Under German law, while he was no more welcome in most men's houses than. . .than Mrs. Zhang and Mr. Cui, he was not proscribed. In British America, however, the blood were outlawed. Those Crown rules had not been generally enforced since the seventeenth century, but were kept on the books for convenience's sake in troublesome cases.
And so, it would be entirely best for Sebastien to have this mystery resolved by the time DCI Garrett arrived on the scene—or the scene, as the case might be, arrived in her jurisdiction.
So it had better not be sorcery, hadn't it?
He paused. Of course, there was one very easy way to tell if it potentially could be sorcery. And that could be addressed in the morning. In the meantime, however—
Sebastien heard crisply military footsteps, and started forward. A few steps took him around the corner, and into the path of the watch officer. Tonight, it was the first mate, who tipped his hat and kept on walking, obviously accustomed to sleepless passengers.
"Guten Morgen," he said, the first mate echoing his words. As he passed, Sebastien checked his watch. Three oh eight. "Herr Pfrommer?"
The first mate checked his stride and turned back. "Ja, mein Herr?"
Briefly, Sebastien outlined what he proposed, and when it seemed as if the officer would protest, held up his hand. "Please check with the captain," he said. "I will abide by his decision."
Herr Pfrommer clicked his heels, a tradition Sebastien had considered happily buried until that moment, and carried on with his rounds. And Sebastien sighed and took himself down to the control cabin before the officer returned, or the sun came up.
The Hans Glücker didn't have a hanging gondola, as a smaller dirigible might. Most of its passenger and crew facilities were inside the airframe, with only a small control cabin protruding underneath the nose of the ship. Sebastien walked forward past the salon and smoking room, down the white-walled corridor which provided access to the washrooms, crew quarters, and the galley by means of German-labeled doors. The hum of the engines was louder, here. They extended from either side of the ship on sets of pontoons, and one of the main struts ran through behind the forward door that would have brought him into the control cabin.
It was locked, of course.
Fortunately, among all his other skills, Jack could pick a lock. And it was Sebastien who taught him.
Sebastien unpinned his cravat—the jewel was set in gold, but the stick pin itself was steel—and with its offices and those of a bit of wire, he managed the lock by touch in seconds. He opened the door and let himself through, and proceeded down a short flight of stairs.
The pilot didn't turn. He spoke, though—in German, of course. "You're back very soon, Herr Pfrommer."
"I am not Herr Pfrommer," Sebastien said, and when the pilot started and turned, producing a weapon, Sebastien stood with both hands raised and open, having dropped wire and pin into his pocket. "I am sorry. The door was open, and I—"
"You are investigating?"
"Yes." Sebastien smiled. "How many pilots are on this ship, sir?"
"Two," he answered. He checked his controls and locked them in position, and then turned back to Sebastien.
"Heel and toe watches?" Twelve hours on and twelve off, that meant. A grueling schedule.
"Yes, mein Herr."
"So it was not you to whom my ward spoke this afternoon."
"I went to my bunk at six—" the pilot began, and then pressed his lips together. "What did your young man tell you about Franz?"
"Just that he was charming," Sebastien lied, taking the opportunity to survey the control cabin. It was small, and while there was an exit door, it
was clearly visible from the pilot's position. "And that he gave Jack a tour
of the control cabin. Tell me, mein Herr, did you leave your post at all
last night?"
"Only to visit the washroom," the pilot said. "And for my coffee and dinner breaks. The officer of the watch takes control during that time." He checked his watch—a wristwatch, favored by aviators, rather than a pocket watch. "I'll take my second break as soon as the first mate returns from his rounds, in fact. My relief arrives at six hundred hours."
"Your dinner break is at three hundred."
"Three twenty," the pilot corrected.
"Thank you," Sebastien said. It was perhaps three twelve. "I can show myself out. Oh—" He paused with his hand on the latch. "Can you tell me where rubbish is disposed of, please?"