"Quite so, old man. I know your penchant for the Viennese trick cyclists. But surely you wouldn't wish to see the wrong cove found guilty of such an unpleasant crime?"
"There's no chance he's guilty, I suppose?" Sinclair instantly regretted his words. "No, no. Of course we must assume his innocence. But there are many more deserving cases around the world, I'm sure."
"Few of them cases allowing me to take the very latest in aerial luxury liners and even put yourself and Dolly on the payroll without question."
"It's no good, Begg, the idea's unpalatable to me…"
With an athlete's impatient speed, Begg crossed to his vast, untidy bureau, and tugged something out of a pigeonhole. "Besides, our tickets arrived not ten minutes before you turned up for tea. Oh, say you'll do it, old man. I promise you, the adventure will be an education, if nothing else."
Taffy began to grumble, but by midnight he was on his feet, phoning down for his Daimler. He would meet Begg, he promised, at Kings Cross, where they would travel to Manchester that afternoon on the high-speed M amp; E Flyer, so as to be safely aboard the zep by four-thirty.
Begg was delighted. He trusted and needed his old comrade's judgment and cool head. Their personalities were complementary, like a couple of very different fives players. This time Begg felt he had involved himself in a job that would have him holding his nose for longer than he cared.
As for the Presbyterian Taffy, he would still be debating the morality of accepting the tickets when they met the next day and began the journey to Munich.
CHAPTER TWO
Sir Seaton and Taffy had fought the "pickle-fork brigade" for too long to hate them. They understood that your average Fritz wasn't so very different from your average Tommy and that it took self-interested and foolish politicians to make men kill one another. Yet for all his certainty that the War to End War had done its work, Begg knew that vigilance was forever the price of freedom. Few threats to our hard-won rights came from the expected sources. The unexpected angle of attack was generally successful. Authority is by nature conservative and therefore never truly prepared for surprises. It was Seaton Begg's job always to be prepared for the unexpected. That was why the Admiralty, the War Office, the Home Office, and the Foreign Office all continued to pay him substantial retainers to investigate any affair that, in their opinion, required the specialized services of one versed in the subtleties of alternative timelines, which he was able to cross with rare ease. It was also why they encouraged him to take the occasional foreign case.
The service aboard the Spirit of Nuremberg was impeccable. This made Taffy a little nervous.
"Sort of military feel about it, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I think I prefer the old, sloppy cockneys we get on the Croydon-Paris run."
Begg was amused by this. "Sit back and enjoy it, old man," he said. He had asked for that morning's Munich newspapers, which were full of the recently averted bomb attack on the new Miami-Havana rail tunnel. After quickly scanning the headlines, Begg ignored this news, and concentrated his attention on the newspapers' interiors, especially the back sections.
"I see a well-known hater of Hitler and Co. is leading a new orchestra at the Carlton Tea Rooms. Though wisely he has adopted another name. Margarita Sarfati remains Mussolini's most trusted art advisor, and the Nazis berate the Duce for keeping a Jewish mistress with decadent modernist tastes. Roosevelt is proclaimed the new Mussolini by some American papers and the new Stalin by the Hearst press, who are supporting Hitler. And Marion Davies, Hearst's longtime mistress, is secretly keeping a liason with Max Peters, the Jewish cowboy star who is such a close friend of Mussolini. Ah, the intrigues of the powerful… The Raubal murder case has proved meat and drink for the left-wing press. They are thirsty for any sign of Hitler's downfall, it seems. But the public still expects evidence if it's going to change its loyalties now!"
Taffy hated gossip. Deprived of his Times, he contented himself with the Frankfurter Allgemeine's crossword puzzle, which he found surprisingly straightforward.
The wind and rain thudded hard against the huge airship's canopy as she swayed at anchor between forward and stern masts. In spite of the stirring waltz tunes coming over the Tannoy, there was still an air of adventure about boarding an airship, especially in bad weather when you realized how much you were at the mercy of elemental nature. Outside the windows, Moss Side Field was obscured by mist and even Manchester's famous chimneys were hardly visible, wrapped, as they were, in cloaks of their own making. Begg had been pleased to see the smoke.
"Those chimneys are alive, Taffy," he had said upon boarding. "And a live chimney means a living wage for those poor devils in the factory towns."
Since Begg needed to make notes, they had ordered cabin service. At seven PM sharp, as the lights of London faded on their starboard bow and they saw below the faint white flecks of waves, there came a discreet knock on their door. At Begg's command, a short, jolly, red-faced waiter entered their little sitting room. They had already decided on their menu and the efficient waiter soon converted a writing table to a dining table and laid it with a bright, white cloth. He then proceeded to bring the first courses, which, while of the heavy German type, were eaten by the pair with considerable zest. A good white wine helped the meal down.
The signs of dining magically removed, Taffy took up a light novel and read for an hour while Begg continued to make notes and refer to the newspapers. Eventually, the pathologist could stay awake no longer and, with a yawning "Good night, old man," decided to turn in. He took the sleeping cubicle to the left of the main room. He knew from experience not to compete with Seaton Begg, who needed at most five hours' sleep in twenty-four.
Indeed, when Sinclair rose to use the well-designed hidden amenities, it seemed Begg had done no more than change into his pajamas while retaining his place and posture from the previous night.
Only the scenery below had changed. They had crossed the North Sea and were now making their way above the neat fields of the German lowlands. In another two hours they would berth in Munich, the Spirit's home port. Meanwhile there was a full English breakfast to consume and wash down with what, even Sinclair admitted, was a passable cup of Assam.
Munich Aerodrome had the very latest in winching masts. Disembarking from the fully grounded zeppelin, Begg and Sinclair descended the ship's staircase. They were greeted at the bottom by a tall, rather cadaverous individual in a poorly fitting Norfolk jacket of chocolate brown, two swastika armbands in the German colors of black, red, and white, rather baggy riding breeches, and highly polished polo boots. He offered them a Quo Vadis Roman salute, made famous in the popular film drama, then immediately began to pump Begg's hand.
"This is such an honor, Sir Seaton. I have read about you so much. I myself have a natural affinity with the British aristocracy. I so admire your Prince of Wales. The best of English and German blood breed fine specimens of humanity, eh?" Then his affable manner turned abruptly anxious. "Might I know your eating habits?"
Begg, as Sinclair could tell, was a little taken aback by Herr Hess's intensity.