The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,39
fellow who sat addressing the cards, imprinting the back of them with an inkpad’s rubber stamp, referring to a small black notebook as he did.
Feibusch had been sitting with William Leuchtenburg at a table for two along the wall in the dining room at every meal thus far. The other tables had invariably been taken by romantic couples—this singular instance of two men sitting together, Charteris surmised, represented the pair of American Jews who had been segregated together.
Also, he had recognized Leuchtenburg as the singing drunk from the bus, and knew as well that the Jews would not be seated at a table larger than one of the two-seaters—wouldn’t be practical, and Germans were, if anything, creatures of efficiency.
Pulling up a chair, Charteris said to Feibusch, “That’s quite a stack of cards you’ve got there. Do you really have that many friends?”
The lumpy features were pleasant enough, particularly with the man’s ready smile. “I have my share of friends—but there’s always room for one more. I’m Moritz Feibusch, from San Francisco.” He extended a hand that had seen its share of work.
Charteris took it, introducing himself.
“I heard about you!” Feibusch said, brightening even further. “You’re our ship’s celebrity!”
“Just goes to show you that it isn’t always cream that rises to the top.”
Feibusch let out a single hearty laugh. “Well, Mr. Charteris, I must admit, not everybody in this little black book is a dear friend. In fact, most of them are business accounts.”
“And it doesn’t hurt to treat business acquaintances like dear friends.”
“Surely doesn’t. I figure just about anybody would get a kick out of getting one of these….”
And Feibusch handed Charteris a pre-postage-affixed picture postcard with an airbrushed pastel painting of the Hindenburg in full flight against a blue sky, a tiny ocean liner looking insignificant and lost in the blue ocean below. Turning it over, Charteris saw that Feibusch had written the address in by hand, but the space for a message was stamped: “Greetings from the maiden voyage of the Hindenburg,” also hand-signed by Feibusch.
“Very nice,” the author said. “Of course, this isn’t the maiden voyage….”
Feibusch shrugged. “It is for me. Anyway, when I bought these cards from Steward Kubis—two hundred and some!—I noticed the rubber stamp and asked what it was, and he told me, and I asked if I could use it. It was left over from last year. He didn’t see why not. And neither did I.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Feibusch?”
“Moritz, please, make it Moritz. And may I call you Lester?”
“It’s Leslie, and of course you can.”
“I’m in tuna fish.” Feibusch paused in processing the postcards, turning toward Charteris. “Broker of canned tuna fish and other canned goods, and fancy goods.” He beamed, shaking his head. “Now, fancy goods, that’s what’s took off like a rocket ship.”
“Fancy goods?”
His eyes went wide with enthusiasm. “Packages of preserves—sugared oranges and lemons, raisins, dried prunes, peanuts, cashews—all done up in pretty gift boxes with cellophane wrapping. Like a hatbox you can look down into, and see all the delicious candied fruits and nuts. All tied up with a pink ribbon, and set off like so with apple blossoms—much better than flowers! Perfect for weddings, ship sailings, especially Christmas. The Germans, Viennese, Hungarians, they all love my gift boxes.”
“You’re quite a salesman, Moritz. I’d buy one of the damn things, if you had one with you.”
Feibusch leaned close to the author, conspiratorially. “If I had one of the damn things along, trust me—I’d sell it to you.”
They both laughed, then Charteris said, “Say, don’t let me interfere with your efforts, there.”
“Thanks,” Feibusch said, and resumed his addressing, stamping, and signing, a one-man assembly line. “Please do keep me company, if you like. It’s rather a relief to”—he glanced about—“sit with someone who’s sober.”
“I noticed your friend does like to keep lubricated.”
“He’s in the bar now. Before lunch, and, oy, he’s already putting it away like Prohibition’s going to start up again any second. He’s a nice enough man—Leuchtenburg is his name— prominent sort, president of his own company. But he’s been pickled since day one.”
“Why? Other than he likes it, of course.”
Now Feibusch’s eyes narrowed. “I think he’s resentful of these Germans.”
“He’s German himself, isn’t he? A German-American, anyway.”
“German-American Jew. That’s something else altogether. Why do you think we’re stuck together, him and me? If you don’t have a concentration camp handy, at least herd the Jews around one table, right?”
“It has gotten unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant! These Germans, they’ve gone mad. I sell to groceries, butcher shops, bakeries,