The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,12
again, Captain—though I’m disappointed you’re not at the helm, this trip.”
“That’s a luxury an executive like myself can rarely, if ever, indulge in,” Lehmann said. “You’ll meet Captain Max Pruss, and you’ll like him—no nonsense, confident… I trained him myself. Former Graf Zeppelin captain.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Do you think I would willingly trade hands-on airship command for overseeing passenger operations and crew recruitment?”
“No. But I rather supposed Dr. Eckener enjoyed that kind of thing—has he retired?”
Lehmann shook his head, wearily. “It’s very sad, Mr. Charteris. Very sad indeed—we worked as comrades for almost thirty years, but politics has ruined all that.”
“Dr. Eckener alienated himself with the brownshirt boys, I take it.”
“Yes. And he assumes, wrongly, that I am one of them—he calls me a Nazi, and many others in the company, loyal zeppelin men, he condemns as ‘collaborators.’”
“Eckener is a wonderful man, but blunt, not to say irascible.”
“He is indeed all of those things. I assure you I am not a Nazi, Mr. Charteris, not a party member—I seek only to keep our ships flying in troubled skies.”
“The atmosphere has changed, since my previous voyage,” Charteris said, and briefly filled Lehmann in on the indignities of the customs process.
Lehmann shook his head forlornly at this report. “I do so regret that. I remember fondly the good times we had on the maiden voyage, you and your lovely wife…. I am sorry to hear that you and Pauline have parted.”
“On friendly terms.” He adjusted his monocle. “She abided my wandering eye longer than most women would. The fault was mine, entirely.”
“Forgive me for prying into personal matters.”
“Not at all, Captain. May I do the same?”
“Certainly.”
“Your boy was ailing, when last we spoke. An inner-ear infection, I believe. Is he well?”
Lehmann smiled tightly; there was no mirth in it. “Marie and I lost Luv, Easter Sunday last.”
“No! Oh my God, Ernst. I am so very sorry.”
As a father himself, dealing daily with mere separation from a beloved child, Charteris knew how deeply such a tragedy could wound.
And now the author understood the sadness in this gentle soldier’s eyes—how a warrior who had won the Iron Cross, twice, could become that most pathetic of figures, a heartbroken parent.
“We suffer our sorrows,” Lehmann said, “and yet we go on—you write, I fly. There is escape in work.”
“There is indeed.”
The captain shifted in the hardwood chair. “I invited you here for more than social reasons, Mr. Charteris—much as I enjoy your company. As you know, we have an increased security presence on this ship.”
“Yes—I met Colonel Erdmann.”
Lehmann nodded. “Colonel Erdmann mentioned to me—in a friendly way, I might add—that you expressed to him some concerns… specifically, about the possibility of a bomb scare.”
“The precautions being taken suggested as much.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because loutish security men, causing a commotion about possible sabotage, can be as damaging to the Zeppelin Company as the discovery of a bona fide bomb.”
“Were you warned that a bomb might be aboard?”
Lehmann sighed. “You should know, Mr. Charteris, that virtually no zeppelin flight, particularly in these difficult days, goes untouched by such concerns. Time bombs have been uncovered a number of times on zeppelins in the past—the Bodensee, the Nordstern, recently on the Graf Zeppelin. Even the Americans had a sabotage problem, with their Akron. The S.D. have an increasingly challenging task to protect our passengers from enemies of the Reich.”
“I should think,” Charteris replied, with mock innocence. “After all, there are so many enemies to choose from, when so many nations are alienated, so many people of various racial, political, and religious backgrounds are persecuted.”
Lehmann managed another smile—a tired one. “I personally have no problem with such talk, Mr. Charteris, and though I might agree with you in at least some instances, certainly you’ll understand my need for… discretion.”
“Certainly.”
Now Lehmann frowned. “What I don’t know is if you understand your need for it. Discretion, I mean.”
“… I see.”
“Perhaps you don’t. The gentleman sharing your cabin, Mr. Knoecher—the importer?”
“Yes?”
“What he imports, Mr. Charteris, is information. He is an undercover S.D. agent.”
“Oh.”
“‘Oh’ indeed. The Reederei was instructed to provide Mr. Knoecher to you, as your cabin mate.”
“Why in heaven’s name?”
“Because you are outspoken. Mr. Knoecher is not aboard this ship seeking a bomb—his specialty, I understand, is ferreting out information about both his fellow countrymen and foreigners who do business in Germany.”
“What sort of information?”
“Perhaps you can make certain assumptions yourself. But those with skeletons in their closets—racial, political, religious skeletons, to quote you—might do well to steer Mr. Knoecher a