TWENTY-FOUR

KILLER, LOOSE

ROXY THREW UP TILL THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT, TILL ONLY bile filled her mouth. Staggering out of the toilet and across the corridor to her cabin, she made it to the sink there, yet only retching came now. Reeling, she fell face down onto the bed, but when she closed her eyes, the world spun even worse. She dragged herself into a corner of the narrow bunk and drew her knees up. Gradually, the spasms subsided, the world steadied, she could think.

Jocco.

She’d let him go. She’d thought she had no choice except to do so since she’d had no news of him after Berlin and the crash. Then to have him back? It had revived a fire she’d thought was extinguished. She’d let the thought of him—of them—back in. She knew they’d never be the “white picket fence and a parcel of kids” kind of pair. But if they’d got off the Hindenburg, if her friends had come to their rescue? Maybe they’d have made it. Found another war where life, if not simple, was at least a simpler kind of complicated.

Now all that was gone. Her guts twisted into knots, but she knew she couldn’t give in to sickness or to grief. There was still a madman on board with a bomb, and no Jocco restraining him.

That thought had her swinging her legs off the bed. Of course! Jocco had the mechanism for the bomb. If he still had it and she got it, they were safe. If he didn’t…

She had no choice. She had to go and check a dead man’s pockets. The thought, the image of him, made her breaths come more quickly. But she stood up anyway.

The dead. They upset most people, of course. But the first doc she’d talked to, in that brief time she’d spent in Montreal with Aunt Estelle after her dad’s death, had noted that it appeared more advanced in her; it froze her, took away her senses. He’d called it shell shock because he’d been in the war and had seen a lot of that. He referred her to a psychiatrist, who’d given it a fancier name: acute stress disorder. But it only occurred when she first saw the body. In New York under a tram car. In a Madrid cellar. In the back of a car on an airship—

The knocking, sudden and loud, made her cry out.

“Madeleine? You okay?”

“I’m…I’m sick, Willie.”

“Shall I fetch the doctor?”

“No. It’s not that bad. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” There was a pause. “First seating for dinner is about to start.”

“You go ahead. I don’t think I can make it.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll check in on you later.”

“Thanks.”

She heard him moving away. Maybe she should join him. Willie Schmidt was a heap of questions she needed to answer. Had he killed Ferency? Did he have a bomb?

Other voices came from the corridor, speaking rapid Spanish. Kids laughing, parents hushing. The Mexican family were passing. Roxy thought of the boys, the one bored, the one enthused by the airship. All doomed if the madman could arm the bomb. She should go to the authorities, tell them, let them deal…

She sat down. Wait, she ordered herself. If I lead them to Jocco’s body, I’ll be the first one they arrest. I’m a suspect in Ferency’s murder. Schreiber, the Gestapo officer, already said that the police stateside would want to interview me. And what good can I do locked in a brig, or in my cabin? No. I need to try and figure this out myself.

Who was the killer? Or was there more than one? Munroe for Jocco, and the anarchist for Ferency?

The more she thought it the more likely it became. Munroe had shouted at Glaumann, the tour guide, not to lift the car cover because he’d known that Jocco’s corpse was there. And he’d joined the tour late, with spots of blood on his suit front that hadn’t been there when she’d seen him in the smoking room.

She went to the sink, ran the cold tap and splashed her face again and again. She had to take this step by step. Munroe could wait. First she had to find out if the anarchist had just acquired the means to blow up the ship.

She decided to allow the cabins to empty and the corridors to clear before making her move. After a while, all noise reduced to the faint rumble of engines, and she left her cabin. The corridor was empty. She walked quickly toward the chief steward’s tiny office and opened the door onto the gantry. No one was on it.

It had been half an hour since the end of the tour. But night had already fallen, and the electrical lights were on, throwing the vast interior into shadows where the spill did not reach. The gantry was well lit, though, and she marched down it fast. She could smell the blood from ten feet away, but she didn’t hesitate—she knew she couldn’t. She bent, grabbed a tarpaulin edge and, taking another deep breath, jerked it up.

The corpse was gone.

She gasped, looked wildly around. But the front seat was as empty as the rear. She reached in and pulled a lever to spring open the trunk. It was huge. There was no body in it, but it wasn’t empty. Wrapped in a grey cloth was a rectangular object. Pulling the cloth aside, the first thing she saw was Daedalus’s screaming face.

Munroe had been back and cleared away the evidence.

Voices from the gantry. Roxy jerked down the tarp then ran around to crouch behind the passenger’s-side wheel arch. Two crew members passed by. She turned to peer into the gloom behind the car, into the deeper storage areas. Jocco’s body was not there either.

But her name might be. Because she was looking into storage nets, and in them were piled about twenty black belongings bags with the name of the airship line—Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei—embroidered on them. Each had a label tied around the neck. The mesh was wide enough to let her slip her hands in, move the contents about. In half a minute she found the one with Madeleine Lille written on it.

She pulled her penknife from her purse and used it to cut through the twined rope. Once she’d parted three strands she was able to slide her bag out. Reaching into it, she felt among the few objects, seeking the one she was looking for. “Hello, baby,” she said, lifting her derringer into the light.

She had the bullet in her cabin. Singular. One wasn’t much to use against two murderers. But it was one more than nothing.

More voices on the gantry. She stayed low as two crewmen passed back the other way. When their voices had faded, she reached again into the bag and drew out her lighter before shoving her bag back into the netting. Then she stepped out and hurried back to the passenger area of the ship. The chief steward’s office was still empty and shouting could be heard from the kitchen. She still wasn’t hungry—at least, not for food.

The bartender greeted her. “Same again, chère mademoiselle?”

“Make it a double.”

“Of course.”

There was no one else beyond the airlock; the smoking room was empty. They all had to be in their cabins, at supper or on the promenade deck awaiting their seating.

The bartender came in and set down her drink. As he left, she lit up, and raised her glass. “To Jocco, old comrade. Wherever the hell you are.” She took a sip, raised the glass again, made a second toast.

“And to revenge.”

She woke to screams.

At first she thought they were in her tortured dreams. Then they penetrated sleep and she was awake, shooting up, focusing…realizing that the screams did not come from the corridor. No one was fleeing a bomb blast. A seagull was flying parallel to the ship. But the Hindenburg was faster and soon left the bird, and its harsh cries, behind. Roxy looked down and saw icebergs. If these were below, that meant the airship couldn’t be that far from North America. The first landfall would be Newfoundland. She’d recognize that. It was the route every flyer took, the shortest hop between the continents.

It was May 5. The last full day of the flight. Tomorrow morning, they would dock in New Jersey. If—she remembered with a lurch of her heart—a madman didn’t blow them up first.

She checked her watch—8:33 a.m. She’d slept long and hard. Her mouth was like an ashtray that had been poorly washed in whisky. Only coffee and more nicotine could take that taste away.

The shower was free. Remembering Willie’s warning, she turned it on, soaked herself fast—no easy feat in the ensuing dribble—applied soap, scrubbed and rinsed. Got the last of the suds out of her hair just as the shower clicked off.

Towelling, she stepped out into the corridor and straight into the back of the younger Gestapo officer, Kloff. He was standing with his hand raised in front of her door. “You will come with me, please, Fräulein.”

She peered up at him. “Why?”

“The colonel wishes a conversation.”

“Then give me a second, will ya?” She squeezed past him into her cabin, shut the door and leaned against it for a moment. So, she thought, it begins.

Schreiber was where she’d left him, behind a table in the officers’ mess. He did not ask her to sit down. Nor did he beat around the bush.

“Who is this man?” he said, spinning a photograph around.

She looked at a recent shot of Jocco, with his short hair and his haunted eyes. “No idea. You want to tell me?”

The colonel didn’t answer, just spun something else around to land beside the portrait. This was a news clipping, and she recognized it straightaway because it was special. From the Philadelphia Inquirer, March 17, 1929, when she’d won her first big race, the St. Patrick’s Day Derby, bringing crates of Guinness from Boston to Philly. Her smile in the photo was ecstatic.

“So, Miss…Loewen. I am not going to ask you to explain why you are travelling on a false passport. We do not really have time for another one of your stories. We have evidence enough to arrest you now.”

“Oh yeah? Since when did the Luftwaffe get the power to arrest folk?”

“We will hold you till we can hand you to authorities. Perhaps in America or—” his eyes glinted “—perhaps we keep you quiet on board and take you back to Germany with us. It is there your offences were committed, after all. And I think our punishments might be more severe. The Americans are a soft nation.”

“So you got me.” Roxy leaned down, placing her hands on the table. “But I think you’ll find my soft country would take it pretty hard if they found out that you had kidnapped one of their citizens.”

“We have Americans on board. Not one with the name Madeleine Lille. There will not even be a murmur.” He nodded toward the table. “Now, do not waste my time. Tell me about this man.”

She didn’t even look at the photo. “Told ya. Never seen him before.”

Schreiber nodded but not to her. Kloff grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her back. She yelped, swung her heel into his shin. The man grunted, but he didn’t let her go, just pushed her face down till she was nose to nose with the man in the photo.

“I did not ask you if you know him. I asked you to tell me about him. On the Hindenburg, he is called Helmut Mandt, an assistant chef. You know him as the Communist agitator Jochen Zomack.”

Roxy squirmed; she couldn’t shift the iron grip. “You know so much, why do you need me?”

“Because he is missing. And we need you to tell us where he is.”

“I don’t know. Ow! Jesus, you bastard, my arm.” She struggled but couldn’t move. “How can he be missing? The Hindenburg‘s big but not that big. Search for him.”

“We would if we did not feel we would alarm the passengers. This is a very special flight. Important men are on board who will, ah, help forge the unity between our two nations.”

Sydney Munroe, she thought, as Schreiber continued, “So the orders have come from on high that there will be no disruption. This Communist is a disruption.” He leaned till his face was a few inches from hers. “Tell me where he is.”

She thought of telling him that Jocco was dead, but dismissed the idea when she remembered that she had no body to prove it. She thought of sharing Jocco’s news about a fanatical comrade not right in the head who by now might, or might not, have the timer to a bomb. But the idea of telling this guy anything did not appeal. Besides, tell him any of that and she could be found guilty by association. She didn’t know where this little chase was leading, but incriminating herself further wasn’t going to help.

So she managed the best smile she could under the circumstances before saying, “Can’t help you, buddy,” and waited for the pain to double.

It didn’t. Instead another nod saw her released—thrown forward so she only just stopped her face planting on the table. She stood straight, rubbed her wrists, glared at both men.

“If we were in Germany now, there would be more options for you,” Schreiber said softly. “But here we have only one.” He looked up at his subordinate and snarled, in German, “Take her to her cabin. Lock her in.” He looked at her, smiled sourly. “Oh yes, we know you speak German, Miss Loewen.”

Kloff reached for her again. She shrugged his hand off. “I’ve got rights, you know. And friends on board.”

“Like Mr. Munroe? He has been most helpful in identifying you to us and explaining some of his feelings toward you. Or are you referring to Herr Willie Schmidt? We know he desires you. Perhaps he will do so less when he is informed, along with the crew, that you have come down with a nasty touch of Spanish flu.” He nodded. “You will be kept in your cabin till we dock. Maybe afterwards too. We will decide later whether to hand you over to American authorities or return you to Germany with us.”

“Till we dock? But that’s…that’s not till tomorrow morning. You’re going to keep me in my cabin for twenty-four hours?”

“No.” He smiled, a sight without humour. “Headwinds over the ocean have delayed the flight. We do not dock now till the late afternoon of the sixth. So we keep you even longer.” He looked at Kloff. “Take her.”

Ignoring her outrage, Kloff grabbed an arm. A couple of the chefs were standing outside the kitchen and eyed her curiously as they passed. Kloff murmured something about her not being able to hold her drink and they laughed. She thought of making a fuss and complaining, but to whom? The captain? A few words from the Gestapo and she was cooked. Either way. She hadn’t thought of an alternative by the time they reached her cabin door. And then it was too late.

“I’m hungry,” she called, as the door slammed shut.

There was no reply. It was back to the gulls’ screams. Except now she realized she wasn’t entirely alone.

She delved into her pockets, then pulled out her cigarette case and the lighter she’d retrieved from her bag in the hold. She lit up and blew the smoke at the door. She wasn’t worried. She was about as low in the Zeppelin as she could get, and hadn’t the tour guide said that hydrogen rises? There wasn’t going to be any down here. Almost no chance that a cigarette would set it off.

Her hand paused halfway to her mouth. A cigarette, maybe not. But a bomb?