The Red Zeppelin

by Jack Treby

  Sir George Westlake lit the end of a fat cigar and moved back to the padded chair. I was already halfway through my second Piccadilly. I rarely smoked more than one cigarette at a time but after my hair-raising trip into the control gondola I felt I deserved a treat. Half a dozen people had settled in the smoking room, in two small groups of three. The atmosphere was subdued, despite the tobacco and the regular appearance of Max the barman with our drinks. The death of a fellow passenger, even away from the airship, had put a bit of a dampener on the afternoon. ‘He was an odd cove, that Mr Schulz,’ Sir George reflected. ‘Wouldn’t have put him down as the suicidal type. Far too interested in life.’ The veteran explorer had been with the airship since Friedrichshafen so he was well placed to judge.

  ‘He was an interesting man,’ Josef Kaufmann agreed, taking a puff of his own cigarette. The tubby German seemed more affected by the Austrian’s death than Sir George. Kaufmann was drinking black coffee rather than wine or beer. Perhaps he was tee-total, like Mr McGilton. But he was at least smoking, and he tapped the end of his cigarette on the ashtray between us. ‘He had a zest for life. He was forever asking questions of the stewards. How high are we flying? How does the airship manoeuvre in the wind?’

  ‘Did he have a look at the control room?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, more than once,’ Kaufmann replied. ‘With us and also during the landing yesterday afternoon.’

  That was probably why he had been the last of the passengers to disembark. ‘I...gather he was a journalist of some kind?’ I saw no reason not to probe a little deeper, since we were already discussing the fellow. I was curious to know what the other passengers thought of him.

  ‘Yes, that is right,’ Kaufmann confirmed.

  ‘I suppose it pays to have an enquiring mind in that line of work. Did he mix much with you all?’ I was particularly interested to discover how well he had known Adelina Koenig.

  ‘Yes, he was very sociable.’

  ‘Jolly good pianist, too,’ Sir George put in. ‘And rather a fine card player. Could have bankrupted the lot of us, if we’d been playing for serious money.’ He chuckled. ‘Upset Herr Lindt, he did. That one doesn’t like to lose.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I glanced across the smoking room floor. Karl Lindt had been sat at the other table, with Walter Kendall and Frederick Gray, but had disappeared off to answer a call of nature. I got the impression his companions were happy to see the back of him.

  ‘It was not simply the cards,’ Kaufmann reflected. ‘Herr Schulz and Herr Lindt did not get on. They had differing political opinions.’

  ‘I’ll say!’ Sir George laughed. ‘Bit of a Red, our Mr Schulz.’

  ‘A socialist rather than a communist,’ Kaufmann corrected. ‘He wrote articles for a left wing newspaper in Vienna.’

  ‘Good lord,’ I said.

  ‘But the distinction was lost on Herr Lindt.’ The German took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed out the end of it in the ashtray.

  ‘Thought they were going to come to blows at one point,’ Sir George chuckled. ‘But Schulz wasn’t one for a punch up. He just got up and walked away. Which just made the other chap even madder.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I lifted my glass and took a quick slurp. ‘It looks like you had an eventful journey, that first leg.’

  ‘Oh, it was just the one incident, old boy,’ Sir George said. He tapped out the end of his cigar. ‘We didn’t board the ship in Friedrichshafen until nine o’clock on Saturday evening, but a few of us stayed up to watch the launch and play a few hands before bed time. To tell you the truth, we all rather liked the chap. Miss Hurst had a bit of a soft spot for him, as I recall.’

  ‘I think he found her a kindred spirit,’ Kaufmann agreed.

  I had not seen Miss Hurst since lunch and there was no sign of her in the smoking room. I gathered from McGilton that she had been quite distressed at the news of Mr Schulz’s death so perhaps she was drowning her sorrows in her cabin.

  ‘I was not sure to what extent his feelings were reciprocated,’ Kaufmann observed. ‘Herr Schulz was some years older than the Fräulein.’

  The door to the smoking room opened and Captain Albrecht popped his head inside. He was making his regular round of the passenger decks. He smiled and came across to our table. ‘Gentlemen, how are you enjoying the flight?’ He had pulled a pipe from his breast pocket and removed a pouch of tobacco from his jacket.

  ‘Absolutely marvellous!’ Sir George exclaimed. ‘Better food than I get at home and first class brandy.’ He raised his glass to the captain.

  It was left to Mr Kaufmann to lower the mood. ‘We were just discussing Herr Schulz,’ he said.

  The captain’s face fell.

  ‘Were you able to pass on much to the authorities?’ I asked, unable to hide my curiosity. ‘Mrs Koenig was helpful?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. She is a remarkable woman.’ Captain Albrecht filled the end of his pipe and moved across to the cigarette lighter on the wall, which was not far from our table.

  ‘And you’ve spoken to Miss Hurst? I gather she was quite close to Mr Schulz.’

  ‘Yes, I have spoken to her as well,’ the captain confirmed, bringing the lit pipe up to his mouth and taking a quick puff. ‘And Miss Tanner.’ All the women, it seemed. Perhaps Schulz had been a bit of a lady killer, as well as a socialist. ‘And Herr Kaufmann here was kind enough to provide some additional thoughts. These have been passed on to the authorities in Seville. Sadly, I do not think it is an urgent matter for them today.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I agreed. They would be too busy coping with the aftermath of the election.

  ‘We must try not to allow it to spoil the voyage,’ the captain added, taking another puff from his pipe and exhaling a large cloud of smoke. He was obviously in a hurry to draw a line under the matter.

  A steward had slipped into the smoking room, with a silver platter. It was that young fellow, Heinrich. The boy headed straight for our table. ‘A telegram has arrived for Mr Bland,’ he informed the captain.

  ‘Ah!’ Albrecht waved him forward. ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me.’ He moved across to say hello to the other guests.

  Heinrich proffered me the note, which I grabbed from the platter and read.

  ‘It doesn’t tell us anything,’ I muttered, some minutes later, back in the cabin. I handed the message across to Maurice. ‘The man’s being deliberately obtuse.’

  The valet scanned the contents briefly.

  “DO NOT CONCERN YOURSELF WITH AUNT SOFIA STOP NOTHING UNTOWARD HAS HAPPENED TO HER STOP ANXIOUS TO SEE PHOTOGRAPHS SOONEST STOP HOPE YOU GET A GOOD NIGHTS SLEEP STOP UNCLE CHARLIE”

  ‘Nothing untoward, indeed! The poor fellow’s dead!’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. But it seems there was nothing suspicious about his death.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that, Morris. I’m not a complete imbecile. But it still doesn’t tell us anything. Other than how anxious Mr Lazenby is for me to get hold of those damned negatives. A good nights sleep indeed!’ I couldn’t believe he had wasted seven words on the state of my health. I stopped for a moment, a sudden thought striking me. ‘Wait a minute...’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Where’s my wash bag?’

  ‘It is here, Monsieur. Above the sink.’

  Maurice stepped away and I moved across to the bag, which I rifled inside. I quickly found what I was looking for: the small glass bottle Lazenby had given me that morning. ‘He lent me this before I left. Said it might help me sleep.’

  ‘I remember, Monsieur.’

  I pulled the bottle up in front of my face. It was a perfectly ordinary sleeping draught. The dosage was written on the side in Spanish. Half a teaspoon dissolved in water before bedtime. ‘You don’t think...?'

  I placed the bottle back down on the sink and retrieved the telegram from Maurice. Before I had left Seville that morning, Lazenby had jokingly suggested I might use the sleeping draught on Mr Kendall, if all else failed.

  “HOPE YOU GET
A GOOD NIGHTS SLEEP STOP”

  I let out a sigh. I was beginning to think he wasn’t joking.

  Chapter Seven

  It was the best hand I’d had in several years. The seven, nine and jack of clubs were face up on the gaming table; and in my hand I had the eight and the ten. A straight flush. If I had been dealt a hand like that in Monte Carlo I could have broken the bank. If I’d had the same cards a week ago, in Gibraltar, I wouldn’t now be in hock to an irate Italian to the sum of thirty pounds. And now, with a pot of forty-five American dollars on the table and every prospect of another twenty being laid out before betting was concluded, I should have been dancing a quiet jig on the table. But Lady Luck can be a cruel mistress and circumstances were already conspiring against me.

  Karl Lindt had not taken his eyes from my face when I’d added the last two dollars to the pot. By common agreement we were playing with American currency rather than pounds or reichsmarks. Sir George Westlake had been kind enough to convert some cash for me at the start of the evening. He was still in the game, as was Jacob Finch, the red-haired stockbroker, but Josef Kaufmann and Thomas McGilton had already folded. I was glad the Irishman had joined us at the table, despite the hefty stake. He needed at least one vice to his name and the fellow was proving to be rather a good player. His most recent hand might not have been the best but he was up a good five dollars overall, which was better than I was doing. I needed to win this round if I was to recoup my earlier losses.

  Strictly speaking, the six of us should not have been gambling at all. The games room on the Richthofen was reserved for non-competitive sport, though the stewards were prepared to turn a blind eye, so long as the sums involved were not ridiculously high. A friendly bridge contest was taking place at one of the square tables on the near side of the games room, between us and the promenade, and with that as camouflage nobody official was asking any awkward questions.

  The money was piling up in front of us and I could see from the smug expression on his face that Mr Lindt had every intention of bleeding the rest of us dry. But there was no hand the belligerent German could possess that would beat the one in front of me. I had the little sod exactly where I wanted him.

  And then the bridge match reached its conclusion and the four players rose up to leave their table; Walter Kendall among them. The American had joined the game after dinner, partnering Annabel Hurst against Frederick Gray and Lucy Tanner. I got the feeling Kendall was not a regular player and was only taking part out of politeness, but the game had been a surprisingly animated affair. Miss Tanner was in her element, teasing the men, and the usually dull Mr Gray, under the influence of one too many glasses of wine at supper, had started to come into his own. But now, with the English team victorious over the Anglo-Americans, the foursome had decided to call it a night.

  And so, despite being in possession of one of the best hands I had ever been dealt, it looked like I would have no choice but to abandon the game and follow them out.

  Maurice had been sceptical of my scheme from the outset. ‘You intend to drug the American?’ he had asked, before supper, his usual pained expression ratcheting up from twisted-ankle to finger-in-the-door.

  ‘Not me, Morris. You. A small sprinkling of powder in his whisky before he goes to bed and he’ll be out like a light.’

  My valet’s expression jumped from finger-in-the-door to electro-shock therapy. ‘I do not think that would be a good idea, Monsieur.’

  ‘I don’t pay you to think, Morris!’ I snapped. ‘You’ll do as you’re damned well told.’ I kept my voice at a low hiss, in deference to the walls, but I was no less vehement for that. ‘It’s me that’s going to have to break into his room in the dead of night. It’s me that’ll suffer the consequences if I’m caught doing it. All you have to do is serve a couple of glasses of whisky.’

  ‘A couple of glasses?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course. Pay attention!’ It was a simple enough strategy. ‘I’ll offer him a night cap after supper. Then you can slip the powder into one of the glasses. Don’t look at me like that. It won’t do him any harm. The dosage is written very clearly on the side of the bottle.’

  Maurice raised an eyebrow but he did not challenge my assertion. ‘And you think Monsieur Kendall will accept the invitation?’

  ‘For a drink? Of course he will. He’s far too polite to refuse. Especially if it’s one of my own bottles.’ I had not brought much luggage with me from Gibraltar, but I never travelled anywhere without a decent supply of whisky.

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’

  I could see Maurice was not happy, so I adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, I know this isn’t strictly within your job description. But you know how important this is to me. I have to prove my mettle to the people in London. Show that I’m up to the job. And they wouldn’t have paid a small fortune for both of us to travel on this airship if it wasn’t very important.’

  Maurice acknowledged the truth of that with a dip of his head.

  ‘I need to get hold of those negatives and I can’t see any other way to do it. Kendall hasn’t left the damned things lying around anywhere. He has to be carrying them with him, in one of his pockets. And the only way I can search his clothes is when he’s not wearing them; when he’s undressed and fast asleep. If you slip him the sleeping draught, he’ll toddle off quietly to bed and when he’s out for the count I can break into his cabin and do the necessary.’

  ‘But are you sure you will be able to break in?’ Maurice enquired.

  ‘Well, of course I’ll be able to break in!’ I did not appreciate the man casting aspersions on my lock-picking capabilities. ‘There won’t be anyone around to disturb me, not in the early hours of the morning. I’ll have plenty of time to do it.’ And I still had the hair pins from earlier in the day.

  ‘If you say so, Monsieur.’

  ‘I do say so, Morris. I want to get this over with tonight. Throw the damned photos out to sea and have done with it.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur.’ The valet bowed his head. He was still not happy but he had accepted the necessity.

  All that remained to do was the deed itself. It would be a simple matter to approach Kendall after supper and he would be bound to accept my invitation. Better to do it tonight, I thought, while there was still plenty of time. My resolution had not wavered over dinner, when the American had sat at a far table, talking animatedly to Miss Tanner. I had even held back on my alcohol intake, to make sure I kept a clear head. But now, as the man rose up from the card table and prepared to head off to his cabin, my resolve was beginning to falter.

  The eight and ten of clubs were burning a hole in my hand and I was having second thoughts about the whole idea.

  We would be on board the airship for at least another night before we reached Rio. I could leave it until tomorrow. That would still give me plenty of time and I would be able to play out my hand in peace. It wasn’t just the prospect of winning a tidy sum that made me hesitate, however. I also wanted to see the expression on Mr Lindt’s face when I laid down my cards in front of him. That was part of the attraction of a game like this. Delaying the attack on Walter Kendall would be something of a gamble, though. There would be no second chance if I got it wrong tomorrow night. What if he chose to retire early? What if he refused the drink? The whole scheme would be in ruins. We would be in Rio shortly after that and then anything might happen. He could get the prints developed and wire the results to New York. No, if I was serious about doing this, it had to be done tonight. And that meant abandoning the pot right now and following Kendall out of the games room.

  I gripped the cards tightly in my hands, unwilling to let go of them, despite myself.

  ‘I’m off to bed, darling,’ Miss Tanner called across to her fiancé. ‘Good night, gentlemen!’

  ‘Sleep well,’ McGilton called back, amid general murmurings from the other players.

  Miss Tanner and Miss Hurst stepped out onto the promenade, with Mr Gray following behind. The E
nglishman was a little unsteady on his feet and Miss Tanner gave him her arm, to prevent him from losing his footing. Walter Kendall was close behind them and stopped for a moment at the windows, gazing out at the darkness of the ocean.

  Lindt was still intent on the game. Mr Finch had folded but the German had matched my two dollars and raised another three. Sir George was still in the game, however, which meant the betting might well go on for another five minutes. I gave out a heavy sigh, shook my head and placed my cards face down on the table. ‘That’s me out, I’m afraid. Time to retire.’

  The German’s eyes lit up in triumph.

  ‘Can’t take the heat, eh?’ Sir George laughed good-naturedly as I rose to my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, moving away from the table, I saw him throw down a five dollar bill. ‘I’ll see you, old chap.’

  Lindt crowed with pleasure as he spread out his cards on the table. ‘Two pairs. Sevens and nines.’ It was a good hand, though nowhere near as good as the one I had just abandoned.

  Sir George roared with delight. ‘Three jacks,’ he countered, throwing them down on the table.

  Karl Lindt let out an anguished cry.

  ‘Bad luck, old boy!’

  I had reached the promenade by now but I couldn’t help glancing back to catch sight of Mr Lindt scraping his chair away from the table in disgust. ‘I think I will also call it a night!’

  ‘Now, now!’ Sir George chided him. ‘No need to be a sore loser.’

  ‘I am not a sore loser. I am going to bed.’ The German stormed angrily past me.

  I exchanged a look with Walter Kendall, who had also witnessed the tantrum. ‘Some people,’ I muttered.

  Kendall nodded. ‘In my experience, it’s never a good idea to play for money on social occasions. It spoils your enjoyment of the evening.’