The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,10
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 quarters 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