The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,28

with 137,500 pounds of diesel fuel for our four Daimler-Benz V-8 engines. As the fuel is consumed, the ship becomes lighter…. In fact, as you consume and use food for energy, the ship loses weight, and the captain compensates by valving off hydrogen.”

His voice echoing, the doctor rattled off more facts and figures, about maintaining the ship’s trim, the collecting and discarding of water ballast, and other matters. But the passengers weren’t really paying much attention—they were Jonahs wandering through a whale, and were busy being awestruck.

The postponing of the morning tour had, quite obviously (Charteris knew), been to allow a search for the absent Knoecher. But despite its cavernlike interior, and the plentiful pleats and crevices and overlaps of fabric, as well as the shafts designed to allow leaking gas to escape, and the network of girders and ladders and the framework skeleton itself, the Hindenburg provided few if any hiding places for a human.

On the other hand, concealing a small bomb would be child’s play.

As they traveled the narrow walkway to the stern, the engines—so barely noticeable on the passenger decks—built to a roar; other sounds fought for attention, including the whir of ventilation units. Now and then a gray-coveralled crew member would be spied on a ladder or perched above them, attending to a valve or other controls.

For the most part, these crew members ignored the intruders threading through their domain. But one of them—a tall, pale, baby-faced young man—was staring down. Charteris couldn’t shake the feeling that the young crew member was staring down at him, in particular.

“There’s Ulla!” Spah cried, pointing. He was just in front of Charteris.

“Who’s Ulla?” Hilda asked Charteris; she was following his lead.

“His dog.”

“Doctor,” Spah was saying, “I want to stop and say hello!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spah, but our group needs to stay together. Those are my instructions.”

“Well, that’s fine—then we can all visit my Ulla. But do keep in mind she’s young and excitable.”

“Joe,” Charteris said, “your Ulla almost knocked you into the ocean last night. Let’s just move on, shall we?”

“Leslie! Don’t tell me you don’t like my dog!”

“I have nothing against dogs except that they are dirty, parasitic, and only too happy to lick any hand that feeds them.”

Spah grinned back. “Oh, Saint—you’re joking again!”

Actually, he wasn’t.

The group was stopped on the gangway, now.

With a strained smile, the doctor said, “Mr. Spah, you can come back later with a steward as your escort. We’re on a strict schedule, so that I may take another group out at three o’clock. Please come along, sir.”

But Spah was breaking off to climb a ladder up to the freight platform, saying, “Then go on ahead without me—I’ll catch up.”

“Mr. Spah, I can’t allow—”

Spah paused on the ladder and sneered over at the young doctor. “So the Germans are even running their zeppelins like concentration camps these days, huh?”

The young doctor looked stricken. Then he said, “All right, Mr. Spah. Please be careful.”

The group pressed on, descending two flights of stairs into the tail, where Ruediger—his voice weary—explained the emergency steering controls under the massive rudders. From here they could look out the tail fin’s windows at the Atlantic, eight hundred feet below, milky white in the afternoon mist.

By the time the doctor had led them back up the stairs, Joe Spah was waiting. The acrobat fell back into line, in front of Charteris, to whom he said, “I’m going to report that doctor for cruelty to animals.”

Ruediger either didn’t hear that or chose to ignore it as he led the group up a ladder to a higher gangway, where they headed back, walking single file through a jungle of lines and wires, the immense tan gas cells billowing like loose, sagging flesh. Shortly they came to a lateral crosswalk that led out to an engine gondola.

“Would anyone like to visit gondola number three?” the doctor asked over considerable engine noise. “Mr. Spah, perhaps?”

A gangway with a thin guide rail stretched over the sea to the small gondola, where a single mechanic tended one of the ship’s diesel engines.

“No thank you. I am an acrobat but not a fool.”

The doctor paused, as if tempted to disagree.

Margaret Mather, clasping her hands like a schoolgirl, said, “How I wish I had the temerity to try.”

Brightly, Gertrude Adelt said, “I’d like to give it a go!”

“Dear, are you sure?” her husband asked.

And indeed it was a treacherous proposition—Charteris was rather surprised the doctor had suggested it. The wind had to be barreling by at something like