We chatted about small things for a bit, but I knew the memory of the accident hung heavy over Auto Union, and the moment I mentioned Bernd’s name, Dieter’s face clouded. He was a big man who didn’t hide his feelings.
“It should never have happened! Never,” he said vehemently, shaking his head. “They rushed it, everybody knew. Didn’t want to risk Mercedes scooping up the record without even a challenge—not now.”
I nodded. The competition between the two companies had risen markedly with Hitler’s decision to develop a great German motor industry and his splitting the development money between Mercedes and Auto Union. That split, both companies knew, could be a lot less even next time.
“Rushed, though...” I said, striving for a casual tone. “Surely you wouldn’t have let the Streamliner go out with loose wheels and missing bolts?” I thought of those fairings, lying on the ground by themselves.
He snorted at my joke.
“No. But you talk to Ludwig, see what he says about it.” Ludwig Sebastien was Bernd’s crew chief; he would certainly have been there. “Better yet, talk to Horst Hasse.”
“And who’s that?” I knew Ludwig well, but not Hasse.
Dieter rubbed the back of his hand across his face, smudging his cheek with grease.
“One of the second-rank drivers. He’s the one who drove the car for a shakedown after the wind-tunnel tests. If there were wind-tunnel tests,” he added, narrowing his eyes.
“What?” I said, startled. He snorted again, and shrugged.
“Oh, I’m sure there were. But maybe not the way you’d have done them, mein herr.”
I spent another quarter of an hour with him, but having said as much as he had, he drew back and became vague, saying only that it had been Christmastime, half the staff not working, short days...and a rush. Things had been done in a rush.
Eventually we shook hands and I took my leave, smelling pleasantly of metal shavings and fresh oil.
I felt like a fool, peering to and fro as I stepped in through the rear door, but no one was in sight, though I could hear voices in the building, conversations in the canteen down the hall. I knew engineers, though, and sure enough, their room was deserted, all of them gone off like a horde of locusts in search of tea and baumkuchen.
The file closet was nearly as large as the main room but very well organized, the cabinets and plan shelves labeled. I found the drawer and shelf I wanted—but not a lot more. Eberan’s original design notes were there; I flipped through them quickly, but they told me little else than had the shattered remains of the Streamliner. My own preliminary notes for the car, the ones I’d made last year, before leaving—those were there as well, though shuffled together in an untidy roll bound with twine. But there were no operating notes. No results of wind-tunnel tests. No notes on the shakedown drive Dieter had mentioned.
The muffled voices changed their tone; the conversation was breaking up. I closed the drawer as quietly as I could and left by the rear door before anyone could emerge from the canteen and see me.
Eberan’s Daimler was still parked in the yard, its grille gleaming in the rain.
TELEGRAM
FROM: E BEINHORN
TO: F PORSCHE
MECHANIC SAYS HE HEARD EXPLOSION NEAR END OF RUN STOP ASK FURTHER QUERY STOP
My wife came in, a plate of r?sti and eggs in her hand, and peered over my shoulder.
“An explosion?” she asked, putting the plate down. I shook my head and folded up the yellow paper.
“I don’t think so, no.” The possibility had sparked for a moment in my mind, but I could not forget the vivid picture of the wreckage; I had dreamed about it all night long.
You might think that the marks of explosion would be lost, masked by the damage—but not to the eye of someone who had built cars and who had seen many wrecks before. Elly was right; it couldn’t have been the tires—they hadn’t blown out. I thought the probable explanation—if in fact the mechanic had heard anything—was that the heavy air-intake plate had struck the pavement with a bang, dropped as the frame twisted.
Still...there was that uneasy suggestion, left by Elly’s question: Do you think they did it?
The next question, of course, was still “Why?” But the fact that she had asked that gave me an uncomfortable notion of why. Neither she nor Bernie liked politics—Bernie openly laughed at the Nazi Party’s pretensions and ceremonial carrying-on. I didn’t think he would have been fool enough to come right out and denounce them; I didn’t think he cared that much, for one thing. Bernie really only cared about motors. And Elly, to be sure.
I got up, ignoring the remainder of my eggs, and fetched a sheet of paper from the secretary. I wrote:
FROM: F PORSCHE
TO: E BEINHORN
UNLIKELY BUT WILL ASK STOP
I folded it in half, gave it to our maid, and asked her to take it to the telegraph office as soon as she had time.
“And where are you going?” Aloisa demanded, looking from the overcoat on my arm to my half-devoured eggs and back.
“To find a young man named Horst Hasse,” I said, and I leaned over to kiss her good-bye.