The Hindenburg Murders

The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins


ONE


HOW THE HINDENBURG VOYAGE BEGAN IN A HOTEL, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS MADE NEW FRIENDS





DESPITE THE ELEGANT SURROUNDINGS, IT had all been vaguely demeaning—thirty-six well-heeled passengers scheduled to board the airship Hindenburg, herded into the main dining room of the Frankfurter Hof by Zeppelin Company representatives, quasi-military in their midnight-blue uniforms. There amid the hotel’s tall mirrors and burnished mahogany columns, under the unforgiving eyes of customs officials in Nazi-style black-and-gray uniforms, baggage was screened by bulky X-ray machines, suitcase linings frequently knifed loose; sealed packages were rudely unwrapped, shaving kits disassembled, bon voyage candy boxes slitted open, perfume bottles uncorked, flashbulbs and flashlights and other dry-cell battery-operated gizmos seized like contraband. The suspects at the end of a murder mystery were treated with more dignity.

That was a subject with which Leslie Charteris was well acquainted—murder mysteries—as the dapper Englishman was the creator of the popular “Saint” stories. At a muscular six-foot-two, with his monocle, Clark Gable mustache, and jet-black, brushed-back hair, Charteris could easily have posed for book-jacket representations of his fictional Saint—Simon Templar, the “modern Robin Hood” who extracted booty (and vengeance) from criminals.

Despite the urbane veneer, however, the man in the chalk-line oxford-gray herringbone two-button suit conveyed an unmistakable air of the exotic. His thirtieth birthday little more than a week away, Charteris had been born in the British colony of Singapore, his mother English, his father a wealthy Chinese surgeon, which lent his handsome features a distinctly Eurasian cast.

He’d been born Leslie Charles Bowyer Yin (a descendant of Shang dynasty emperors) but had legally changed his name to that of his literary pseudonym, ten years or so before; “Charteris” was an expansion of “Charles,” but also a nod to notorious gambler and rake Colonel Francis Charteris, founding member of the Hellfire Club.

Charteris was doing his best not to be annoyed; the day outside the hotel was a dreary, overcast one, drizzling intermittently, discouraging excursions to the Altermarkt or the Liebfrauenkirche or other Frankfurt tourist attractions. Several hours ago, the passengers had been gathered here and required to read and abide by a compendium of regulations far more restrictive than those of any ocean liner. And it was now four o’clock P.M., as this humiliating procedure dragged on—interesting treatment for passengers paying $400 one-way passage to America.

His two suitcases passed inspection, but there’d been a tense moment at the inspection table when the young Aryan customs agent had asked the author in perfect but stiltedly spoken English, “Are you a Communist or anarchist?”

And Charteris had replied, “Are there any other choices?”

This seemed to puzzle the lad, who was in the process of checking the author’s passport and tickets, and Charteris had done his best to amplify: “Communists rarely wear suits from Savile Row, and as for anarchists, everybody knows they can be identified by their untidy whiskers and the round black bombs behind their backs—the ones with the sputtering fuses?”

The young Aryan was frowning now, but a trim, somber gentleman in his early forties, his graying blond hair combed back on an oblong head, stepped forward.

“This gentleman is a friend of mine,” said the formidable fellow—whom Charteris had never seen before in his life.

The young customs agent nodded curtly, as if to a superior officer, though Charteris’s rescuer, despite an obvious military bearing, wore a nondescript three-piece brown business suit.

As the pair of bags were tagged and stickered (a bold “C” for Charteris), the author was passed through. He sought out his savior—some passengers were pacing, others had taken seats at the linen-covered tables—and spied the gent standing by himself near an ornately gilt-framed mirror.

“Thank you,” Charteris said to the man. “Comes in handy having a friend in high places, doesn’t it? By the way, what’s your name?”

“Erdmann, Mr. Charteris.” He extended a hand and the two men shook, firmly. “Oberst Erdmann… but my friends call me ‘Fritz.’”

“Well, thank you, Fritz, for the assistance.”

Charteris offered Erdmann a Gauloise from a silver cigarette case; the German accepted the smoke, Charteris plucked one out for himself, then—his lighter having been confiscated by the customs agent—reached for a book of Frankfurter Hof matches off a nearby table, lighting first Erdmann’s cigarette, then his own.

“That young man doesn’t have much of a sense of humor,” Charteris said, exhaling smoke. “You’d think a civil servant in a country run by a man with a Charlie Chaplin mustache might enjoy a laugh.”

The somber face creased in a smile, though the lines around the man’s pale blue eyes did not tighten. “Mr. Charteris, your wit may be wasted on this trip. Things aren’t as gay as they were on the maiden voyage of the LZ-129.”

The LZ-129 was the Hindenburg, and Charteris had been among the celebrities on the maiden voyage just a year earlier. Precautions had been few, tickets and passports handled expeditiously.

“I appreciate the advice, Fritz, though it’s a shame—that really was a lovely voyage. Did we meet, then, and I’ve somehow misplaced you in my memory?”

Smoke curled like a question mark in front of the German’s face. “We haven’t met, sir, but you are after all a famous man.”

“What branch of the military are you in? Or do I have the privilege of speaking to a member of the S.S.?”

Another smile creased Erdmann’s face. “What makes you assume I’m with the military?”

“You and those other two gentlemen”—Charteris pointed, discreetly—“are the only passengers whose luggage was not searched, and pockets not emptied.”

“… Luftwaffe.”

“Ah. Security?”

“Strictly aboard as observers.”

“Oh, of the topography of France and England, you mean?”

Erdmann sighed smoke. “The current political situation makes it a necessity to avoid France, and take a detour around England, by way of Holland…. Mr. Charteris, I hope you take my advice to heart. You could have been in a great deal of trouble if I had not interceded. Those ‘customs agents’ are S.D. officers.”

Charteris frowned, glanced back at the customs table. “I know of the S.S., but I’m afraid the S.D. is new to me.”

“The S.D. is the S.S.—the security branch. That young man you were… what’s the term? Ribbing? That young man has the absolute ability to forbid embarkation to you or any passenger whose presence might be deemed by him ‘detrimental’—without redress or refund.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’m heading to Florida for a birthday party… mine.”

Erdmann bowed, slightly. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Charteris.”

“Call me ‘Leslie,’ please—after all we’re old friends, aren’t we, Fritz?”

Now at last the eyes joined Erdmann’s mouth in a tight smile. “I’ll have to read one of your books… they must be quite amusing.”

With another half bow, Erdmann retreated, joining his two Luftwaffe comrades at a table.

Red-jacketed waiters had begun threading through the dining room, taking orders for, and serving, cocktails—to assuage the restlessness and annoyance of these put-upon passengers.

Charteris ordered a Scotch and water, specifying Peter Dawson, and leaned against a manteled wall, studying his fellow travelers, spotting no apparent Communists or anarchists at all among a group that seemed fairly evenly divided between English speakers—Brits and Americans—and Germans. The author could eavesdrop in these and several other languages, if necessary.

Most shuffled through the indignity of the baggage-check process without much ado, though one little fellow made Charteris’s skirmish pale to insignificance.

Wearing a jaunty golf cap, bow tie, powder-blue suit with matching sweater vest, and blue-and-white shoes, the small figure was at once dapper and clownish. His diminutive stature was emphasized by a gigantic dog on a leash who seemed to obey his master’s every thought, much less command. The brown-and-black Rin Tin Tinish police dog was beautifully groomed and obviously highly trained, sitting and standing and moving through the customs line at seemingly subliminal prompts.

Charteris had seen the man, if not the dog, before, though he couldn’t place him. The round face, the elfin features, reminded the author of comedian Bert Wheeler, of the Wheeler and Woolsey team, and somehow Charteris felt sure the sporty figure was in show business.

The little man, or anyway his dog, had attracted considerable attention, upon their entrance; but man and beast were unassuming enough as they waited on line. Tucked under the arm that controlled the dog’s leash was a paper sack covering a gift-wrapped package, an oblong box probably containing a child’s toy, and in his other hand he carted a good-size, battered blond suitcase haphazardly adorned with decals indicating years of European travel.

But upon reaching the head of the line, the little man with the big dog became a huge problem. The customs officials did not know what to make of the beast, whose master shrugged off their concerns by informing them, in German, that arrangements had been made for Ulla, which was the dog’s name.

The same humorless young Aryan Charteris had encountered did not take kindly to the little man’s dismissive manner. Tickets and passport were reluctantly deemed to be in order; then the customs agent pointed to the paper sack under the man’s arm.

“What is in the box, Mr. Spah?”

“It is a gift for my daughters. Put it under your X-ray machine, but please don’t spoil the gift wrap.”

The young agent took the paper sack from the passenger and, without removing the gift-wrapped box, held it up and shook it.

“Please be careful!”

The agent sneered, ever so faintly, and withdrew the brightly wrapped package and began to tear off the colorful paper, like a greedy child at Christmas. Mr. Spah became agitated, throwing his hands in the air, making eye-rolling expressions of disgust, which his dog noted with stoic indifference—apparently it had seen its master worked up before.

The young agent withdrew the lovely Dresden doll, eyeing it suspiciously; he lifted its lacy skirt and had a peek underneath.

“It’s a girl, dummkopf,” Mr. Spah snapped.

The agent glared at Spah, then carted the doll to the bulky X-ray machine and had a look at its insides. Finally, the doll rudely dumped back into the ruined gift box, the package was handed back to Spah, who clicked his heels together and thrust his arm forward in a parody of the Nazi salute, replacing the sieg heil with a German variation of the Bronx cheer.

That was when Charteris—who was smiling around his dangling cigarette—remembered who the little man was.

The customs agent, embarrassed, infuriated, was glaring at Spah and his dog, clearly trying to decide whether to detain this passenger. Perhaps intimidated by the dog—who could have torn the young Aryan’s throat open, quite easily, a sight Charteris at this stage might have relished—the agent curtly passed the passenger on.

“Ben Dova,” Charteris said, approaching the man and animal, adding in German, “I saw you at the Crystal Palace in London.”

The little man beamed; he had a wide smile that brightened up his entire face, like a switched-on lightbulb. Spah extended his free hand for a shake, which Charteris accepted, once he’d shifted hands with his Scotch and water.

“You prefer English or German?” the little man asked, in the latter.

“English, if you don’t mind,” Charteris said, in that language.

They sat at a small linen-clothed table, the police dog sitting beside his master at a tiny nod of a command.

“‘Ben Dova’ is my stage name,” the little man said, stroking the animal’s neck. His German accent was faint. “I’m Joseph Spah—Joe. And you are?”

“Leslie Charteris.”

Spah’s elfin features bunched in thought. “I’ve heard that name.”

“Perhaps you’ve read a ‘Saint’ story.”

Spah snapped his fingers and his dog looked at him curiously, as if trying to translate that into a command. “The mystery writer. Not a reader myself, but my wife is.”

“From that”—and Charteris nodded toward the unwrapped gift Spah had set on the table—“I deduce your family’s in America. I might have thought you lived in Germany.”

Spah shook his head, his expression one of disgust. “I’m a native of Strasbourg, but I’ve lived in the States for going on twenty years. Long Island.”

“You working that dog into your act?”

The performance Charteris had taken in at the Crystal Palace had consisted of Spah’s rather remarkable rubber-kneed drunk act, the comic acrobat doing various gymnastics with a post as his prop, playing an inebriated playboy in a tux trying to get a light from a gas street lamp.

Scratching the dog’s head, Spah said, “It’s a possibility. I could use a new routine, but first I’ll have to pry him loose from my daughters.”

“German shepherds are beautiful animals.”

“I prefer to call her an Alsatian… though I’m still a German national, my loyalties lie elsewhere.”

“You took a chance, razzing that customs agent. I’ve been told he’s S.S.”

“He can kiss my S.S. I’m never routing through Germany again—no more bookings there, either. Who needs it? I’m at Radio City, starting next week, for a solid month.”

“That’s an impressive engagement. You’re very good, Mr. Spah.”

“‘Joe,’ please, make it ‘Joe.’ You prefer ‘Leslie’ or ‘Les’?”

“‘Leslie,’ I’m afraid. Anyone who’d suffer an affectation like this”—and he gestured to the monocle—“has to be a ‘Leslie.’”

Spah laughed at that; the police dog was looking at Charteris, too, with what seemed a smile. “How do you keep that hunk of glass in, anyway?”

“Immense concentration and a dab or two of chewing gum. How do you travel with… what’s her name?”

“Ulla,” Spah said, petting the dog. “She’ll be in a ‘kennel basket,’ they call it, a cargo compartment aft of the airship. I’m told they’ve had quite an assortment of animals on the Hindenburg, including antelopes. I only hope I’ll be allowed to see Ulla a few times a day—seems cruel, otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. The way this is going so far, I’d say pampering the passengers has fallen off the Reederei’s list.”

Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei was the German name for the Zeppelin Transport Company.

Charteris was finishing up his Scotch and water. “Think I’ll flag down a waiter for another. Can I get you something, Joe?”

“No thank you, Leslie.” Spah rose and his dog snapped to attention. “Actually, I have to take Ulla out to the airport, early, to deal with the cargo people. I’ve hired a car… can’t take her on the bus with the rest of you peasants.”

“You show-business folk certainly do know how to live.”

Spah and Ulla made their exit, other passengers smiling at them and tossing an occasional compliment—as the acrobat’s ridicule of the customs agent had done all their hearts good—and Spah bowed comically, doffing his golfer’s cap in a sweeping gesture that got him a few laughs… though not from the customs agents.

Charteris rose, to seek out a waiter and order another drink, pausing to light up another Gauloise.

“Can I bum one of those matches?” a rough-edged male voice inquired, in American-accented English.

“Certainly,” Charteris said, turning to a ruggedly handsome apparent businessman of perhaps forty, seated at a table with another two of his ilk. Brown hair touched with gray, mustache thick but well trimmed, eyes gray blue and knowing, the businessman withdrew a Camel from a pack and allowed Charteris to light him up.

Without standing, the man introduced himself as Ed Douglas, and the other two men at the table gave their names as well—Nelson Morris and Burt Dolan, Americans with the flat slightly nasal tone of the midwest, fortyish, prominent-looking sorts in business suits that hadn’t come off a rack. Charteris introduced himself and his name seemed to mean nothing to the trio.

“Join us?” Douglas asked.

“I was just going to commandeer a waiter and get something to drink—alcohol seems to be the only way to make this afternoon tolerable.”

“He’s on his way over,” Douglas said, nodding toward a busy waiter. “Sit, why don’t you?”

Charteris sat.

“I’m only in advertising,” Douglas said, gesturing with cigarette in hand, “but my friends here are worth knowing—Burt’s in perfume, and Colonel Morris’s hobby is collecting meatpacking plants and stockyards.”

“Perfume and steaks,” Charteris said, shaking hands all around. “Two ways to a girl’s heart—I will have to get to know you boys. I may want some ammunition for a shipboard romance.”

Morris, sturdy and distinguished looking, probably the oldest of the three, who had been studying Charteris, said, “Your name is familiar to me, sir.”

Charteris explained that he was an author.

“Mystery writer, aren’t you!” Morris said, grinning. He had the fleshiness that came with prosperity, but grooves had been worn in his face by a certain amount of nonsoft living. “What is it, what’s your detective’s name, don’t tell me—the Saint! My wife reads your books.”

Everybody’s wife seemed to be reading him.

“Perhaps you know her, Mr. Charteris—Blanche Bilboa?”

“Oh! The musical-comedy star. No, I haven’t had the pleasure, though I have seen her perform. You know, Mr. Morris, come to think of it, I believe I’ve heard of you, too.”

“Not so formal, please, sir—call me ‘Colonel.’”

Charteris managed not to smile at that, saying, “Well thank you, Colonel.”

“Colonel in the army reserves,” Douglas explained, with sarcasm so faint only Charteris caught it.

“Ah.” To Morris, Charteris said, “And do call me ‘Leslie.’ Uh, forgive me, but weren’t you formerly married to Jeanne Aubert, the actress?”

“That’s true,” Morris said, a little pride showing. Both his wives had been extremely attractive. This boy must be rich, Charteris thought.

“Is your lovely wife traveling with you?” Charteris asked. Your most current lovely wife, that is, he thought.

“No, Blanche has stage engagements in Paris that will keep her there till June. She has no love of dirigibles, at any rate.”

“I don’t love them, either,” Douglas said, exhaling Camel smoke, “after this horseshit treatment.”

“It’s not the Reederei’s fault, Ed,” Morris said. “Dr. Eckener’s at the mercy of these goddamned Nazis.”

“I don’t know about that, Colonel,” Dolan said. The perfume magnate was smaller than his mates, a round-faced man with thinning blond hair. “I hear they’ve been using the Hindenburg to drop Nazi leaflets.”

“Yes,” Morris admitted, “and they showed off the airship at the Olympics, too, but that’s not Dr. Eckener’s fault—it’s just the foul political waters he’s forced to swim in, these days.”

“Are you acquainted with Dr. Eckener, Colonel?” Charteris asked.

Dr. Hugo Eckener, avuncular head of the Zeppelin Company, was a world-famous figure whose name was synonymous with dirigibles. He had designed the massive Hindenburg to complement the renowned Graf Zeppelin, the airship that had over the past eight years established successful service between Germany and Brazil.

The Hindenburg—Eckener having been encouraged by his American partners in Akron’s Goodyear-Zeppelin Corporation to establish a North American service—had flown ten flawless flights last year between Germany and the United States, plus seven nonstop flights to Rio de Janeiro. This would be the first of eighteen scheduled flights for 1937—transatlantic crossings were becoming routine.

“I’m proud to call Dr. Eckener my friend,” Morris said, rather pompously. “I served in France, during the Great War, and learned to fly, there—I’ve had an interest in aviation ever since.”

“Now you’ve started him,” Douglas said, waving at the waiter.

Morris went on, undaunted. “Dr. Eckener arranged, on one booked-to-capacity flight, for me to share quarters in the keel of the Graf Zeppelin, with its captain…. I love airship travel—no words can properly express the sensations.”

“I met Dr. Eckener on the maiden voyage,” Charteris said, flicking cigarette ash into a round glass Frankfurter Hof tray. “Got to know him rather well—and my impression is, no love is lost between him and the Nazis.”

“Damn right,” Morris said. “He despises his beloved zeps being used for Nazi propaganda.”

“Nonetheless,” Charteris said, “the Hindenburg and the Graf Zeppelin are the best weapons in the Nazis’ public-relations arsenal. People do love dirigibles.”

“Phallic symbols are always popular,” Douglas said dryly.

“Will Dr. Eckener be along for this flight?” Dolan asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Charteris said. “My understanding is he’s on the outs with the Reich.”

“Kicked upstairs,” Morris said glumly.

Charteris didn’t know the idiom. “What’s that?”

“Given some kind of honorary chairmanship. Captain Lehmann’s the anointed one now, I hear—and he’s along for the ride, this time.”

“Glad to hear it,” Charteris said. “They say Lehmann’s the best airship captain alive.”

Morris shrugged. “He’s not captain, this time around. Merely observing—just for show, first flight of the season and all.”

The waiter finally came over and said, in German, “Last call, gentlemen. The omnibuses to the airfield are here.”

“What did he say?” Morris asked.

Charteris translated, and the men ordered their drinks.

The torturous afternoon of indignity and delay was over, the delights of travel by airship awaiting.