The Hindenburg Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,1

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