The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,8
trench coat, and Charteris admired the pistonlike action of what appeared to be a fine female bottom beneath.
At the top of the stairs, an ample aisle extended laterally across the ship. Charteris was pleased—in fact, relieved—to see that the bust of Marshal Paul von Hindenburg still held its position of prominence on a high central shelf overlooking this foyerlike area, off of which the cabins were accessed; Dr. Eckener had bragged to Charteris, on the maiden voyage, that he’d refused to replace the bust with one of Der Führer. Considering the repressive treatment the passengers had received going through customs, the author wouldn’t have been surprised to see Hitler’s glowering picklepuss in the place of the ship’s namesake.
Charteris took Hilda’s arm and—following behind several other passengers, who were still moving slow, taking it all in—escorted her to the starboard side, where a spacious lounge was outfitted with modernistic tables and chairs of an aluminum chrome so light a child could lift them.
The lounge—dominated by a huge mural-style wall map with sailing ships, denoting the routes of famous explorers—was bereft of the feature that had been its most popular item on the maiden voyage: the lightweight yellow pigskin-covered aluminum Bluthner baby grand piano, around which Charteris and his wife, Pauline, had so often stood as Captain Lehmann played. He and Pauline would offer slightly tipsy renditions of Cole Porter, to the delight of their fellow passengers. “Cheek to Cheek” had been their showstopper.
“Leslie,” Hilda said. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said, realizing he’d paused in reflection, now moving on, dismissing a pang of loss that he told himself was for the Bluthner baby grand but was in fact for his soon-to-be ex-wife. “Let’s find a nice front-row seat.”
Separated from the lounge by an aluminum railing, an observation deck ran the length of the starboard side (a similar one would be found portside). A number of passengers—Miss Mather among them—had found positions along this promenade. Padded upholstered rust-orange benches, now and then, sat at a right angle to the wall of big slanted windows, offering an aquariumlike view on the world below.
Right now that view was of the Nazi Boy Scouts and that blue-and-yellow-garbed brass band, as well as several dozen spectators—friends and relatives denied permission to go aboard before castoff, waving their bon voyages in the rain.
Charteris and Hilda had just taken one of the seats—barely room enough for two, but a pleasant sort of crowding, the author thought—when the brass band began to play “Deutschland über Alles.”
“Ah,” Charteris said, “we’ll be casting off soon…. Would you like to remove your raincoat?”
“No, thank you. I rather enjoy this breeze.”
The slanting windows were open, letting in cool evening air but no rain; even at cruising speed, Charteris knew, nasty weather could not find its way in these ingeniously rigged windows, which had a generous shelflike sill. Unfortunately the blaring German band—somewhat off-key—was having no trouble getting in.
When the band had completed the ponderous anthem, the crowd applauded and cheered and whistled; above this clamor came a voice over the ship’s loudspeakers, a blaring announcement in German that could be heard outside, as well.
“Will the wife of Colonel Erdmann please come forward!”
So Erdmann of the Luftwaffe was a colonel—but unlike the stockyard king from Chicago, Nelson Morris, Fritz hadn’t bragged about the fact.
From the crowd stepped a slender woman in a green-and-white gingham dress and large-brimmed green straw hat, protecting herself and her stylish attire under an umbrella. Even at this distance, it was apparent that Mrs. Erdmann was a strikingly attractive woman. A steward ran to greet her and escort her to the ship, the pair walking out of view from the promenade windows.
“Privileges of military men,” Charteris muttered, glancing around to see if Erdmann was on this side of the ship.
He was, but not with the others, at the slanted windows—the Luftwaffe colonel had taken a seat, by himself, in the lounge area, which was otherwise unpopulated, his hands folded on the table, his expression an odd amalgam of glum and anxious.
Soon the woman in green and white emerged on A deck, appearing like an apparition; and she was indeed striking, Charteris noted—brunette, slenderly shapely, her face a pale oval, as perfect and lovely as the image on a cameo brooch.
Erdmann sprang to his feet and she rushed to him. They embraced, not kissing, not speaking, just clutching each other with a passionate intensity that caused most of the passengers witnessing this private moment to turn away, out of respect, or embarrassment.
But