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.
TWO
The burly majordomo at the front door of the Frankfurter Hof was as elaborately uniformed as a cast member of The Student Prince, rather a relief after the Nazi-ish attire of the customs officials. But the doorman was almost as officious, hustling the Hindenburg passengers through the drizzling rain to the three buses, shooing them aboard like schoolchildren late for class.
It was approaching seven P.M. and the lights of Frankfurt did their best to sparkle and twinkle in a dreary dusk. Charteris had managed to select a bus that included a drunken gentleman who was singing German folk songs from a seat toward the back. The author chose a seat toward the front.
The drunk had not been Charteris’s only objective in his forward-seat selection. Across the aisle from him was a rather Nordic-looking dark-blue-eyed blonde, in her early thirties, her frozen-honey locks worn up in Viking braids, a coiffure that only wide cheekbones and classic bone structure like hers could pull off. She was one of those pale beauties whose demeanor conveyed a stately beauty and whose near voluptuousness promised earthier delights. Like Charteris, she wore a belted London Fog trench coat and he was about to comment across the aisle about their mutual taste in rainwear when another woman came between them.