The Highway Kind(45)

“I don’t think so, no.” The possibility had sparked for a moment in my mind, but I could not forget the vivid picture of the wreckage; I had dreamed about it all night long.

You might think that the marks of explosion would be lost, masked by the damage—but not to the eye of someone who had built cars and who had seen many wrecks before. Elly was right; it couldn’t have been the tires—they hadn’t blown out. I thought the probable explanation—if in fact the mechanic had heard anything—was that the heavy air-intake plate had struck the pavement with a bang, dropped as the frame twisted.

Still...there was that uneasy suggestion, left by Elly’s question: Do you think they did it?

The next question, of course, was still “Why?” But the fact that she had asked that gave me an uncomfortable notion of why. Neither she nor Bernie liked politics—Bernie openly laughed at the Nazi Party’s pretensions and ceremonial carrying-on. I didn’t think he would have been fool enough to come right out and denounce them; I didn’t think he cared that much, for one thing. Bernie really only cared about motors. And Elly, to be sure.

I got up, ignoring the remainder of my eggs, and fetched a sheet of paper from the secretary. I wrote:


FROM: F PORSCHE

TO: E BEINHORN





UNLIKELY BUT WILL ASK STOP


I folded it in half, gave it to our maid, and asked her to take it to the telegraph office as soon as she had time.

“And where are you going?” Aloisa demanded, looking from the overcoat on my arm to my half-devoured eggs and back.

“To find a young man named Horst Hasse,” I said, and I leaned over to kiss her good-bye.


I went first to visit Ludwig Sebastien, who lived nearby. He confirmed my thoughts about the air-intake plate, had no idea as to the cause of the crash—or at least none he chose to share with me, though his gaze slipped a little to the side as he said it—but he did tell me where to find Horst Hasse; he lived in Stuttgart, fortunately, though in one of the less desirable districts, in a small flat over a bierstube owned by his parents.

Hasse was actually in the bierstube when I arrived, having lunch. He turned out to be a fair-haired young man, short, slightly built, and with a tendency to breathe through his mouth. An Aryan, if a puny one.

“Herr Doktor Porsche!” he said, blue eyes going very round at the sight of me. “I didn’t—I—such an honor!” He seized the hand I offered him and shook it forcefully. “Herr Sebastien said you wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t believe him, I thought he was playing tricks again, he’s always playing tricks to make people look foolish, so I—”

“Danke,” I said, trying to get a word in edgewise. He hadn’t let go of my hand, so I tightened my own grip and took a step forward, forcing him to back up into the bierstube. I had a quick look round—drivers tended to congregate, and something was telling me it was better if nobody saw him talking to me. There were a couple of stocky men in caps that looked like truck drivers, and a few surly-looking youths crouched over a table in the corner—these turned and gave me suspicious looks, but I saw no sign of recognition on their smooth young faces.

“So good of you to talk with me,” I said, smiling at Hasse with what I hoped was reassurance. “Let me buy you a drink.”

We settled at last in a corner with our beers. There was no point in trying to set him at his ease with casual chat; I wasn’t about to offer him a job, which was probably the only possibility occupying his mind at the moment, and the instant I mentioned the accident, any sense of ease would fly right out the window.

“I wanted to ask you a little bit about the Streamliner—the new one, you know.”

His face fell a bit—he had been hoping for a job offer, and I was sorry for his disappointment.

“But...you must know a lot more than I do, Herr Doktor?”

“I know the Type C I designed for Auto Union last year, yes...but they changed some things, of course, for the new model.” I took a swallow of beer; it was bock, strong and malty, and made me feel a little steadier; I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Hasse looked dubious. “But I wouldn’t know about that—shouldn’t you—” He was about to ask me why I hadn’t gone to Eberan with my questions. I interrupted him.

“Yes, of course I know what changes were made on paper.” I smiled, dabbing at my mustache with a napkin. “I’ve seen the notes.” Well, some of them...

“I was wondering how the car handled. There are things only a driver would notice, you know that—and I was just thinking after I heard about Bernd...well, I know that you drove on the trials, and I wondered whether you’d noticed any small thing while you were driving...”

The strangest expressions were crossing his face, and I actually stopped talking, watching him. There was sadness when I mentioned Bernd, and he lifted a hand briefly, as though to make the sign of the cross, but he stopped abruptly as his thoughts caught up, and wariness flashed in his eyes, succeeded almost instantly by recognizable fear. He licked his lips and pushed back his chair, making the legs scrape on the floor, loud enough that the louts in the corner looked at us.

“I can’t—I’m not allowed—I mean, I shouldn’t talk about the trials, Herr Doktor,” he said, the words tripping over each other. “I had to, I mean...” He groped for the next word, then stopped and bit his lip. My heart began to beat faster. I reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm, leaning toward him.