The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,51
smacking into the aluminum bunk ladder. Woozy, almost unconscious, Charteris somehow found his way to his feet and swung madly, randomly in the darkness, fists hitting nothing.
Then a fist flew into him, into his stomach, doubling him over, and now he was on the floor of the pitch-dark cubicle, and he was the one being pummeled by clasped hands on his back.
Grabbing in the darkness, grabbing for anything, his hands gripped an ankle, and it was not very dignified, it was not something the Saint might have done, but Charteris bit into the flesh of the man’s leg, hard, savagely hard, bare skin between pant leg and sock, and Charteris tasted blood. It was a good wound.
Which elicited another howl that signaled to the author a turning point in this close-quarter battle in utter darkness, and he got to his feet and was bringing his fist back when powerful hands gripped his throat and squeezed, squeezed hard and harder, and his fist turned into limp fingers and his head began to spin.
But he clearly heard the harsh whisper of a male voice, German-accented English, saying, “Stop this, what you’re doing! Stop it!”
Then he felt himself propelled backward, and his head was slammed into the metal of the folded-up-into-the-wall suitcase stand.
And Leslie Charteris, amateur detective, author of the sophisticated Saint tales, retired for the evening.
DAY FOUR:
THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1937
TWELVE
HOW THE HINDENBURG BUZZED BOSTON, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS TUGGED A PANT LEG
IN THE DRIZZLY DARKNESS OF the predawn morning hours, the Hindenburg got its bearings thanks to the tiny twinklings of coastal lighthouses, glimmering up through the gloom below like displaced stars. Trekking along at sixty-three knots, just a few miles from the shore, the great airship swooped so low, her altitude was less than her own length. Rudely wakened fishermen floundered from their shacks, rubbing sleep from their eyes, summoned by the husky rumbling of engines in the sky, only to see the massive ship pass overhead like a mysterious gray cloud.
About the same time those fisherman were stumbling groggily back to their beds, Leslie Charteris was sitting up in his, every bit as groggy as they, if not more so. How he had gotten into the bunk, he was unsure—he assumed sometime in the night he’d woken from the blow, found himself on his cabin floor, and felt his way up to the softer surface of the bedding, flopping there, unconsciousness giving way to sleep.
Now he was awake, but his head was pounding and he was dizzy to boot. The cabin was still shrouded in darkness. He managed to rise to his feet—a task that seemed to him no more difficult than scaling a cliff—and stood there for several long seconds getting his bearings, his balance, then his fingers guided him like a blind man reading Braille to the light switch.
As the light clicked on, its forty watts seemingly flooding the cabin with dazzling light, Charteris closed his eyes tight and groaned with discomfort. He sat down on the edge of his bunk and held his head in his hands; in back, his fingers found a goose egg almost dead center—no clotted-over blood, though.
Breathing easier now, his head still hurting but the dizziness ebbing at least, he returned to his feet, which were steady enough, and lumbered the great distance of a foot or two to the washbasin, where he stood sloshing water on his face for at least a minute.
Studying himself in the mirror, he realized he was still wearing his white dinner jacket—rumpled, to say the least, though his bow tie was perfectly in place. That made him laugh, which made his head throb, so he stopped. Something winked at him from the floor—his monocle. He stooped, picked it up—it was in the corner, where the bunk met the wall—and the round glass eyepiece was undamaged. He snugged it into place.
Soon he was in his underwear, slippers, and a robe. His wristwatch said the time was 4:30 A.M.; most of the Hindenburg was still asleep, the passenger decks anyway. He was unaware that the ship was a mere four-hundred-some miles from Lakehurst, New Jersey, her destination.
But he did realize that time was slipping away. He could not roll back into his bunk, however his head might throb, however tired he might still be. So in his robe he made his way down to B deck, where the shower was free; in fact, not even a steward was in attendance. No reservations, no one to cut off the flow of