Lehmann leans a few degrees to the left but doesn’t touch anything. “It seems they have been moved.”
Max does not answer the obvious, unspoken question.
“It is a guess, though I believe it to be accurate, that you are somewhat acquainted with Fr?ulein Imhof’s personal belongings?”
“I would have to argue that.”
“You have touched them on at least one occasion?”
“A few of them. Perhaps.”
“Then you have a greater familiarity with them than I do. So I will leave it to you to find the papers.”
“That is unfair. And uncalled for. If you need to find something, I suggest you summon Emilie.”
“You forget yourself, Herr Zabel. Male and female crew members do not address one another by their first names on this airship.”
Max does not apologize.
“I will reprimand Fr?ulein Imhof soon enough. Right now I am commanding you to locate her papers. And I assure you that I am doing this as a courtesy because I know you care for her. And that you will respect her privacy in ways that other men perhaps might not. I can call another officer to conduct the search or you can do it yourself.”
Captain Lehmann offers no time limits, no room for argument. Take it or leave it.
Max begins in the closet. He lifts the items carefully, sliding his hands in folds and pockets, finding nothing. The top bunk and the suitcase beneath the bottom berth similarly yield no trace of the documents. He makes careful work of the job as Lehmann and Balla watch. He wants to make sure that they cannot argue about his thoroughness. But soon there is nothing left unsearched in the room except for Emilie’s cosmetic case. And searching it seems the greatest violation of her privacy so far. There are things in this case that Max cannot name or describe. Items that he does not know the use for. It has her scent, though, and as he lifts the objects out, one by one, his senses are filled with her. He feels very much as though he is stripping her naked and allowing her to be ogled by strangers. When the case is empty, and the items are piled on the bed, he turns it over and shakes it three times.
Perhaps she didn’t place the hidden panel back in firmly, or maybe the movement knocks the panel loose. Regardless, the thin, stiff board falls out, followed by her travel documents and the cash she has saved. Max sees the note he scribbled on the envelope and turns away.
For the first time since entering the room Lehmann touches her effects. He gives the papers a cursory look, just long enough to verify what they are. He reads the message but does not count the money. He simply stacks everything in a pile and holds it in his palm as though balancing a tray.
“You may go, Herr Balla,” he says, waving one hand at the steward dismissively.
Balla obeys, quickly and silently.
“Will that be all, Captain?” The tone of Max’s question is blunt and angry, bordering on disrespect.
“Almost. If you would follow me, Commander Pruss would like to have a quick word with you as well. Then you are free to go.” Lehmann hands him Emilie’s papers. “Hold these.”
Max is struggling to fit them neatly in the crook of his arm when Lehmann pushes open the door to the officers’ mess and reveals Emilie sitting at the plush banquette with Commander Pruss. When she lifts her face he can see that she has been crying. Her gaze settles on what he holds in his arm and a look of acute betrayal sweeps across those light, rust-colored eyes.
THE STEWARDESS
Emilie does not taste her dinner. She would be hard-pressed to say what it is, exactly, that she’s eating. She simply cuts and eats and then repeats the process, all the while trying not to stare at Ludwig Knorr, who is seated at the table beside her in the crew’s mess. As a rigger, his primary duties include takeoff and landing. Mooring lines and such. Although he’s frequently called on to make in-flight repairs all over the ship. He’s quite well liked among the crew and thanks to a spectacular midair fix he accomplished on the Graf Zeppelin a decade ago he has become a legend among the shipmen. He is revered. Respected. She cannot think of any reason why Gertrud Adelt—or anyone else for that matter—would consider him a threat. Physically he’s not much to look at. Middle-aged. Nondescript except for a long, thin mouth that looks bovine when he isn’t speaking.
“Can I help you, Fr?ulein Imhof?”
It takes her a moment to realize that Knorr has spoken to her. He has caught her staring. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she says. “Forgive me. I was just thinking.”
“It must be a weighty thought to cause such a frown.”
A beat and then she says, “I was thinking about my father.” The falsehood comes so quickly she is startled. “He died fifteen years ago today.” Another lie, God help her.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
Well, hell. She’s committed now. She may as well follow through. “Thank you. But we lost him long before he died. He was never the same after the war.”