The Red Zeppelin

by Jack Treby

  ‘Please, take my seat,’ I said, stepping aside as she lit her cigarette and then joined us at the table. ‘I think I’m going to have a bit of a lie down.’ It was clear I was not going to get any peace in the smoking room and I had a horrible feeling Miss Tanner would want to join in with the men’s political discussion. Mr Lindt, I suspected, would not be at all happy about that. He already looked put out by her sudden intrusion into the male environment.

  Miss Tanner was more concerned with my feelings. ‘You poor darling,’ she cooed, breathing out a cloud of smoke. ‘You’re still feeling queasy? How awful! And it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have dragged you over to the windows.’

  ‘I’m all right if I keep away from the glass. Not too good with heights I’m afraid.’

  ‘It may be easier once we move away from the land,’ Walter Kendall suggested, resuming his seat. ‘Many people feel a little disorientation the first time they take to the air.’

  ‘Though not those with a strong constitution,’ Karl Lindt put in. ‘You have met my associate, Herr Kaufmann?’

  The tubby fellow was seating himself on the couch, next to Miss Tanner. He met my eyes briefly.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ I said. Kaufmann was an unassuming barrel of a man in his mid-forties, with a ruddy complexion and small, sad looking eyes. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Kaufmann. You’ll have to forgive my impromptu departure.’

  ‘I quite understand.’ The German inclined his head graciously.

  And with that, I made my way to the door, leaving Mr Lindt and the new arrivals to continue their debate without me.

  Thomas McGilton was sitting at the bar, engaged in light conversation with the big-nosed barman, whose name, I discovered, was Max. The new arrivals had ordered their drinks before they had made their way into the smoking room and the barman was busily preparing a tray for them. I had no wish to indulge in further chit chat, but as Max was on hand I supposed one more drink would do me no harm. It might help me to brave the stairs back up onto A Deck. I greeted the steward and the Irishman and grabbed an adjacent stool. ‘Are you not joining Miss Tanner in the smoking room?’ I asked McGilton.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t react well to the smell of tobacco. I have a bit of a weak chest.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ At least I wasn’t the only one displaying weakness this morning. ‘Mr Kendall and Miss Tanner have met before, I gather.’ The two of them had seemed on very friendly terms.

  ‘At the hotel yesterday evening. But Lucy’s a great admirer of his work.’

  ‘Oh. She reads American newspapers, does she?’

  ‘When she’s staying with her parents.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He had told me they lived in America.

  ‘She dabbles a bit herself,’ the Irishman added, with a hint of pride. ‘Writing articles for ladies magazines.’

  I smiled. That made sense, anyway. ‘Cocktail parties and what to wear at them?’ One only had to look at Miss Tanner to see how well informed she was in matters of fashion.

  McGilton nodded wryly. His clothes were also well cut, I noticed. Savile Row. Not at all cheap. That would be Miss Tanner’s influence, I guessed.

  ‘She wants to move into news journalism. I think she’s hoping Mr Kendall might put in a word for her.’

  I laughed. ‘She’s left it a bit late, if you’re getting married in July.’ Women were usually expected to stop work as soon as they got hitched.

  ‘Oh, I won’t do anything to discourage her. When Lucy gets an idea into her head, there’s nothing in the world that will get in her way.’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve discovered.’

  Max had finished preparing the tray of drinks for the smoking room. He looked up, to see if I wanted anything else before he carried it through to the other chamber. He had a dual role as barman. He didn’t just mix the drinks, he was also there to stand guard, ensuring nobody left the pressurised areas of the ship with a lighted cigarette in their hand.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I asked McGilton. The drinks, unlike the gratuities, were not included in the price of the ticket.

  ‘Oh, nothing, thank you. I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t?’ I stared at him blankly.

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  I blinked. ‘Good lord.’

  His lips curled in amusement. ‘Is that really such a surprise?’

  ‘Well, no, but...you’re an Irishman.’

  McGilton laughed. ‘We’re not all drunkards and layabouts, you know.’ His eyes were twinkling. He really was a good match for Miss Tanner.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that for a minute. I just...I wouldn’t have taken you for one of the temperance brigade.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not, believe me. But my father...he drank rather too much. Died when I was a boy. I don’t plan on letting history repeat itself.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ I rather regretted asking now.

  ‘But don’t let me stop you,’ he added.

  The moustachioed barman was waiting politely to take my order.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think I really could do with a bit of a lie down.’

  Maurice was loitering at the top of the stairs, back on A Deck. I had no idea why he was out and about just now. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I demanded. I was still irritated with him for joining us in the lounge at lift off, against my express instructions. I really needed to curb this rebellious streak of his, before it got out of hand.

  ‘I am waiting for Crewman Ostermann,’ the valet replied calmly, as if that explained the matter. He was wearing a great coat over his suit, as if he were about to pop out for a newspaper.

  At the far end of the corridor, Annabel Hurst had rounded a corner and was heading in our direction. The woman hesitated as she caught sight of us loitering by the stairs. She was a nervous creature with a pale face and a slender, washboard figure. Unlike Miss Tanner, she was wearing the same tailored dress she had worn on her arrival. She attempted a smile as she made her way along the connecting passageway.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Mr Bland?’ she enquired politely, coming to a halt in front of us. Her voice was a soft whisper. I had to strain to hear what she was saying. Some people just don’t know how to make themselves heard.

  ‘Still a little woozy, I’m afraid. Are you heading down to the bar?’ We were rather obstructing her path. ‘That seems to be where all the action is.’

  ‘I...I wasn’t sure. I thought I might write a couple of letters. Is...is Herr Lindt downstairs, do you know?’ She spoke the name with some hesitation.

  ‘Yes, making a prize fool of himself in the smoking salon. Likes the sound of his own voice, that one.’

  ‘Yes...well, then perhaps I’ll just settle down quietly in the reading room.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said.

  The reading room was situated on the starboard side of the deck, back the way she had come. Miss Hurst smiled nervously, turned on her heels and headed back along the corridor.

  ‘I look forward to seeing you at lunch,’ I called after her. I would make a point of finding a different table. The woman was a mouse. At least Miss Tanner had some spirit to her, I thought, even if she was every bit as impertinent as her fiancé.

  Miss Hurst disappeared through the far door into the lounge.

  ‘Did you find out about the cabins?’ I asked Maurice, now that we were alone. A row of six cabins ran parallel to the dining room on the port side. One of them had to belong to Walter Kendall and if I was to find this damn film of Lazenby’s I needed to know where the American was berthed. I had asked my valet to find out what he could. Perhaps that was why he was wearing that great coat. Maybe he was on his way down to the crew quarters to ask for a passenger list. If so, I would put a stop to that right now. I wanted him to keep his eyes peeled, not draw attention to himself. I had already made myself look like a prize idiot this morning and any odd behaviour on his part would only serve to thrust me back into the limelight. Thankfully, Maurice was ahead
of me.

  ‘I believe he may be in one of these cabins, Monsieur,’ he said, gesturing to the back end of the corridor. ‘Opposite the water closets.’ I peered along the passageway. There were three identical doors on the left hand side, running towards the rear of the ship.

  ‘Do you know which one is his?’

  ‘No, Monsieur. But I saw Mr Kendall coming from that direction after the launch and proceeding down the stairs to B Deck.’

  ‘That’s right, to the smoking room. He’s down there now, with Mr Lindt and the others. But he might just have been answering a call of nature.’ Everyone would be using the facilities along here at some point on the journey.

  ‘I do not believe so, Monsieur. He was pocketing his cigarette case.’

  ‘Ah. Stopped by his cabin, you think, to pick it up?’

  Maurice nodded. ‘Perhaps the second or third door along.’

  That narrowed it down a bit. ‘I wonder if he’s sharing with anyone?’ That ghastly German fellow, perhaps?

  My valet did not venture an opinion.

  A rough looking individual was clanking up the stairs from the lower deck. I could hear him on the metal steps before his head came into view. He came to a halt at the top of the stairs. ‘Monsieur Sauveterre? Êtes-vous prêt?’

  ‘Oui, je suis prêt,’ Maurice responded, in his native Frog. I only knew a few words of the language, but I got the gist.

  I stared at the crewman, in his cloth clap and cheap suit. A below stairs sort of fellow with rough hands and a badly shaven chin. He looked out of place on the passenger decks, though he seemed polite enough. He had removed his cap and was looking at Maurice expectantly.

  ‘I asked the captain if I might have a tour of the aircraft,’ my valet explained. ‘I thought it might prove useful.’

  ‘Did you now? You spoke to the captain?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ The Frenchman’s gall knew no bounds. But that’s the Frogs for you. I suppose that is where the word ‘Gaul’ comes from.

  ‘You are okay to come also, if you like,’ the crewman suggested, in broken English, his craggy face breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

  ‘No, that’s quite all right.’ I was having enough trouble acclimatising to the passenger decks, with their huge windows. To see the mechanics of the beast laid bare would be more than my stomach could bear. And judging by the heavy coats, there was little or no central heating in the business end of the ship. ‘You run along.’ I would have a word or two with Maurice later, in private. He should not be making a nuisance of himself with the captain, even if he had been trying to help. I waved the two of them away and watched them disappear down the stairwell.

  I closed the door after them and loitered for a moment, looking down the short corridor Maurice had indicated. Walter Kendall was in the smoking room and most of the other guests had settled for a time in whatever place suited their fancy. My stomach had just about settled and there was unlikely to be a better time than this to have a look at the man’s cabin, if I could manage to get inside. The doors were lightweight sliding panels and flimsy enough that I could probably put a fist through them; but I would need to employ a little more subtlety than that. I had a couple of hair pins stashed away in my wallet to have a go at the lock.

  The middle or far cabin, my valet had suggested. I stepped forward and moved halfway up the corridor. There were several water closets to my right. If anyone came by I could always slip inside one of those. I hesitated for a moment before committing myself. I have never been much good at the cloak and dagger stuff, though even I can manage a bit of breaking and entering. I had learnt a few lock-picking tricks in my younger days.

  First things first, though – just to be on the safe side – I raised my hand and rapped gently on the middle door.

  There was a clunk from within. ‘Ja?’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘Liebling, bist du das?’ There was a bit of fumbling and then the door slid open a crack. A face peered out at me, a blue eyed woman in her early thirties. At the sight of me, her forehead creased into a heavy frown.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong cabin.’

  ‘Ja!’ she agreed. The door thumped closed before I could say another word. ‘Dummkopf!’

  I took a moment to recover my wits. Who on earth was that? I wondered. She must have been on the promenade at the launch but I had been too worried about the ground falling away beneath me to pay too much attention. This was a woman, clearly, it would be better to steer clear of. At least her presence narrowed down the options. Kendall had to be in the end cabin. But did I dare break in with the angry Fräulein squatting next door? I would have to take a chance. I might not get another opportunity.

  I shifted along, glancing back down the corridor to make sure no one had arrived at the top of the stairs. I knocked gently on the cabin door and waited. There was no reply. I checked the corridor again, then pulled out my wallet and removed the hair pins, which I quickly bent into shape.

  The lock, I had determined, was a standard pin and tumbler mechanism. All it needed was a lever and a pick. The hair pins would do the job nicely. I slid the lever into place, putting pressure on the barrel and, to my surprise, it swung around freely. The door wasn’t locked. I retrieved the pin in irritation and grabbed the handle of the door. It was unlikely Mr Kendall would have left anything of value in the cabin if he hadn’t bothered to lock it up, but I might as well look inside, now that I was here. I slid back the panel and nipped into the room, flicking on the electric light and sliding the door shut behind me. The flap of my jacket caught in the groove. I growled, twisting myself around and pulling the door open to disentangle myself. Once that was done, I closed it up again and locked it up for good measure; then I turned my attention to the interior of the room.

  It had the same orange colour scheme as my own cabin. The bed was on the opposite side and the upper bunk had been removed, but in every other respect it was identical. A suit was hanging in the closet and there was a spare pair of shoes on the floor. A mug and a shaving brush had been laid out on a shelf above the wash basin. A typewriter rested on a side table above a closed wicker case and a small suitcase had been slid under the bed. Kendall was fortunate to have a cabin to himself, I thought. I wondered if he had paid extra for the privilege. I wasn’t looking forward to spending the next few nights with my valet.

  I pulled the suitcase out and popped it onto a small fold out chair. The case was not locked. There were a few clothes in there, underwear and such like, a notebook and some family photographs. Nothing of any consequence. I flicked through the notebook. Kendall had written out several of his most recent articles long hand, rather than using the typewriter. The hand-writing was neat if rather small. The most recent article looked to be a treatise on the Spanish Republican movement. There was nothing here about Britain, though, or any misbehaviour on the part of a British subject. I let out a sigh and closed up the suitcase. No documents or photographs and no roll of film.

  I was just preparing to slide the case back underneath the bed when I heard footsteps nearby. Somebody was pacing the corridor outside. I took a deep breath and prayed to God they were just answering a call of nature. At least I had had the foresight to lock the cabin door. The footsteps reached the end of the corridor and stopped outside the cabin. There was a polite rap on the door. What if it was the steward? I wondered, in a state of alarm. He would have a set of keys. How could I possibly explain my presence in another man’s cabin, if he opened up the door? My cover would be blown completely.

  There was a long, heavy pause and at last the footsteps moved away. I closed my eyes and let out the breath I had been holding. I really wasn’t cut out for the life of a secret agent.

  Chapter Five

  The Atlantic stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction. I focused grimly on the horizon – a surprisingly crisp line of greenish blue – and took a solid lungful of air. Walter Kendall had been right. Now that we were over the water, I wa
s not feeling quite so unsettled. Perhaps I was beginning to find my sea legs, or whatever the appropriate aeronautical expression might be. I was not alone at the window, looking out across the ocean. Josef Kaufmann, the tubby businessman from the smoking room, had joined me on the promenade in contemplative silence. He was a stout fellow of medium height, a little grey around the temples, with a rather taciturn manner. From what I had gathered in the smoking room, he was a business associate of Mr Lindt.

  The other German was seated behind us, in the dining area, pontificating once again on some terribly significant political matter. I was doing my best to ignore the babble of noise, but the dining room was starting to fill now, as the midday meal drew close, and Lindt’s voice was louder than any other. I looked back at the fellow with some distaste. He was sitting at the same table as Walter Kendall. I had marked out my seat next to the American before strolling over to the promenade and it was bad luck that Lindt had chosen the one opposite. I didn’t want to sit anywhere near him, but I needed to stay close to the journalist. I wasn’t intending to pick-pocket the fellow just yet – I wasn’t that desperate – but the more I found out about him, the better placed I would be to devise a plan of attack.

  Lucy Tanner and Thomas McGilton arrived in the dining hall and took the remaining two chairs. I grimaced. I had no desire to renew my acquaintance with them either. Miss Tanner smiled warmly at Mr Kendall as she settled herself down on the light aluminium chair. She was paying a lot of attention to the American, I noticed, as he replied to some idiotic point made by Mr Lindt. Perhaps her association with him went a little deeper than her fiancé was aware of. The two did not act as if they had just met and it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that they had known each other for some time. Miss Tanner’s parents lived in America, after all. And of course, the young woman had visited the Torre del Oro in Seville at the same time as Gerhard Schulz. A bit of a coincidence that, now I came to think about it, given the likely connection between Mr Schulz and Walter Kendall. It seemed unlikely to me that Miss Tanner could have acted as courier for the American, but I supposed it was not inconceivable. McGilton did not seem concerned at her friendliness towards Mr Kendall – so far as I could tell, the woman flirted with everyone and the Irishman was probably used to it by now – but I would have to keep a close eye on the pair of them over the next few days.