The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,54

of his, some other crew member to thrash me.”

Lehmann was shaking his head. “Now, please, there’s simply no basis to this…. You’re just being stubborn, Leslie.”

“Oh, I’m stubborn all right, but there’s a basis, too. Spehl had another crew member with him—who accompanied Spehl when he came to see me, to have his book autographed.”

Now Lehmann leaned forward, keenly interested. “What other crew member?”

“I didn’t get much of a look at him. Just a burly bloke, huskier than Spehl. He didn’t approach me, this other fellow. Sat on a window bench while Spehl talked to me. He got a good look at me—I barely noticed him.”

Erdmann laughed hollowly. “That’s not much of an identification.”

“One of your crew members has a bite mark on his leg. Find him and you’ve found our man.”

Pruss stepped forward, shaking his head. “If you’re suggesting we repeat this farce, sixty more times—”

“You have a murderer on this airship,” Charteris said. “Or perhaps two murderers—accomplices. If you don’t care to pursue it, so be it. I, however, will be talking to the New York police and the American press, to everyone who will listen in fact, who might be interested in hearing of my delightful voyage on the Hindenburg.”

“Please, Leslie,” Lehmann began, his expression grave. “Be reasonable—”

“Do you know what a real murder, widely reported in the press, could do for my book sales? I can see the royalties now….”

Silence filled the cabin, touched barely by the distant thrum of diesels and raindrops dancing lightly on the ship’s sheath.

Finally, abruptly, Erdmann stood. “My men and I will handle this. Discreetly.”

Lehmann looked up, narrow-eyed, at the Luftwaffe colonel. “I believe that’s a wise course of action.”

“When we have your bitten assailant in custody,” Erdmann said, “we’ll inform you. Perhaps you’d like to confront him yourself.”

“Perhaps I would,” Charteris said. “I believe he’ll give up his friend Spehl, and you’ll have Eric Knoecher’s murderer in custody—and no publicity problems whatsoever.”

“We’re in agreement, then,” Lehmann said, looking toward Pruss. “Colonel Erdmann and his men will handle this inquiry.”

The captain nodded. “I have to get back to the control gondola. Gentlemen.”

And Pruss slipped out.

Charteris got to his feet. Yawned. “I believe I’ll have breakfast. Getting the hell knocked out of me has worked up an appetite.”

Erdmann said, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You know, one thing apparently has not occurred to you yet, Fritz.”

“And what would that be… Leslie?”

“The unanswered question.”

“Which is?”

“If Spehl is our man—and I believe he is—what was his motive for dumping Knoecher overboard?”

Lehmann jack-in-the-boxed to his feet, asking, “What are you saying?”

“If Spehl is a saboteur, then never mind comical ol’ Joe Spah taking the occasional unsupervised stroll, aft. Who better than a rigger to tuck a bomb away somewhere in the skin of this airborne monster?”

And Lehmann, his expression more grave than ever, sat back down.

Erdmann merely nodded, in affirmation of Charteris’s assessment, as the author made his way out of the cabin, and down the planklike gangway to the entry to B deck.

Because this would be a short day—landing at Lakehurst was expected for around four P.M.—Charteris and Hilda had agreed to take an earlier breakfast than usual. But it was still a good hour before he was due to knock at her door. Before going back to his cabin, he strolled to the portside promenade, to view another gray, rainy dawn.

The dining room was already doing a brisk business. Some of the passengers, convening for the trip’s final breakfast, were casually attired in pajamas and bathrobes. Others were already spiffily done up in their arrival outfits. Miss Mather, in a blue dress trimmed lacy white, was seated with her college boys, flirting, laughing. The trio of businessmen—Douglas, Morris, and Dolan—were having a rather silent breakfast, wearing seemingly slept-in suits, and looked hungover, which was not surprising, considering how much time they spent in the smoking room/bar area.

“Lester!”

Moritz Feibusch, seated alone at a table for two against the linen-paneled wall, was waving at him. Charteris strolled over and sat for a few moments with the pleasant, lumpy-faced tuna-fish man.

“Just so you know,” Feibusch said, “I’m giving up.”

“Giving up?”

“I’m at a hundred and fifty and who-knows-how-many postcards and, oy, my poor hand is swollen from signing my name. How do you famous people stand it, all the autographs?”

“Endorsing checks from publishers makes up for it. You have the whole day in front of you, Moritz. You can still make your quota.”

“No. This is my birthday trip, Lester, remember? For once, I’m going to sightsee. We’ll be