The Hindenburg Murders

ELEVEN


HOW THE HINDENBURG’S ERSTWHILE CAPTAIN ENTERTAINED, AND LESLIE CHARTERIS HAD A CALLER





AFTER THE USUAL SUMPTUOUS DINNER, as stewards moved in to clear the tables, word spread that Captain Lehmann was going to entertain in the lounge. Most of the passengers gathered there, or along the adjacent promenade, as the fatherly former captain of the airship stood like an itinerant street musician with the accordion slung before him. Charteris (in his white dinner jacket), Hilda (in a low-cut green gown), and the Adelts were seated at a table along the waist-high partition between lounge and promenade. It was fair to say that, with the exception of the die-hard chimneys in the smoking room on B deck below, the Hindenburg’s passengers were gathered nearly en masse.

“Many of you who have sailed with us before,” Lehmann said in German (Charteris finding the word choice of “sailed” rather than “flown” an interesting one), “have inquired about the absence of our celebrated aluminum piano.”

Gertrude Adelt called out gaily, “Oh yes! We enjoyed it so, when you played for us!”

Lehmann smiled, with mixed embarrassment and pride, and said, “And I enjoyed it so when you, Mrs. Adelt, and other passengers sang along. But commerce rules even the skies—the piano weighed more than you, my dear… and we are fully booked on our return voyage with, as you know, so many travelers set to attend the English coronation.”

Heads nodded all around the lounge.

“So,” Lehmann continued, “rather than leave a pretty lady behind—we unloaded the piano.”

Gentle laughter blossomed around the room, and now it was lovely Gertrude Adelt’s turn to react in embarrassment, and perhaps pride.

Hoisting his accordion, Lehmann continued, “This portable ‘piano’ will have to do for the evening. If our German passengers will bear with me, I’ll repeat some of that for our American and English guests.”

Lehmann gave a condensed English version of his spiel, and then—first in English, then in German—assured everyone that he would give equal time to German and American folk songs and English ballads… but said he would keep things neutral by beginning with an instrumental rendition of something by Straus.

The evening evolved into a rather merry sing-along, and Charteris joined in lustily. The author had a pleasant second tenor and liked to sing, though he felt more than a pang or two for the absence of his wife, Pauline, who sang very well, and had been his duet partner in this same lounge just a year before.

Hilda had a pleasant, relatively on-key alto that reminded Charteris enough of Marlene Dietrich to stoke the fires of his infatuation, and relegate his soon-to-be ex-wife to a distant compartment of his mind. Since he would sing the English and American tunes, and she the German ones, they were trading off, and singing to each other, and it was very romantic and not a little sexy.

He was most disappointed when a finger tapped him on his shoulder and Chief Steward Kubis leaned in across the partition to whisper, “You are wanted in the officers’ mess, sir.”

Sighing, nodding reluctantly, he patted Hilda’s hand, said, “You’ll have to excuse me, dear,” exchanging disappointed glances with his braided amour of the moment.

The officers’ mess was cleared but for the blandly handsome Captain Pruss and the doleful Colonel Fritz Erdmann, seated again by the windows, the grayness of the day replaced by the ebony of the night. A small conical lamp on the booth’s table gave off a yellowish cast, to match Charteris’s own jaundiced reaction.

“You know, Captain,” Charteris said in English, pointedly, not sitting, “I am a paying passenger. I have a right to enjoy myself like any other customer of the Reederei. If you’ve pulled me away from the side of that magnificent blonde country-woman of yours, just for me to give you a report of my amateur detective findings to date… then might I suggest we reschedule for a more propitious time?”

“Please sit,” the crisply uniformed captain said, with a respectful nod.

Erdmann said, “We apologize for the intrusion into your evening. There are developments we need to share with you—and we need your help, your…” Erdmann searched for the English words. “… expert opinion.”

“For God’s sake, I write blood and thunder. I’m not an ‘expert’ on real crime and espionage. Have you people gone mad?”

The melancholy mask of Erdmann’s oblong face twitched a smile. He leaned forward, hands folded almost prayerfully. “There is much madness at large in our world today, would you not agree?”

“Yes, but you may wish to speak to your boy Adolf about that. I’ve had little to do with causing it, personally. In fact I’ll go on record right now by saying that insanity in world leaders is in my view a less than desirable quality.”

Pruss shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Erdmann sighed heavily.

Then the undercover Luftwaffe colonel said, “A bomb exploded today on the Paris-Marseilles Express. One death, twenty injuries—it could have been worse. Probably should have been worse—the train was at its maximum speed of sixty miles per hour and passengers were showered with shards of glass. The dead passenger could not be identified, so badly mangled was his corpse.”

Charteris sat.

“Apparently the bomb was smuggled aboard the train,” Erdmann continued, “tied to the coupling between passenger coaches. Investigators are convinced it was caused by a… how do you say Hollenmaschine?”

“An infernal machine,” Charteris said.

“Yes. A combination explosive and incendiary device. The Reich’s Ministry of Information cites this incident as further proof that the threat of anarchy hangs over us all.”

“A threat hangs over the world, all right,” Charteris muttered.

“Do I have to remind you,” Erdmann asked dryly, “that a bomb on this ship would do considerably more damage?”

“That Parisian train wasn’t filled with hydrogen, you mean?”

Captain Pruss said, firmly, “Because of your concerns about Joseph Spah’s unsupervised visit to his dog, Mr. Charteris, I have had the ship inspected again—bow to stern. No bomb was found.”

“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.”

Morris and Dolan weren’t hearing any of this, both caught up in their own bombast.

“So tell me, Les,” the handsome mustached advertising man said, swirling bourbon in a glass, “how did you manage to rustle a filly like that little blonde? Only she’s not so little.”

“It comes from not spending all your time down here in this den of iniquity.” Charteris sipped his Scotch. “Why, do you wish you’d given me some competition?”

“No. I’m afraid, just as with these military maneuvers, I’m on leave. Out of the game.”

“You sound like a man who’s been burned.”

Douglas chuckled wryly; he had a cigarette of his own going. “You write romances, right?”

“Of a sort.”

“I guess you could say I’m carrying a torch.”

“Not with all the hydrogen on this ship, I hope.”

“No.” Douglas chuckled again, but his eyes were woeful. “I just closed my office in Frankfurt and had to leave somebody behind.”

“Some female body?”

“Yes indeed. Very female. As female as that braided specimen of yours, Les.”

“Why didn’t you bring her with you?”

Douglas sighed, sipped, smoked. “I hope, one day soon, to bring her to America. But it’s not as easily done as said.”

“Why?”

“… She’s Jewish.”

“Ah.”

“She was my secretary. That’s how we began, anyway. I’m divorced; have a daughter.”

“Me, too. On both counts.”

“Really? Do you miss her, Les?”

“My daughter or my wife?”

Douglas laughed, smoke curling out his nostrils. “Let’s not get into that, either of us…. Well, I’ve had my share of flings since my marriage dissolved, but this is different. Marta may be a little young for me, but she’s such a fine, smart woman, and what a beauty. Dark brown hair, eyes the same, figure like… well, like your blonde.”

“You have money. You can buy her way out, can’t you?”

“I hope so. It’s just… I know they have their eye on her.”

Charteris drank a little Scotch, kept his tone casual. “Whose eye? The Nazis?”

“Yes. You see, I have… had… an office at a building on Neue Mainzer Strasse; trouble is, so does a guy named Goebbels.”

Charteris’s eyes opened so wide, his monocle fell out; catching it, he said, “The Propaganda Ministry has an office in your building? And you had a Jewish secretary?”

“Yeah, and it went over swell. Whenever they saw her, it rubbed ’em the wrong way, those fanatic sons of bitches. I was advised to dispense with her services. When I told ’em to go to hell, they started shadowing me. Shadowing us.”

“It’s like something out of Kafka.”

“No, it’s far worse than that. You can close the covers on a book; but when they’re tapping your phones, searching your desk and file cabinets every other Tuesday—well. Time to go home.”

“And you couldn’t find a way to bring her with you?”

Douglas grinned half a wry grin. Shook his head. “She wouldn’t come. You’re right, I got the dough to make that happen, too. But she has family. Germany’s home to her. I’m just praying to God she comes to her senses before it’s too late, while I can still get her out. Maybe if she misses me, half as much as I miss her…”

Douglas swallowed, smiled embarrassedly, and gulped at his drink.

“I’m behaving like a lovesick schoolboy,” he said. “Spilling to you like this. You’re the second guy on this trip who’s stood still for this mush.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, first night aboard, I sat and talked with this nice fella in the import business. You know, most of these Germans, if they’re not party members, if they’re just regular people, they’re not bad at all. He was real friendly. Outgoing. I liked him. Funny thing, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since that first night.”

Neck tingling, Charteris said, “Sounds like you’re talking about my cabin mate.”

“Yeah?”

“Eric Knoecher.”

Douglas snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s the guy.”

“Poor bloke’s been sick ever since that first night.”

“No kiddin’?”

“Yes. You probably noticed him coughing and sneezing.”

“No, I can’t say I did.”

“Well, anyway, Eric’s been sick in bed, stuck in the cabin, since he woke up Tuesday morning.”

“Oh, well by all means give him my regards, and a get-well-soon. He was the kind of sounding board a lovesick goon like me needed, just about then.”

Soon after, Charteris excused himself, thinking that either he was a terrible detective or Ed Douglas was a terrific actor—because there had not been the slightest sign that Douglas was stringing him along, that the advertising man might know that Eric Knoecher was dead.

In fact, Charteris didn’t think Douglas did know. Nor was he convinced the man was a spy for General Motors or Admiral America, either. This was simply a middle-aged man who had fallen for a good-looking young woman. It just happened that the middle-aged man was an American working in Nazi Germany and the good-looking young woman was a Jewess.

When Charteris returned to the lounge, Lehmann was again at his accordion, and the Americans, Brits, and even a few Germans were managing a rousing “Home on the Range.” He stopped to whisper in Hilda’s ear that he’d rejoin her soon, but needed to do something first. She nodded, smiled prettily, and returned with gusto to one of the few American songs she knew.

Charteris went over to where Spah was seated with Margaret Mather and her college boys. Margaret fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he somehow resisted the urge to flutter his back at her.

Leaning in, he said to Spah, “Can I have a word with you, Joe?”

“Sure!”

Spah scampered after Charteris like a puppy, following him around to the dining room, where the tables were already set for tomorrow’s breakfast. Not a soul was on this side of the ship, and Charteris sat on one of the benches by the slanting windows and Spah sat next to him, gazing up at the taller man with a curious expression.

“You’re in danger,” Charteris said.

Spah beamed, as if delighted. “I am?”

“Listen to me, and take this seriously. Quit clowning.”

“All right.” But he was still grinning.

“You’re walking that narrow line.”

“What narrow line?”

“Between clown and jackass.”

Spah wasn’t smiling now. “What are you talking about?”

“Steward Kubis is a friend of mine. I got to know him last year, on the maiden voyage. He confided in me that you are on the brink of arrest.”

Spah’s eyes popped open; it was comic but not, for a change, intentionally so. “Arrest? What the hell for?”

“For these continued unscheduled trips to see your flea-bitten mangy hound.”

Spah grinned again but this time it was glazed. “I’m going to be arrested for seeing my dog?”

“You’re going to be arrested for breaking the rules on a Nazi ship.”

“Such stupid rules!”

“Actually, they’re not stupid rules. Are you aware that a passenger train in France blew up today?”

“Yes—it was on the news broadcast they piped in.”

“You are suspected of planting a bomb, Joe—of hiding it somewhere in the vast framework and skin of this beast.”

“A bomb? That is ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous, perhaps. But not funny. You have a history of associating with Communists and other anti-Nazi elements; you live in America; and you’ve been doing your hilarious Hitler impression for a German audience.”

Spah said nothing; the grin had long since faded.

“No more clowning, Joe—understood?”

He swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

“I need to ask you something else.”

“Anything. Only a friend would say the things you’ve said.”

“Is there anything else these Germans might have on you? Anything you’re hiding?”

“No. My life is an open book.”

“The first night aboard, I saw you talking to my cabin mate, Eric Knoecher.”

“Yes, that’s right. Is he any better? Or still sick in your cabin?”

“Did I tell you that, Joe?”

“Maybe. Or was it Leonhard or maybe Gertrude? Why, is that important?”

“Joe, what did you and Eric Knoecher talk about?”

“Nothing. Fluff!”

“What kind of fluff?”

“He recognized me, like you did, from the stage, and also from the papers, from press I received. That’s what we talked about.”

“What, you in the press?”

“Yes. He asked me about my ‘engagement’ to the striptease artist, Mathia Merrifield. He wanted to know all about her—what red-blooded man wouldn’t?”

“You’re engaged to a stripper?”

“No! It was a publicity stunt—to get Mathia some press. She’s an American girl, a close friend.”

“How close?”

“That wouldn’t be polite; you shouldn’t even ask. Anyway, I’m happily married with a wife and three kiddies, you know that, I told you before, didn’t I?”

“I believe you did. You just left out the American stripper, is all.”

Spah shrugged, made a face. “Anyway, she was going to appear at some theater in Munich, doing what she does best—take off her clothes—and I have some fame there, so we cooked this up. Or her press agent did, I should say.”

And Eric Knoecher was interested.

“Joe,” Charteris said, “hasn’t it occurred to you that this could be used against you? You can be kept out of Germany on moral grounds. Adultery, bigamy…”

“Yes, it was big of me to help the girl get some publicity. So what if they ban me? I told you, I’m not going back to Germany. Just to my wife and kids.”

“Not your stripper.”

“No.” He grinned. “Anyway, she’s still in Munich.”

Charteris waggled a finger in the acrobat’s face. “Joe—we have one more day, partial day at that, on this ship. Keep your nose clean. Let the steward feed your mutt.”

“She’s no mutt! She’s—”

“She’s a pedigreed bitch, I know. Stay away from her.”

That might have been good advice where the stripper was concerned, too; but at least she wasn’t in freight on this ship. As far as Charteris knew, anyway.

The community sing was winding down when Charteris and Spah strolled back. They were concluding with “Muss I denn?”, the beautiful German folk song that spoke of leaving a “little town,” leaving a sweetheart behind. Had Ed Douglas been present—and understood the German words—he might well have broken down and cried.

Charteris walked Hilda back to her cabin. They spent a memorable hour within, and—as she had requested, for the sake of avoiding embarrassment, that he not stay the night—he kissed her at the door and moved across the hall to his own quarters.

Sliding the door open, his hand felt for the light switch; but from the darkness something, someone grabbed him, perhaps emerging from the lower bunk, and yanked him inside, his monocle flying, and he was knocked into the far wall, which gave a little.

Startled, he tried to get his bearings and saw a form, barely identifiable as the back of a gray-jumpsuited crew member, lurch for the door, slide it shut, sealing them into darkness.

Though he could see nothing, Charteris plunged blindly toward where the form had been—as small as the cabin was, there was little chance of missing—and in doing so threw himself into the open arms of his unknown assailant. Powerful arms hugged him, pinning him, crushing him, bones popping, please God not breaking, and Charteris brought a knee up, where it would do the most good.

His intruder howled in the darkness, and—some small night vision coming to him, now—Charteris brought clasped hands down, hard, on the back of the doubled-over figure. Then he grabbed the cloth of the jumpsuit and slammed the bastard into where the washstand should be. And was.

Whimpering with pain from this blow, and the one to his groin, the intruder nonetheless managed to scramble around and tackle Charteris, knocking the author back, his head smacking into the aluminum bunk ladder. Woozy, almost unconscious, Charteris somehow found his way to his feet and swung madly, randomly in the darkness, fists hitting nothing.

Then a fist flew into him, into his stomach, doubling him over, and now he was on the floor of the pitch-dark cubicle, and he was the one being pummeled by clasped hands on his back.

Grabbing in the darkness, grabbing for anything, his hands gripped an ankle, and it was not very dignified, it was not something the Saint might have done, but Charteris bit into the flesh of the man’s leg, hard, savagely hard, bare skin between pant leg and sock, and Charteris tasted blood. It was a good wound.

Which elicited another howl that signaled to the author a turning point in this close-quarter battle in utter darkness, and he got to his feet and was bringing his fist back when powerful hands gripped his throat and squeezed, squeezed hard and harder, and his fist turned into limp fingers and his head began to spin.

But he clearly heard the harsh whisper of a male voice, German-accented English, saying, “Stop this, what you’re doing! Stop it!”

Then he felt himself propelled backward, and his head was slammed into the metal of the folded-up-into-the-wall suitcase stand.

And Leslie Charteris, amateur detective, author of the sophisticated Saint tales, retired for the evening.