The Red Zeppelin (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 2)

by Jack Treby

‘Good man.’ My hand went automatically to my pocket, to grab a few coins, but I stopped myself, knowing the young lad would not accept them. I was trying my best not to appear flustered, but I was not making a good job of it. Thankfully, the steward was already heading off about his duties.

  I lingered in the corridor for a moment, sweating profusely. What in god’s name was going on? Could the body really have been shifted, without anyone noticing? What other explanation could there be for him not being found? Unless of course they had found the body but were just keeping quiet. That, surely, was a more plausible hypothesis. Perhaps they didn’t want to alarm anyone, so soon after Gerhard Schulz’s death. But I had been watching the corridor like a hawk over breakfast. None of the officers had been summoned. Even if the stewards had dealt with the discovery in a calm and professional manner, rather than running around like headless chickens as I probably would have done, the captain or the first officer would have been summoned, to inspect the scene. And neither of them had been anywhere near the cabin. So, logically, someone must have moved the body before the stewards arrived to clean it. But that was just mad. Nobody else had known he was dead, apart from Maurice and myself. I let out a sigh. There was no making sense of it.

  ‘A penny for them, Mr Bland.’ Lucy Tanner beamed. The woman had crept up on me, while I had been wool-gathering.

  ‘I...was just contemplating a trip down to the bar,’ I lied, quickly regaining my composure.

  ‘It’s far too early for that,’ she informed me mischievously. Her large brown eyes shone at me from the depths of her narrow, painted face. ‘Come and join me on the promenade.’ She grabbed my arm and manoeuvred me towards the lounge before I had any opportunity to object. ‘You haven’t seen Walter, have you? I mean, Mr Kendall. He wasn’t at breakfast.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ It was no surprise that Lucy Tanner was the first to comment on his absence and it wouldn’t be long before everyone noticed. In the circumstances, it seemed wise to stick with the line I had fed the steward. ‘Probably recovering from last night. We did have a bit of an extended night cap.’

  ‘The poor dear!’ Miss Tanner lamented. ‘He never could hold his drink. Probably best to let him sleep it off.’ We moved through into the lounge. ‘How was your first night in the bunk beds?’

  ‘Er...passable, I suppose. Didn’t get much sleep. I’m not used to sharing. And the cabins are far too cramped.’

  ‘Yes, aren’t they? Annabel and I have to take it in turns to get dressed! There isn’t the room for two of us.’ She beamed, waving a hand at a couple of passengers as we passed them by. ‘You frightened the life out of her last night, you know.’

  ‘Did I?’ I coughed. ‘Yes, I...she told you about that, did she?’ That was all I needed, Miss Hurst spreading the word about my nocturnal activities.

  ‘Oh, yes. All the sordid details. Do you always walk about the corridors in your under things?’

  ‘I...well, no, I...’

  She laughed merrily, enjoying my discomfort. ‘Mr Bland! I do believe you’re embarrassed.’

  ‘Not at all. It was just an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘I’m only teasing.’ She beamed again. ‘I once caught the hem of my skirt in the door of a taxi cab. Ripped the thing to shreds. It took me years to live it down.’ Her eyes twinkled at the memory. We had reached the promenade now and found a padded sofa at the far end, well away from the lounge. I wasn’t quite as comfortable sitting here next to the windows, in broad daylight, as I had been in the early hours, but it didn’t look like I would be given any choice in the matter. ‘It’s a super day, isn’t it?’ Miss Tanner exclaimed, settling herself next to me. ‘You can see the sunlight glittering right across the clouds.’

  ‘There’s a storm brewing later, according to the weather report.’

  ‘Is there? What fun! I wonder if there’ll be thunder and lightning.’

  ‘Lord, I hope not.’ With everything else that was going on, that would just about kill me off.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t bring a rain coat?’ Miss Tanner asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  ‘Oddly enough no. I didn’t bring much clothing with me at all, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. Your suit is very nicely cut,’ she observed, gazing down at my jacket, ‘but you really ought to have brought more than one with you.’ I was wearing the same linen suit as I had upon my arrival. Miss Tanner was on her fourth or fifth outfit, a black rayon dress with a colourful floral design. She must have paid a fortune in excess baggage fees.

  ‘I do have a dinner jacket as well,’ I responded stiffly. I would never travel anywhere without appropriate evening wear.

  Miss Tanner was not to be put off. ‘Yes, I saw that last night at supper. You looked very dashing. You mustn’t mind me asking.’ She leaned in confidentially. ‘But Annabel told me that when she saw you last night, you were all...well, bandaged up.’

  ‘I...yes, that’s right.’ So that was why Miss Tanner had manhandled me out here. She wanted to know what the bandages were for. I supposed it made sense that Miss Hurst would notice those rather than the flaccid line of my drawers.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself in some way?’

  ‘Burns,’ I said, the first word that came into my head. ‘I was in a...a fire.’

  ‘You poor dear!’ Miss Tanner exclaimed, her voice full of concern.

  ‘Quite badly burnt, as a matter of fact. Around the...’ I indicated my chest vaguely.

  ‘That’s awful! Does it hurt terribly?’ She wasn’t being ghoulish, she was just showing concern for my welfare.

  ‘Not too much now, thankfully. I’m through the worst of it. It’s healing, according to my doctor, but it’s as well to keep it covered up. Prevents infection, or some such rot.’ I was really getting into the flow of the lie now and Miss Tanner was lapping it up.

  She placed a casual hand on my thigh. The woman seemed incapable of communicating without touching people, but I was getting used to it by now. ‘Well, you must look after yourself. Walter once had...’ She stopped herself mid sentence, probably wondering if she was about to be indiscreet; but after a moment’s consideration she decided to continue with the train of thought. ‘Mr Kendall was a war correspondent, for a time, in France. He was injured – a bullet in the leg – but he’s a typical man. He was up and about before it was fully healed, which caused all sorts of problems later on. So you must look after yourself, Mr Bland. Don’t do anything energetic. Wait until you’re properly healed.’

  ‘Have no fear, Miss Tanner. I have no intention of doing anything energetic on this flight.’ It was my turn to change the subject. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you seem to know Mr Kendall quite well.’ She had called him Walter twice now. ‘I understood that you had only just met.’

  She looked out the window and gave a half smile. ‘Ah, you’ve caught me out. Yes, I’ve known Walter – Mr Kendall – for quite some years. Since I was a little girl, in fact. He is a friend of my father’s. We used to see him every summer when we went out to America for the holidays. I suppose I shouldn’t really admit this, but I had a terrible crush on him. He was so handsome and wise. He still is.’ She smiled again. ‘When I was older, I’m afraid I made rather a fool of myself.’

  ‘A fool?’

  ‘It was just a silly girlish infatuation. Walter was very kind about it. But he’s a married man. And it’s all in the past now. I haven’t told Thomas about it. I don’t want to upset him. He has enough to worry about at the moment, the poor dear. He’s trying not to show it, but he’s rather anxious about meeting my parents in Chicago.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ I thought. Mixed marriages were always a complicated affair. ‘How do they feel about you marrying a Roman Catholic?’

  ‘Daddy’s keeping an open mind. He just wants me to be happy. He’s terribly sweet like that. But my mother can be a bit of an ogre, sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll come round,’ I said, though
in truth I was sure of no such thing. ‘But it seems a bit rum, keeping your friendship with Mr Kendall a secret from your fiancé. What will you do when he meets your parents and they happen to mention their old friend?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. They’re not as close as they once were. But I will tell Thomas all about it when we reach New York. You’re right, I shouldn’t deceive him. It’s terribly cruel, especially as we are to be married so soon. There should be no secrets between newly weds.’

  I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. I’m sure Mr McGilton must have one or two skeletons in his closet.’

  Miss Tanner shook her head in mock outrage. ‘He is an angel, perfect in every regard. He’s always been very honest with me,’ she added, more seriously.

  ‘And Mr Kendall, was he pleased to see you, when he realised you were on this flight?’

  She nodded happily. ‘He was very charming. He hasn’t changed a bit. He’s such a dear, dear man. He’s offered to help me find work in New York.’

  Lord, I thought. Another opportunity ruined. Kendall wasn’t going to be helping anybody from now on, least of all Miss Tanner.

  The brief pause gave the woman a moment to reflect. ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, pulling back. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I’m such a terrible gossip. My brothers always say to me, if you want to keep a secret you shouldn’t tell anybody at all, but I can’t help myself!’ She grinned. ‘It all comes babbling out. But I’m sure I can trust you, Mr Bland. You have such a kind face!’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t know about that.....’

  She raised a hand and tutted disapprovingly. ‘You should always accept a compliment gracefully. How will you ever find a wife if you keep contradicting people?’

  ‘I’m not exactly...’

  ‘You’re not getting any younger, Mr Bland. It’s not right, a man of your age being without a wife. Mrs Koenig is a widow. Perhaps she might be interested in you, if you paid her some attention.’

  I grimaced. ‘You’re teasing me again, Miss Tanner.’

  ‘Only a little, Mr Bland.’ She laughed gently. ‘Only a little.’

  Adelina Koenig was hunched over a large map, which was spread across the central table of the reading area. I had strode towards the room at some speed, in search of a telegraph slip, pleased at last to be free of Miss Tanner’s relentless flirting. It had been an instructive conversation, for all its apparent frivolity. I was now convinced that Miss Tanner had acted as courier for Walter Kendall in Seville. If they were such good friends, what could be more natural than her running an errand for him? I doubted she would have known any of the specifics, but the thought of helping her dear pal in acquiring a “scoop” would doubtless appeal to the woman’s innate sense of mischief. I could just picture her swapping envelopes with the late Gerhard Schulz halfway up the Torre del Oro, while I was grunting my way to the top.

  Another thought occurred to me. I wondered, perhaps, if she had held on to the negatives for safe keeping, at Kendall’s request. That might explain why I could not find them in the American’s cabin. I hoped I was wrong. I had no desire to indulge in any more breaking and entering on this trip.

  Miss Tanner had gone off in search of her fiancé. I could see why McGilton was enamoured with the girl. A lot of people might have been offended by her frivolity, but there was a charm underlying her impertinence and I confess I was starting to warm to her.

  The same could not be said of Mrs Koenig. The stocky German was attacking her map with a ruler and pencil, her cold, pretty face screwed up in concentration. I had not known she was a widow. I wondered what her husband had died of. On second thoughts, I didn’t want to know.

  Annabel Hurst was sitting in the far corner of the room writing a letter. Mr Gray – the dull post office man – was over to the left, absorbed in a heavy textbook. At sight of the three of them, I almost turned around and ran. But it was too late. I had crossed the threshold. ‘Don’t mind me,’ I said, striding across the room to the notice board. ‘Just want to pick up a telegraph slip.’

  Miss Hurst flinched at the sound of my voice and then buried herself in her writing. Frederick Gray gave a quiet nod of greeting but Mrs Koenig barely grunted.

  There was a pile of blank slips on a table just below the notice board. I had decided to give Charles Lazenby the benefit of the doubt and fire off another telegram. I couldn’t tell him that Kendall was dead – at least not yet – but I could let him know that I hadn’t managed to find the negatives. There might yet be a need to have somebody on standby in Rio. I stared down at the empty slips and sighed. Admitting one’s failure is never easy. But it was his damned fault for sending me out here in the first place.

  I glanced up at the morning news sheet, which had been pinned to the middle of the board. It had a brief selection of headlines. There was nothing of any great interest. I had already heard about King Alfonso. The Graf Zeppelin – our sister ship – had returned to Friedrichshafen from North Africa, apparently, and there was more political violence in Germany. Apart from that and one line about King George’s illness – which had been going on for some time – there was nothing of any value. There wasn’t even any sports news. I liked to keep up with the cricket when I could, and the racing at Newmarket was about to begin, but there was nothing on that at all. ‘Shame they can’t telegraph out a copy of the Times,’ I muttered to myself.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing myself, Mr Bland,’ Frederick Gray volunteered, in his whining, nasal voice. ‘But it will only be a matter of time. The technology to transmit newspaper print already exists.’ He would know, I suppose. A GPO man.

  ‘There is no talking!’ Mrs Koenig snapped at the two of us. ‘I am trying to concentrate.’

  I glared across at the woman. It was bad enough being interrupted by Mr Gray but to be told off by the German woman was too much to bear. ‘Oh, you do speak English,’ I observed, acidly.

  ‘Ja,’ she agreed, her head still bent over the map. She was drawing a line across the middle of it. I moved over to get a better view. It was a world map and it looked as if she was charting our progress across the Atlantic.

  ‘How far have we come?’ I asked her, with genuine interest. The further we had travelled, the closer we were to the Brazilian police and my inevitable arrest.

  ‘We are three thousand kilometres from Seville and four thousand seven hundred kilometres from Friedrichshafen.’ Her accent was the thickest I had encountered since boarding the Richthofen but, with a little concentration, I could just about follow her words.

  ‘What’s that in miles?’ I asked. Kilometres meant nothing to me.

  ‘One thousand eight hundred and seventy five, from Seville,’ Mr Gray threw in helpfully. ‘You divide by eight and then multiply by five.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that.’ I looked down at the line Mrs Koenig had drawn. ‘So we’re about halfway.’

  ‘No, that is not correct,’ she disagreed. ‘We are four thousand seven hundred and fifty kilometres from Rio de Janeiro. We will arrive late tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Weather permitting,’ I said. There had been a brief note about the upcoming storm on the news sheet. If it was a bad one, the Richthofen would have to change course and move around it, which would doubtless add a few hours to the journey time. ‘Are you getting off at Rio?’ I asked Mrs Koenig. I crossed my fingers, hoping she would say yes.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘I go all the way.’

  I stifled a laugh, remembering the activity in her cabin from a few hours before. ‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Do you have business in New York?’

  ‘In Los Angeles, ja. I fly there myself from New York. They want to speak to me, the movie people.’

  ‘Movie people?’

  ‘Ja. They make a film of my life. The woman aviator.’

  ‘Good lord.’ I wasn’t quite sure whether she was having me on, but I didn’t feel inclined to challenge her. ‘That will make an interesting film. S
o who will they get to play you? Greta Garbo?’

  She grunted with disdain. ‘I will play me!’ she declared, looking up from the map.

  The clouds were getting darker outside and only the thought of a cigarette and Max the barman fixing me the necessary was keeping me on an even keel. I got as far as the passenger cabins and halfway along the connecting corridor before my progress was interrupted. An officer was barrelling up the stairs from B Deck. He was a tall, stern faced man in the usual heavy coat and peaked cap. This was the officer who had been speaking to Mrs Koenig in the control cabin yesterday afternoon. ‘Good morning, Mr Bland,’ he said. He was a grim looking fellow in his late forties.

  ‘Good morning, Mr....Rüdiger, was it?’

  ‘Captain Rüdiger,’ he confirmed, extending a hand.

  ‘Captain,’ I agreed. Most of the officers sported that title, though it was Herntz Albrecht who had overall charge of the ship. Rüdiger was second in command. ‘Making your morning rounds?’ I asked. If Captain Albrecht was busy, he would send an underling to cosy up to the passengers. There was nothing cosy about this fellow, however. Rüdiger had an abrupt, unfriendly bearing that complimented his granite-like face.

  ‘No, it is you I wish to speak to,’ he replied.

  I stared at him blankly. ‘Me?’ Why would he want to speak to me? I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  ‘Perhaps you would accompany me to the steward’s cabin?’ He gestured along the port corridor, leading towards the front of the ship. ‘We can talk privately there.’ I had a horrible feeling it was not a request.

  ‘By all means,’ I said, trying not to sound concerned. But my brain had already turned to ice. Did Rüdiger know something about my activities the previous evening? Perhaps he had been talking to Mrs Koenig. At the very least, the German woman would have overheard my unfortunate conversation with Annabel Hurst out in the corridor. I tried to keep my expression neutral as we shuffled along the forward passage.

  The first officer knocked on the stewards’ door and entered before the man inside had any opportunity to respond. ‘Stefan, I wish to talk privately with Mr Bland.’ Out of courtesy to me, Rüdiger spoke to the chief steward in English. Stefan, a bald middle-aged man with heavy eyebrows, was happy to absent himself. I followed Rüdiger into the narrow, L-shaped room. His expression was grave as he addressed himself to me. ‘I understand from one of our stewards that you were enquiring about Mr Kendall?’