The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,47
viewpoint, gentlemen?”
“By all means,” Lehmann said.
“Spah is one of the few names on the list of Eric Knoecher’s ‘subjects’ that I haven’t got round to interviewing yet. No one’s asked, but I can report with a clear mind and a cool head that those I’ve spoken to have given me no reason to suspect them of Knoecher’s murder.”
“Who have you spoken to?” Erdmann asked.
Charteris gave them a brief rundown.
“All of them have valid reasons for being on Knoecher’s list,” Charteris said, wrapping up, “but nothing worth killing him over. Not right here on the spot, anyway.”
“No one reacted to your lie about Knoecher being sick in bed in your cabin?” Erdmann asked. “Not a suspicious eye movement, or nervousness of speech, or—”
“Nothing. But I would suggest, before you arrest Spah, you allow me to continue my informal investigating. He’s a talkative little bastard—I’ll get something out of him.”
“You would talk to him this evening?” Erdmann asked.
“Yes. He was in the lounge, right in the swing of things. Decent voice; not off-key, anyway.”
Lehmann nodded. “Yes, he’s not setting any bombs at the moment, that’s for certain.”
Charteris gazed at Erdmann, keeping his expression soft but his eyes hard. “I believe our esteemed Captain Lehmann is correct in his assumption about the negative response to Spah’s arrest. This man is scheduled to appear at a very famous theater in New York City—his arrest would make front-page news all over America.”
“Yes, yes,” Lehmann said, nodding, nodding.
“And, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, this is a little man with a very big mouth. He would spout off to the papers, the radio, the newsreels, getting himself all the ink, all the publicity, he could squeeze out. He’d seize upon it to make himself a martyr—a famous one.”
“Not if we keep him in custody,” Erdmann said, “and he never sets foot off the ship.”
“He’s in America, once we land,” Lehmann said. “Their laws pertain. We could not legally detain him on the ship—we would risk igniting an international incident of major proportions.”
“I’m not sure the Air Ministry would agree with your assessment,” Erdmann said.
“Perhaps not—but you agree with mine that discussing this over the airwaves is a far greater risk.”
Erdmann drew in a deep breath, let it out. “Then I suppose arresting this American ‘advertising executive,’ Edward Douglas, is out of the question.”
“Douglas?” Lehmann asked, frowning, puzzled.
“Why Douglas?” Charteris asked.
“You may recall I mentioned that the S.D. believed Douglas to be a spy.”
“But you didn’t say why.”
Erdmann hesitated, apparently deciding how much to reveal. Then he continued, saying, “Douglas works for General Motors, or at least he works for their advertising agency. General Motors owns Opel, makers of probably the most popular auto in Germany.”
When Erdmann didn’t continue, Charteris said, “So?”
“… So—the Opel company also manufactures many other engineering-related products in Germany, from spark plugs to aircraft engines. The S.D. believes Douglas has sent information on German steel production, aircraft assembly, ball-bearing plants, and much more to America.”
Charteris shook his head, not getting it. “If he works for General Motors, and General Motors owns the company, why wouldn’t he?”
Erdmann’s eyes tensed. “It’s believed he’s sharing this information with United States naval intelligence. He was attached to them during the war.”
“If you don’t want Americans to share your secrets, don’t go into business with them. This strikes me as rather thin.”
“No, Mr. Charteris, the evidence is quite fat. You see, I have one of my assistants, Lieutenant Hinkelbein, keeping his eye on all cablegrams that go through the ship’s radio room.”
Erdmann paused and withdrew from inside his suit coat pocket a folded slip of paper.
“I believe Douglas has clearly shown himself to be a spy,” Erdmann went on. “He is brazenly sending and receiving code messages like this one.”
The colonel handed the Reederei director the cablegram carbon copy.
Lehmann studied it. “This would certainly seem to be a coded message,” he said softly, gravely.
“May I see it?” Charteris asked.
Lehmann handed it to the author, who read it, then began to lightly laugh.
“What amuses you?” Erdmann asked tightly.
“He received this, I take it.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a childishly simple code. It’s baseball references.”
Erdmann frowned. “What?”
“Baseball. You know—the American bastardization of cricket. This appears to have come from his home office, in New York—‘AFTER YOU LEFT FIRST BASE’… first base would be Frankfurt… ‘LOCAL UMPIRES SEARCHED YOUR DUGOUT’… ‘umpires’ are game officials, ‘dugout’ is where the team gathers during the—”
“I don’t need to understand this stupid American sport,” Erdmann said testily. “What does the cablegram mean?”
“It means that your police searched his