The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,32

said.

“Splendid idea. Personally, I think Joe Spah is merely a clown—clever or obnoxious, depending on your tastes. Who else is on your list, Colonel?”

Erdmann dug a small notebook from inside his sport jacket. Flipping it open, thumbing to a certain page, he said, “Let us begin with the obvious—one of our Jewish passengers, a Moritz Feibusch, a broker of canned goods from San Francisco.”

“An American?”

“Naturalized—German-born, with many relatives in his native land. While Mr. Feibusch has a commendable reputation as a businessman, he has spent an unusual amount of time in Germany this year—he had been there since January—and may be attempting to arrange expatriation of a number of friends and relatives to the United States.”

Charteris laughed dryly. “Why would Uncle Adolf care about that? Fewer Jews in Germany would seem to be a felicitous state of affairs from the Nazi point of view.”

The Luftwaffe colonel was shaking his head. “Not when officials have been bribed and corrupted to do so. At any rate, this explains Mr. Feibusch’s presence on Knoecher’s list. Interestingly, Mr. Feibusch’s rather constant companion on this trip—a Leuchtenberg, William G., of Larchmont, New York—is not one of your missing cabin mate’s ‘subjects,’ though he too is an American Jew, an executive with Alpha Lux, a manufacturer of gas filters.”

Lehmann interjected, “The two men are not traveling together—they were thrown together as a result of a seating arrangement.”

“Seating arrangement?” Charteris asked.

Nodding, the Reederei director said, “We were instructed to seat the two American Jews together—it’s a common practice, such segregation. From what I’ve observed, Mr. Leuchtenberg has spent the entire trip inebriated. If he’s a spy or a murderer, he’s an extremely adept actor.”

“It’s Joe Spah who plays a drunk in vaudeville,” Charteris said. “I believe Leuchtenberg must be the fellow who was singing German folk songs in the back of our bus.”

Lehmann nodded. “Most likely. He would seem harmless.”

“You apparently haven’t heard him sing,” Charteris said, flicking ash onto his saucer. “Though considering Leuchtenberg’s line of work, he’d have knowledge of the dangers and capacities of hydrogen.” Charteris glanced Erdmann’s way. “Who’s next, Colonel?”

Flipping a page, Erdmann said, “A cotton broker from Bremen named Hirschfeld. George W. Very successful, and on the surface his credentials would seem impeccable.”

“Now, Fritz, don’t tell me he made the mistake of being born Jewish, too.”

“No. Despite his name, he is not a Jew; but his mother was American, a Texan. He is thought to have dangerous connections. He spends much of his time in America, New York particularly.”

“He spends time in New York! He does sound like a dangerous character.”

Erdmann ignored the author’s sarcasm and pressed on. “The wealthiest man on this airship, no doubt, is Nelson Morris, of Chicago, Illinois.”

“I’ve met him. Meatpacking magnate.”

“Yes—and Jewish. With his enormous financial resources, he is in a position to help those of his persuasion back in Germany.”

“Actually, I don’t think they’re persuaded into being Jewish, exactly—but do go on.”

Erdmann glanced down at his little notebook. “Morris is traveling with a friend named Edward Douglas.”

“I met him, as well. Advertising man.”

“Knoecher didn’t give me much background on Douglas, other than to say the S.D. has him pegged as a spy. He was a naval officer in the Great War and has remained in Europe ever since.”

“All right.” Charteris blew a smoke ring. “I can approach him easily enough. What about the third man in their party? The perfume king—Dolan?”

“J. Burtis Dolan. Strong French connections, but not considered a major risk.”

“Who else?”

“Well, there’s a woman named Mather—”

“Not Margaret Mather! What possible harm could that spinster do?”

“She travels widely in Europe and America. She is precisely the sort of ‘innocent’ who makes an ideal courier. In addition, she has Jewish friends in Massachusetts.”

“I’m sure she’ll prove to be a regular Mata Hari.”

“I take it you’ve met her as well.”

“Yes, Fritz, it’s a small world on an airship. We held hands on the bus.”

“To each his own.” Erdmann thumbed to the next page, but didn’t bother looking at it. “The final pair of names on the list I know will be familiar to you—I saw you dine with them last night.”

“What, the Adelts, I suppose? Jew-loving journalists—the worst kind!”

“Mr. Charteris, these two are being considered for reeducation.”

This seemed to alarm Lehmann; his eyes flared, nostrils. “Good God, man! Where?”

“Dachau.”

Lehmann turned pale.

Erdmann added, “Knoecher was making an evaluation.”

“It’s, it’s, it’s absurd,” Lehmann said. “Leonhard Adelt is my biographer! I’ve known him for many, many years—and Gertrude, too! Certainly they’ve had their difficulties with the current regime, but