘But the fact is, some races are simply genetically inferior. You could not hold an intelligent discourse with our notional African.’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I doubt if I could converse with him in Latin or discuss the finer points of Cartesian Dualism. But I dare say if I kidnapped a couple of his sprogs and sent them to Eton or Harrow they’d acquit themselves perfectly well.’

  ‘I disagree, Mr Bland. They w
ould not have the intellectual capacity to succeed in such a rarefied environment.’

  I laughed. ‘Intellectual capacity has never been a requirement for Eton.’

  ‘And what of the European peoples?’ Miss Tanner enquired. ‘The Russians or the Spanish?’

  ‘There is variation there, too, of course. The Western Europeans, the Aryan people, clearly demonstrate a greater capacity for innovation than many of these other groups.’

  ‘And the Jews?’ Miss Tanner asked. McGilton raised a warning hand but the girl took no notice. ‘Do you believe they are intellectually inferior?’ There was an edge to her question that only Lindt failed to notice.

  ‘The Jews possess a certain low cunning,’ he conceded, ‘which enables them to embed themselves effectively into the underbelly of a civilised society. But I do not believe they can be regarded as our equals. In many respects...’

  ‘Miss Tanner is Jewish,’ McGilton pointed out quietly.

  Lindt stopped mid flow. He stared at the woman for a moment. ‘Tanner is not a Jewish name.’

  ‘Tannenbaum, originally,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Of course. I should have realised.’ Lindt looked from her to McGilton. ‘I meant no offence to your fiancée. As I have said, within any racial group, there is considerable variation. I am sure Miss Tanner is at the higher end of the spectrum.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ she muttered.

  ‘And what about the Irish people?’ McGilton enquired, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘I suppose you think we’re all congenital idiots?’

  ‘Gentlemen, please.’ Walter Kendall raised a hand. ‘The debate is becoming a little heated. I think perhaps we might change the subject?’

  ‘I think that might be wise,’ the Irishman agreed. Beneath the table, his hands were trembling.

  The reading room on the starboard side of the ship was an oasis of calm in the aftermath of lunch. The tinkling of the aluminium piano wafted through the flimsy panelled walls from the adjacent lounge, but the room itself was blissfully quiet. Most of the passengers had headed to the smoking room after lunch, the draw of tobacco outweighing the pleasure of an hours reading or writing. A variety of newspapers and magazines had been provided in the saloon, in several languages. There was a stack of writing paper, too, in a cupboard hanging from the wall. I was content to scan the contents of a five day old Manchester Guardian. It was not my newspaper of choice, but Sir George Westlake had grabbed the only copy of the Times. I settled back contentedly to read. The only thing missing from the scene was alcohol and, with this in mind - now that I had had my fill of beef - I separated Maurice from his Le Figaro and sent him to my cabin for a glass of whisky. I had brought a bottle with me, for emergencies, and it would be quicker to pour out a glass in my cabin than it would be to send a steward all the way down to the smoking room.

  Sir George Westlake, sat at the opposite table to me, had overheard my instructions and was a little confused. When I explained to him that Maurice was my valet, he roared with laughter. ‘You surely can’t be serious?’ I nodded, my face reddening. ‘That man is your servant? But I had lunch with him!’ Sir George’s tone was one of bafflement rather than offence. ‘And he called you “Monsieur”.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a...Gallic eccentricity. He hasn’t been with me long. I did ask if he might dine with the stewards but as he is a paying guest they wouldn’t hear of it. I must apologise for inflicting him upon you like that. But I’m sure he can’t be the worst dining companion you’ve ever had.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ Sir George threw his head back and roared a second time. He was a large man in his mid forties, with a tidy beard, big ears and a receding hairline. He wore his fame lightly, but every schoolboy in England knew his name. He had been on the Antarctic expedition with Ernest Shackleton in 1922 and had recently made one of the first aerial surveys of the south pole. I was worried that he might be something of a bore, but he seemed a good humoured fellow – not the sort to take offence – and his laugh was loud enough to fill the entire airship. Even the tinkling of the piano in the other room had stopped in apparent surprise.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t quite broken him in yet,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, don’t leave it too long,’ he warned me, amiably. ‘The sooner they learn their place, the better. Don’t you agree, Mr Gray?’

  ‘Indeed, Sir George.’ Frederick Gray was a dull looking man with wispy brown hair and an earnest manner. Conversation was discouraged in the reading room but as there were only the three of us sitting here that did not seem to matter just now. I had Gray down as a businessman of some sort – the ship seemed to be full of them – and his nasal, high pitched voice was already starting to grate. ‘Although he seemed quite well mannered to me.’

  ‘Maurice is a decent enough fellow, I suppose,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘For a Frog. What did you think of that German girl? Mrs Koenig?’

  ‘Adelina? Marvellous woman!’ Sir George declared. ‘Just got back from North Africa. Flew solo from Bamako to Tangiers in a souped up Tiger Moth, can you believe? My kind of woman. Hefty, too. Lot of meat on her. Not like these skinny young things back home. The Krauts know how to breed their women, what?’

  ‘They certainly do,’ I agreed.

  ‘Crashed the old kite in the Sahara. Had to walk thirty miles on foot to Timbuktu to get help. What a woman!’ He laughed. ‘I could have done with her in the Antarctic.’

  ‘Your...lady wife doesn’t accompany you on your expeditions?’

  ‘Good god, no. Suzanne wouldn’t know one end of a propeller from the other. Not mechanically minded. Not like us, eh, Mr Gray?’

  ‘No, Sir George.’

  My attention shifted to the other Englishman. ‘You’re an aviator too?’ I asked, with some surprise. He looked more like a bank clerk than a pilot.

  Mr Gray shook his head sadly. ‘No, my skills are of a far more mundane variety.’

  ‘Works for the post office,’ Sir George explained. ‘Something to do with wireless telegraphy. Useful but dull, eh?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sir George. I’m due to give a demonstration in San Francisco of a new experimental facsimile machine.’

  ‘Facsimile?’ I raised an eyebrow. It seemed only civil to take an interest.

  ‘Wireless facsimile, yes.’

  ‘What, sending photographs through the ether?’ Like the ones printed in the Times.

  ‘No, not photographs,’ Gray said. ‘Our device scans plain text and transmits it wirelessly to another machine, which then prints out a copy of the same text. We can transmit over almost any distance, up to sixty typewritten pages an hour.’

  Sir George and I exchanged a look. ‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘So tell me a little more about Antarctica, Sir George.’

  ‘Well, I...oh, here’s your chap with the whisky.’

  Maurice stepped forward and placed a glass down on the table top in front of me. ‘Thank you, Morris. Oh, how was your tour of the inner workings?’ I hadn’t thought to ask before.

  ‘Most enlightening, Monsieur. Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No, toddle along.’ I picked up the glass and took a sip.

  ‘Had the grand tour, did he?’ Sir George asked, after the valet had departed. I hadn’t offered him any whisky, as he had already brought a glass of wine with him from the dining hall. ‘Well worth doing.’

  ‘The captain showed some of us around yesterday morning,’ Mr Gray added, ‘before we arrived in Seville. The radio room was most interesting.’

  ‘It was the scale of the thing that got me,’ Sir George declared. ‘Fascinating construction. And such a well run sh...’ He stopped mid-sentence. A young officer had entered the reading room, smartly dressed in a dark blue uniform, with a flat cap held in front of his chest.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am sorry to disturb you. Captain Albrecht wishes to address the passengers in the lounge room.’

  ‘Come to give us another tune?’ Sir George enquired. The captain had been one of tho
se tinkling at the piano earlier on.

  The officer shook his head gravely.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

  The man was reluctant to say. ‘Captain Albrecht will explain.’

  We rose, puzzled, from our chairs and made our way out onto the promenade. The rest of the passengers were already beginning to assemble in the lounge area. Thomas McGilton was standing by one of the windows and I came to a halt beside him, throwing him a questioning look. He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what was going on either.

  Captain Herntz Albrecht waited for the last of the passengers to arrive. He was a tall, sturdy man in late middle age with neat, thinning hair and a blandly handsome face. The amiable half smile he usually reserved for the passenger decks was absent, replaced by the same grave expression I had seen on the face of the junior officer. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Damen und Herren, I apologise for summoning you all like this.’ His voice was rich and lightly accented. The man had a commanding presence, even when addressing the paying guests; the sort of fellow you expected to be carrying a pipe at all times. He had that paternal air to him. ‘We have just received a rather sad communication from the telegraph office in Seville. Those of you who have been with us from Friedrichshafen may remember Herr Gerhard Schulz, who travelled with us on the first leg of our journey. It is with great regret that I inform you that Herr Schulz was discovered dead in his hotel room at eleven o’clock this morning. It is believed that he took his own life.’