The Hindenburg Murders (18 page)

“How reassuring,” Charteris said.

“I believe the time has come to take Joseph Spah into custody,” Erdmann said. “Major Witt and Lieutenant Hinkelbein agree with me.”

“Who are they?” Charteris asked. “The other two Luftwaffe men snooping around in mufti?”

Erdmann frowned in confusion. “Mufti?”

“Out of uniform, Fritz. Undercover. Spies.”

Swallowing thickly, but not showing any pique, Erdmann said, “Yes—they are my assistants in our security effort.”

“Why aren’t they here?”

“Because they aren’t aware of your role in this affair—your undercover role, that is. Your spying.”

“Is that the Nazi way, Fritz? Keep the right hand from knowing what the left is doing?”

Erdmann grinned; it was a sudden, surprising thing. “I didn’t think you were naive, Leslie—that’s the way of all governments, of all spy agencies.”

Charteris could only grin back at him: Erdmann had him.

“All right,” the author said. “From what you say, I assume this radio blackout is over—it’s foggy and overcast, but the electrical storm isn’t snapping around us, anymore.”

“That is correct.”

“So what are your orders from the fatherland? Or
is
arresting Spah an order from the Ministry of Something or Other?”

Erdmann glanced at Pruss, and both men seemed strangely chagrined.

“What is it?” Charteris asked.

Rather stiffly, Captain Pruss said, “We have decided not to inform the Air Ministry.”

“What?” Charteris leaned forward. “Surely you’re joking, gentlemen. A murder on board the
Hindenburg,
and you’re keeping it to yourself?”

“It was my decision,” Erdmann said.

Another voice from behind them said, “And mine.”

They all turned and were rather surprised to see Captain Lehmann standing in the officers’-mess doorway.

“Ernst,” Erdmann said, with a nervous flicker of a smile, “I thought you were entertaining the passengers….”

Thoughts raced through Charteris’s mind:
Was Lehmann supposed to be keeping the passengers busy while this security/murder-investigation powwow was under way? Or had Erdmann, for some reason, held this meeting during Lehmann’s entertainment session to
keep
something from the
Reederei
director, something that would be discussed in this meeting?

Strolling toward the booth, Lehmann said, “Oh the entertainment continues. Seems one of the passengers, Mr. Doehner, the father of those lovely little boys, also plays the accordion. He knew some American songs that I didn’t—so he is relieving me at my post, so to speak, briefly.”

“Please join us,” Erdmann said, a little too cheerfully.

Lehmann pushed in next to the colonel, looked toward Charteris and said, “Any message to the Air Ministry could be intercepted by non-Germans. This information in American or British hands, for example, could be harmful. The negative publicity could be damaging to both the
Reederei
and Germany herself.”

“Knowing our policy makers as I do,” Erdmann said, “I believe we would risk serious reprimand should we broadcast this situation. We must contain it ourselves.”

“Is that so,” Charteris remarked casually. “And you plan to start by arresting this buffoon Spah?”

“What is this?” Lehmann asked, glaring at Erdmann.

Charteris smiled to himself: he thought that might be what Erdmann hoped to conceal from Lehmann, executing the arrest before the
Reederei
director could do anything about it.

“I have just informed Mr. Charteris of the French train bombing,” Erdmann said coolly. “And Captain Pruss has recently shared with me a fact of which neither you nor Mr. Charteris is aware.”

Eyes now turned upon Captain Pruss, who sighed and said, “Chief Steward Kubis has informed me that Mr. Spah was found wandering through the body of the ship this afternoon, again to visit his animal, he says—again, unaccompanied, and without any permission.”

Erdmann’s jaw was set; he spoke through his teeth, “That’s the second time this ‘buffoon,’ as you call him, Mr. Charteris, has strayed into forbidden territory. This alone is enough to justify his immediate arrest.”

Lehmann, trembling, said in German, “We do not
arrest
passengers for disobeying ship’s guidelines.”

“Oh, they’re guidelines now?” Erdmann said testily, shifting into German as well. “And here I thought these were rules, even laws. Understand, sir, that I had strict, specific orders from Berlin to keep this Spah under watch. To protect your ship from a potentially dangerous spy. Those were my orders, sir—not guidelines.”

“May I remind you, Colonel, that you have no authority on this ship other than that which the
Reederei,
in a spirit of cooperation, grants you. This is a privately owned vessel and not under government control.”

“Everything in Germany,” Erdmann said, “is subject to government control.”

“Boys, boys,” Charteris said, pulling the conversation back into English, enjoying this. “Don’t squabble. Your uncle Adolf wouldn’t approve.”

Captain Pruss said, “I have ordered another bow-to-stern inspection. Within the hour, we’ll have a report. But I would vote for detaining Mr. Spah in his cabin, under house arrest. The manpower and work hours he continues to cost us, checking up after him, are inexcusable.”

“What is inexcusable, gentlemen,” Lehmann said, coldly angry, shifting back to German, “is that you would plan the arrest of this man without my knowledge.”

“The captain of this ship…” Erdmann began, with a nod toward Pruss.

“Reports to the director of the
Reederei,
” Lehmann said. “Which happens to be me. All decisions related to this matter are henceforth to be screened and approved by me…. Understood, gentlemen?”

“Understood,” Pruss said sheepishly.

Erdmann only nodded.

Charteris’s mood had improved; this was vastly more entertaining than the sing-along in the lounge.

“When we arrive in New York,” Lehmann said, still in German though his voice had taken on his more usual, avuncular tone, “we face numerous responsibilities, both technical
and diplomatic. Our corporation—with the government’s full backing—is attempting to form a transatlantic service in partnership with the Americans. This joint venture will not be jeopardized by our arrival in the States with an American in custody as an accused murderer/saboteur.”

“He’s not an American,” Erdmann said defensively. “He is a Strassburger, a German!”

“Technically, perhaps. But he carries a French passport and lives in America.”

Charteris asked, in English, “May I inject the foreign 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 apartment or his house in Frankfurt, ‘
FOUND NO FOUL BALLS STOP
’… that means your gestapo didn’t find anything incriminating at his home… ‘
YOU’LL HAVE TO HOLD UP AT SECOND STOP WELCOME HOME REILLY
.’ Second base would be New York—he’s to wait there before going to his home in, where did you say? New Jersey?”

Erdmann thought about this, while Lehmann leaped in. “Then if he’s a spy, he’s finished his work, and going home?”

“That’s a reasonable interpretation,” Charteris said. “Or it could just be the boss saying welcome back. Remember, I haven’t had a crack at Douglas yet—and we have already met, so he’ll be simple enough to approach.”

Erdmann exchanged a glance with Lehmann.

“Why don’t you, then?” Lehmann said to Charteris. “Perhaps if he’s a spy headed home, he’s no longer a danger to anyone.”

“Can we be sure?” Erdmann posed. “This may be what Knoecher confronted Douglas with—and Douglas may have murdered him.”

“If so,” Charteris said, with a shrug, “it’s a military action, isn’t it? It’s not as though Douglas were some madman, some Jack the Ripper at large on the ship.”

“Jack who?” Lehmann asked.

“Suffice to say your passengers would not be endangered by the man’s presence. But I will talk to him. And to Spah.”

And he did. Douglas, first. In the smoking lounge.

Coming directly from the officers’ mess, Charteris stopped by the smoke-filled cubicle, and pulled up a chair, coming in on the middle of what the Americans called a “bull session” between the perfume magnate Dolan and stockyard king Morris.

The two men were developing a strategy for the U.S.A. in the Pacific, hinging on the need for a two-ocean navy to protect both coasts from the ambitious Japan and a volatile Europe.

“With Japan such a threat to the Philippines,” Dolan was saying, “the whole Pacific basin is in peril.”

“That’s to put it mildly!” Morris bellowed. “Why, the Japs could destroy the Panama Canal in a day, by air!”

It was easy enough to develop a side conversation with the advertising man, Douglas, who reached for the lighter on the wall and yanked it over to get Charteris’s Gauloise going.

“I’ll leave it to the colonel and the major,” Douglas said to Charteris, “to settle the Pacific.”

Testing the waters, Charteris asked, “No military background, Ed?”

“Oh, I was in the navy in the war. Petty officer. But I’ll gladly leave the big picture to the armchair admirals.”