by Jack Treby
Chapter Six
There was a stunned silence in the lounge. For a moment, only the hum of the engines could be heard and the distant swell of the sea. It took me a moment to gather my wits. I glanced at the assembled passengers. Walter Kendall seemed calm, his expression entirely neutral. Miss Tanner was standing to the left of the captain, with her room mate Miss Hurst. They were both looking shocked. Miss Hurst brought a hand up to her mouth and let out a silent cry. Adelina Koenig, the stout German woman, appeared angry rather than upset; but perhaps that was just the natural set of her face. It was left to Sir George Westlake to speak for everyone.
‘Poor chap,’ he breathed quietly, breaking the silence. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I have communicated with the authorities in Seville,’ Captain Albrecht continued, ‘and asked if they would like us to return to Spain. It would not be an easy manoeuvre but, in the circumstances, we would be willing to accommodate such a request. However, the authorities have informed me that this will not be necessary.’ He paused a moment to allow the news to sink in. I suspected he was pleased not to have to bother.
‘They have requested, however, that any passengers who spoke to Herr Schulz in the last couple of days and, perhaps, formed an impression of his state of mind would kindly convey their thoughts to me or my first officer and we will pass them on to the Spanish police. They are particularly keen to hear from anyone who saw or spoke to Herr Schulz after he left the airship yesterday afternoon.’
Mrs Koenig nodded seriously. I wondered if she had been friends with the Austrian.
‘I thank you for your cooperation and apologise for having to deliver such distressing news,’ the captain concluded. ‘Our thoughts, of course, are with Herr Schulz’s family in Austria.’
And with that, Captain Albrecht and his first officer departed. The passengers were quick to follow suit, the ladies retiring to their cabins and most of the men returning to the smoking room on B Deck for a much needed cigarette.
Thomas McGilton idled for a moment to my left.
‘Did you know the fellow?’ I asked, glancing across at him.
‘No, not at all. I suppose I must have seen him disembark yesterday afternoon. But no, I didn’t know him.’
‘I hope the women aren’t too upset.’ I noticed McGilton had not followed his fiancée out of the lounge.
‘They’ll be fine. Lucy’s got a hide like a rhinoceros.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, so I gathered. Has she recovered from lunch?’
‘Oh, she’s endured far worse than that, believe me.’ He grinned. ‘The Herr Lindts of this world are two-a-penny. To be honest, I think I find it harder to cope with than she does.’
‘You’re not Jewish yourself?’
‘Roman Catholic. But I’m beginning to understand what she has to put up with.’
‘Not all Germans are as odious as Mr Lindt. I’ve met one or two thoroughly decent Krauts. They’re not all bigots, you know.’
‘No, I suppose not. No worse than the English anyway.’ He grinned again. ‘But Lucy does like to put herself in the firing line. You know she interviewed that Mr Hitler last year?’
‘Miss Tanner did?’ I blinked. ‘Good lord!’
‘For one of her ladies magazines.’
I stared at the man in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Oh, it’s true, I assure you.’
‘She interviewed him?’
‘Leapt at the chance. It was nothing political, mind you. A lifestyle feature.’
‘She speaks German then?’
‘Like a native. Studied in Vienna.’
‘But...did Mr Hitler know she was Jewish?’
‘Of course not.’ McGilton laughed. ‘He wouldn’t have agreed to the interview if he had. And she wasn’t about to tell him.’
I shook my head. Miss Tanner, it seemed, was every bit as formidable as our resident female aviator, Mrs Koenig. ‘So what did she make of the fellow?’
McGilton shrugged. ‘Said he was charming. Intense. Didn’t think much of his dress sense or his hair.’
‘And she didn’t ask any political questions?’
‘Wasn’t that kind of interview. But I’ve read one or two of his speeches. He’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘A mindless thug, like Mussolini,’ I agreed. ‘And, according to Mr Kendall, people are already beginning to see through him. Just like we all are with Mr Lindt.’
‘I hope so.’ McGilton sighed. ‘I always like to see the good in people, but with someone like that it does take a fair bit of effort.’
‘Better not to try, in my experience. Sometimes you just have to accept the person’s a blackguard and leave it at that.’
‘I suppose. But I like to think that nobody is beyond redemption. Not even a National Socialist.’
I glanced across at him. ‘That sounds suspiciously like the prelude to another philosophical debate.’
The Irishman laughed. ‘Oh, I’m done with debates on this trip, believe me! From now on it’s just the weather and “what do you do for a living?”’
‘Quite right,’ I agreed.
He turned to me, that mischievous glint returning to his eye. ‘So what do you do for a living?’ he enquired.
I smiled back benignly. ‘I ignore impertinent questions.’
I tapped my feet together on the end of the bed. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, Morris.’ I hadn’t bothered to take off my shoes. I was far too agitated. ‘Why would Gerhard Schulz take his own life? He’d just earned himself a small fortune.’ I kept my voice low, in deference to the walls, but the cabins either side of us were empty just now. ‘He was in good health, racing up and down that damned tower. And he’d just booked a train ticket to Madrid. That doesn’t speak of a man at the end of his tether.’
‘No, Monsieur.’ Maurice was sitting on the small collapsible chair, darning a pair of my socks.
‘We don’t even know what time he died.’ I growled in frustration. Captain Albrecht had said that Schulz’s body had been discovered at eleven o’clock but he might well have killed himself much earlier than that, before the Richthofen had even left Seville. ‘And how did he do it. Did he string himself up? Or cut himself with a knife and bleed to death in the bath?’ I pulled myself forward and swung my legs off the bed. ‘It’s a bad business, Morris.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
I gripped a hand on the metal ladder to my left. ‘I can’t help thinking that there’s something else going on here. It’s too much of a coincidence. He’s carrying these important documents. We follow him around all afternoon. He passes them on to Gods knows who and then, a few hours later, he’s found dead, having taken his own life. It just doesn’t ring true, somehow.’ I bit my lip. ‘I wonder if there was a note. There would have to be, wouldn’t there, if it was suicide?’
Maurice shrugged. ‘Not always, Monsieur.’
‘Lazenby would know.’ I scratched my head. ‘I wonder if we could get a message to him? If he’s still in Seville?’
‘You could send him a telegram, Monsieur.’
‘I suppose so.’ There was a wireless telegraph on board, which the passengers were allowed to use. ‘Bit expensive mind.’ Telegrams were charged by the word and on an airship it would not come cheap. I had promised to contact Lazenby when I had secured the negatives, but he would not be expecting to hear from me until we arrived in Brazil. Besides, if I contacted him now and enquired about the Austrian, the crew would be sure to notice. As yet, nobody on board suspected there was any connection between me and Gerhard Schulz; and I was happy to keep it that way. I did not wish to advertise the fact that I had spent Sunday afternoon following the poor fellow around Seville. ‘If it has to go through the telegraph operator, it’ll need to be something short and cryptic.’ Unfortunately, I had left my code book back in Gibraltar. ‘Shame Mr Gray didn’t bring that facsimile machine of his on board,’ I muttered idly. ‘Then I could have written out a dozen questions and fed the paper through myself, witho
ut anyone else seeing it.’
‘That would only work if Monsieur Lazenby had a receiving device.’
‘I wasn’t being serious, Morris. You’re no help at all. No, it’ll have to be a telegram. To dear old Uncle Charles or something of that order. But I’ll have to go down to the radio room myself. The fewer people who know about this, the better.’
The gap toothed crewman led me through a metal doorway into the bowels of the ship. Up until now, even passing by the kitchens and the officers’ mess on B Deck, there had been the rudiments of civilisation. Stepping through the door, however, onto a narrow metal walkway, with the entirety of the airship laid out before me, there was no escape. The crewman pointed upwards with a grin at the huge bags suspended above our heads. They were enclosed in a lattice work of wires and bloated with deadly hydrogen gas. The circular frame of the airship was visible beyond them, interwoven with supports and counter supports, the fragile exterior cloth shrouding the network of wires in a merciful gloom. The scale of the craft was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. I scrambled around for something to grab onto, whilst at the same time trying not to lose my footing. The plimsolls I had been given did not help matters. The light, rubber soled shoes were mandatory in this part of the ship, but they were proving far too big for me. I stopped, clutching a support strut, and closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my nerves. Despite the chilly air and the presence of Maurice’s great coat – which I had insisted on borrowing – I was sweating profusely. It had been a mistake to come down here in person. I should have just posted the telegram like everyone else – there was a box in the reading room that was emptied at regular intervals – or perhaps just handed it to one of the stewards. But no, I had insisted on coming myself, and now I was paying the price.
The crewman was ahead of me, waiting patiently for me to catch up, and with great reluctance I moved after him, not for a moment taking my eyes off the keel walkway. This was barely three feet across, supported by a series of diagonal struts. It ran the length of the ship, turning into the more manageable corridor behind me for a few yards and then disappearing into the bowels of the aircraft. Large rounded water tanks loomed either side of me – a more practical ballast than the traditional sand bags – and beyond that, to my right, was the entrance to the radio room. The crewman stood back to gesture me inside.
The room was much larger than I had anticipated, with a row of windows on the starboard side providing substantial light. Desks lined every wall, piled high with radio equipment, all dials and switches. A typewriter sat in one corner and there were fans in the wall to cool the equipment. A door at the far end gave access to a metal ladder which descended through a hole in the floor to God knows where.
The chief radio operator was sitting with his back to me, in a small chair on the near side of the cabin, a pair of metal headphones clamped to his short cropped hair. As I stepped into the room, he turned, removed the headphones and rose to his feet.
We shook hands formally and he introduced himself as Adolph Schäuble, a name I was unlikely to be able to remember. He was a sober looking fellow with a youthful complexion but a confident manner. The pleasantries over, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper, which I had spent some minutes composing in the reading room. I had wanted something short and sharp, but brevity has never been my strong point. I just hoped I would be able to claim the money back when I reached America. ‘I’d like to send this to my Uncle Charles in Seville,’ I said, handing the note across. ‘I thought I’d come down here and deliver it in person. Have a bit of a look round.’ I attempted a smile but my heart wasn’t in it. The officer looked down at the paper and read it through briefly.
“SO SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT AUNT SOFIA STOP HOPE NOTHING UNTOWARD HAS HAPPENED STOP QUIET FLIGHT SO FAR STOP SPECTACULAR VIEWS OF THE ATLANTIC STOP HAVE NOT YET TAKEN ANY PHOTOGRAPHS”
The meaning would be clear to Lazenby – “Sofia” was the name of the hotel where Schulz had spent the night, and the lack of photographs would speak for itself – but there was nothing to draw the attention of the radio operator or anyone at the telegraph office in Seville.
‘Your aunt is not well?’ Adolph asked, looking up.
‘I think she may have had a bit of a fall,’ I lied.
‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Bland.’
‘My uncle will be able to tell me. I didn’t really catch the details. Bit of a hurry to get on board this morning.’
‘Well, I hope it is good news,’ the officer said, returning to his chair. ‘I will transmit this for you right away.’ He reached for a clipboard on the desk beside him.
‘Do I...have to pay anything?’
‘It will be added to your account.’ He looked down at the message again. ‘If you are interested in photography, the views from the window here are very good.’
‘Yes, I...I’m sure. I’ll have to bring my camera along. Well, thank you for your help.’
‘A pleasure, Mr Bland. Perhaps you would like to see the rest of the ship? Herr Ostermann will be delighted to show you.’ He indicated the gangway and the smiling crewman, who had waited politely outside during the exchange.
I gritted my teeth. ‘I...wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It is no trouble,’ the gap-toothed crewman insisted, stepping aside to give me access to the corridor. There was another cabin on the opposite side of the gangway. It looked like some sort of post room. A short fellow with a lazy eye was busily franking envelopes inside. ‘We see tail of ship,’ Ostermann suggested. ‘Or you like to see control car first?’
‘Er...well...’
‘It is right here.’ He gestured to the far end of the radio room. ‘There is eine leiter...a ladder. A good view of the sky from there.’
‘A ladder?’ I caught sight of the hole in the floor, through the open doorway. ‘Good grief! No, I don’t think...’
‘It is very short. Come. I help you.’ The young man squeezed into the radio room and directed me towards the hole. It was clear the damned fellow was not going to give me any choice in the matter.
‘Very well,’ I muttered, clenching my fists tightly. ‘Just a quick look.’
I stepped through the door and grabbed hold of the metal ladder, tentatively placing an oversized plimsoll on one of the higher rungs. Thankfully, the crewman had not lied. The ladder was a short affair. I descended with great care into a small utility room at the rear of the control car. The windows here, below the level of the balloon, were even larger than in the radio room.
The gap-toothed crewman descended in quick order and moved across to the empty door frame in front of us. ‘Herr Kapitän! Mr Reginald Bland,’ he called through, by way of introduction. He added a few extra words in Kraut which I didn’t understand. I was trying hard to ignore the enormous windows. There seemed to be more glass than metal down here.
Captain Albrecht strode through from the navigation room. The man had a quiet smile that radiated confidence. ‘Welcome to the heart of the Richthofen,’ he said, proffering a hand. ‘Please, come through.’ He gestured me into the second room – full of charts and measuring equipment – and towards the bridge.
A harsh female voice ricocheted across the length of the gondola. Mrs Koenig was standing at the far end of the control room, talking to a grim faced man in a peak cap, who I recognised as the first officer. Evidently, I was not the only one having a guided tour of the facilities this afternoon. Adelina Koenig took a moment to glare at me as I arrived on the bridge before resuming her conversation with the officer.
‘We have made good progress so far,’ the captain told me, as we moved into the busy control room. ‘We have travelled seven hundred kilometres from Seville.’ Five officers were at work on the bridge, monitoring various instruments. One was at the rudder wheel at the front of the gondola and a second stood by another wheel to the side. There were dials and switches everywhere, bits of machinery bolted together like a Meccano set. A second telegraph machine,
adjacent to the rudder wheel, apparently enabled communication with the poor blighters stuck out in the engine cars on the side of the airship.
Captain Albrecht took me over to a window, to take a peek at one of the engines in action, but I focused instead on the machinery above the elevator wheel. The roast beef from lunch time was threatening to reassert itself and I was trying hard to keep my eyes on the interior of the gondola. I did not wish to embarrass myself a second time in one day, but there were so many windows in the control cabin that we might as well have been outside, flying with the birds.
The officers, in their peak caps and great coats, were a friendly bunch. Unlike the crewman, their English was flawless, their accents a strange mix of German and American English, but serviceable all the same.
Mrs Koenig was only speaking in German, however, at least within earshot of me. I had seen her conversing with the other passengers at lunch, though, so I suspected she did speak a little English, but it was clearly beneath her dignity to do so here. She was only interested in the first officer and his detailed explanations of the workings of the various devices. It was probably a professional interest, if the woman really was the reckless aviator Sir George had painted her. Mrs Koenig was younger than I had first taken her to be – perhaps late twenties rather than early thirties – and despite a rather stocky gait was quite attractive in the brisk light of the afternoon. She might almost have been described as pretty, if only she had taken the trouble to stop frowning. She had wavy dark brown hair slicked from right to left across the top of her forehead and piercing blue eyes. The hefty woollen coat she wore was a sensible precaution in such a remorselessly chilly environment. There was plenty here to interest a female engineer, but she kept throwing angry glances at me, as if I were interrupting an illicit assignation.
The first officer volunteered to escort her back to the passenger deck. They moved together through to the rear of the gondola. He scurried up the connecting ladder first, to protect her modesty, and Mrs Koenig followed on in her long skirt. The two were still engaged in conversation and, though I couldn’t possibly catch any of the details as they disappeared back up into the radio room, I did manage to pick out three words: ‘Dankeschön’ from the first officer, meaning thank you. And then: ‘Gerhard Schulz.’
