The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,24
will be informed of this.”
“Certainly.” Lehmann pressed on. “He will be my next stop.”
“Do you want me to come along, and fill him in?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. Please go about the business of being just another passenger….”
“Another satisfied customer, you mean?”
They had reached the door to B deck.
Lehmann arched an eyebrow, smiled a little. “More satisfied than Eric Knoecher, I venture to say.”
Then the former captain of the Hindenburg reached for the handle, slid the door open, and gestured for Charteris to step on through.
SIX
HOW THE HINDENBURG’S DOCTOR PRESCRIBED SLIPPERS, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS WAS SUMMONED
AS THEY HAD AGREED LAST night, Charteris knocked at Hilda’s door promptly at nine A.M. The lovely braided blonde appeared at the author’s first tentative rap, almost startling him.
“Do I seem overanxious?” she asked, her smile slightly embarrassed. Her impressive topography was well served by the simple but stylish navy-blue short-sleeved linen dress with white piqué piping, made quietly elegant by white gloves.
“I’m not complaining, my dear—particularly if you’re anxious to see me.”
“The truth is,” she said, sliding the cabin door closed behind her, “I am simply famished—have you been up long?”
“Awhile.” He gave her no particulars regarding the already-busy morning’s events.
Walking arm in arm, the couple paused in the foyer where the A deck corridor came out near the stairs; on one side of the shelf-perched bust of Marshal von Hindenburg was a map of the Atlantic where a steward was moving the tiny red flag marking the airship’s westward progress. Then the white-jacketed lad pinned a note on the bulletin board, on the other side of the glowering bust, adding to various postings of news, activities, and regulations.
“They have canceled this morning’s tour of the ship!” Hilda said, a finger touching the offending notice on the bulletin board. “I was so looking forward to that!”
“Just postponed till this afternoon, my dear,” Charteris said, reading over her shoulder.
“Why do you suppose they did that?”
“Probably to annoy you. Word has no doubt gotten around how beautiful you look when you wrinkle your nose.”
She smirked at him. “Do you think mocking me is the way to my heart?”
“Possibly, but first I think we should take care of your stomach.”
In the dining room, which was doing a lively business, a steward ushered them to a table for two along the wall. The breakfast smells were appetizing, to say the least, an olfactory promise the fare delivered on: eggs, sausage, ham, salami, cheese, fresh rolls and breads, butter, honey, jams, choice of coffee, tea, or cocoa. Much as on an ocean liner, there was no shortage of food, and good food at that; but unlike an ocean liner, no one was avoiding it, for fear of seasickness.
The airship seemed to have passed effortlessly through the worst of the weather; the ship’s outer fabric had withstood rain and wind and even hail while the passengers within sensed only a murmur reminiscent of surf lapping against shore. The windows of the promenade looked out on a gray, indistinct world, while the bright, lively inner domain of the Hindenburg, as evidenced by its dining room, seemed untouched by the passing storm, passengers chatting gaily, new friends being made, old ones reaffirmed, amid the bustle of stewards and the clink of china and clank of silverware.
“I am glad we are seated alone,” Hilda said, slathering honey on a biscuit—a healthy girl with a healthy appetite. “I don’t mean to be unsociable, but all that political talk bores me.”
Actually, Charteris thought “bored” was probably not the word—“disturbed” was more like it. But he let it go.
“Where is your cabin mate, this morning?” she asked.
“He’s taken cold. Keeping himself to bed. I doubt we’ll be seeing much of him.”
“My cabin was a little chilly. I rang for the steward, and was brought an electric heater—perhaps you could order one up for Mr. Knoecher.”
“He can fend for himself.”
She nibbled her biscuit. “Do I sense you don’t care much for him, Leslie?”
“I would prefer a different cabin mate, and the next time you get chilly, don’t send for a heater.”
Her lips pursed into that kiss of a smile. “You make me hesitate to ask my next question.”
“And what would that be?”
“I was wondering what we might do with ourselves, this morning, now that the ship tour has been canceled.”
“Postponed. Well, assuming making mad, passionate love in your cabin—with the heater off—is not presently an option, how about a friendly game of cards? Do you happen to play bridge?”
“Why, yes I do. And I love it.”
A busboy