Hitler's Angel (3 page)

She glances at the tape recorder, frowning in the failing light. ‘I only brought one cassette. How long is this story?’

How long does it take a man to describe the end of his meaningful existence? One hour? Two? A day? A week? ‘Long,’ he says
.

‘Then why don’t we finish up the investigation part today, and you can tell me the conclusions tomorrow.’

‘It is not that simple,’ he says. He needs something to do with his hands. He picks up the match box and turns it over and over between his fingers. Perhaps he has picked the wrong person to tell the story to. And it isn’t just her lack of history, her naive American beliefs in simple, clear justice. ‘You have never investigated crimes.’

He makes the question a statement, always, even now, pretending to know the answers in order to draw them out of his companion
.

‘That’s right. I’ve never investigated anything except history.’ She grins. ‘I don’t know how the history of the police in the West even became my specialty. Too many episodes of
Alfred Hitchcock Presents,
I guess.’

‘So you only study technique. You do not practice it.’

She reaches to her left and pushes a button on the tape recorder. The faint whirring hum that has accompanied their conversation – a hum he hadn’t been aware of until now – stops. ‘I don’t even study technique, really. I’m more interested in cases. I first read about Demmelmayer when I was a little girl. I have always wanted to meet you, to write my book on Demmelmayer. The definitive book. But I wanted it to read like a murder mystery. But the dissertation has to come first.’

‘So you see me as a real life Sherlock Holmes?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Colour touches her cheeks, adding to her healthy appearance. ‘Silly, huh?’

‘And if I turn out to be less than brilliant, you will still write this book?’

The surprise runs from her eyes to her hands. Her eyes widen, then her mouth opens and her hands nervously clutch her denim-clad knees. ‘You would like me to write about you? I thought I could only write about Demmelmayer, but you’re right. A biography would be even better.’

‘No,’ he says, the idea of recounting his life every afternoon until his death making his throat dry. ‘Stick to your cases. But feature this one as a counterpoint to Demmelmayer.’

‘They don’t even sound similar.’ The girl’s frown is back, a feature of her concentration. She would make a terrible criminal. He can read her even in the growing darkness. ‘At least in Demmelmayer, you had a body.’

‘At heart, Demmelmayer was a simple case. Too many suspects, but no nuances. I had to eliminate possible killers, track motives, use any evidence I could find. In reality, though, Demmelmayer was no more than a domestic homicide. The case became famous because Gustav Demmelmayer was famous.’

‘Adolf Hitler is famous,’ she says
.

‘Now he is infamous, ’Fritz says. ‘Then, no one had heard of him outside of Germany. Certainly not Americans.’

He tries to say the word without contempt. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She has pushed a button on the tape recorder again. She tried to be circumspect but he saw the movement
.

So she is intrigued again. Good. That makes his job easier.
Although he must still explain the obvious to her, why he thinks this case a counterpoint to Demmelmayer
.

He says, ‘The Raubal case is full of nuance, and everything about it is hidden. Everything. But it fits into your hypothesis. No one else would have finished this case. You will want it for your dissertation. Then you can decide later if you still want to write your book.’

He stands, knowing she won’t be able to see the hole in his chair in the darkness. ‘I would like a beer. Would you?’

‘Yes, one,’ she says. ‘And when I am done, I will have to go.’

‘We won’t finish tonight,’ he says
.

‘I don’t mind.’ With the rush of words, he can almost feel her growing heart rate, the prickle under the skin, the excitement of the challenge. He remembers the feeling. He had felt it, underneath his anger, that morning in Prinzregentenplaz
.

F
ritz’s fists clenched so hard, his short-cropped nails dug into his palms. But he kept his face impassive. He didn’t want the sergeant to see his frustration.

Adolf Hitler was a national figure with terrifying connections. His party, the National Socialist German Workers Party, had grown in popularity during the last few years. Its representation in the Reichstag had grown from 12 to 107 seats just the year before, and there was talk on the streets of Munich that Hitler himself would run for Chancellor in 1932. No wonder the Chief Inspector had looked at Fritz so oddly when he mentioned Prinzregentenplaz; just the week before they had been discussing how a man could go from being an impoverished enemy of the state to an influential politician who lived in one of Munich’s most coveted neighborhoods.

‘They say he is backed by the Kaiser’s son, August Wilhelm.’

Fritz blinked, as much with surprise as a refocus on his concentration. The sergeant was making small talk.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Fritz said. ‘We are a democracy now.’

The sergeant sputtered. ‘And who would believe it? Last week –’

‘You spoke to the housekeeper?’ Fritz would not discuss politics. Not now. Not ever. Especially not with a member of the Schupo, whose politics could run with anything from the NSDAP to the Communists.

The sergeant straightened. ‘Briefly.’

‘When I came in?’

‘No. I was speaking to another servant.’

Fritz tilted his head back slightly. He was behind in this investigation. He had been behind from the moment he entered the building.

‘Where is the body?’ Fritz’s tone was getting sharper. He hoped it would mask the fear he felt like a thrum beneath his skin. This was the case. This one would defeat him. This one would prove that Munich’s
wünderkind
was a man after all.

Unless he grabbed control now.

‘I don’t know where the body is,’ the sergeant said. His eyes were shining. He wiped his hands on his uniform. ‘I’m just a street officer, sir. I have never had criminal training –’

‘Surely you’re smart enough to know that one cannot have a murder without a body.’ Fritz took a deep breath to calm himself. Yelling at the sergeant would do him no good. ‘Did you ask what happened to the body?’

‘The housekeeper called one of Hitler’s men to open this door. Apparently it was locked. When he saw the body, he took it.’

‘And do we know who this man is?’

The sergeant looked down. ‘You’ll need to talk with the housekeeper, sir.’

‘I will do that. You’re dismissed, sergeant.’

The sergeant nodded, then backed out of the room. Fritz did not watch him go. Instead he unclenched his fists and let his hands drop at his side. He was viewing a staged scene. The body was missing. Yet the household had been in such turmoil they summoned a constable, the lowest rank in Schupo, off the street, instead of calling for help from the Kripo. Deliberate? He didn’t know. But he didn’t like the situation.

Still, he would get his people to work the room, the entire apartment. He would interview the witnesses. He would need someone to guard them so that they couldn’t change any story they had. Because his first priority was finding that body before it disappeared for good.

A click snaps him back to the present. The room is dark except for the light filtering in from the street lights outside the window. The girl’s face is a ghostly reflection of itself. She smiles apologetically. ‘My tape has ended.’

He nods, then waves her away.

She stands hesitantly. ‘Would you like some light?’

He shakes his head. These memories belong in the darkness.

‘Maybe we could go for some dinner?’ Her voice trails off. She doesn’t want to. She clearly feels sorry for him.

‘I will see you tomorrow, precisely at eight. Bring coffee and pastries. I like plenty of frosting.’ He makes his tone light.

‘Will… will you be all right?’

He sighs. She will not leave him until he proves that he is fine. She seems to think the memories have disturbed him. Or that he is an old and frail man.

He is old.

He is not frail.

He snaps on the light beside his chair, blinking at the sudden brightness. ‘I have been alone most of my life. Another night will not hurt me.’

She glances around the room as if she has not seen it before. And it does look different in the artificial light. The framed photographs on the walls do not cover the water stains and peeling wallpaper. The light catches the specks of dirt on the picture glass, specks that obscure each photograph. He has seen them all a hundred times. He no longer needs to look, but she seems to.

‘At eight,’ he says. ‘Frosting.’

‘Yes, right.’ She runs a hand through her long brown hair, then grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder. It lands with a thump against her back as she leans over to get her recorder. She makes a slight, almost inaudible grunt as she lifts it.

‘Tomorrow,’ she says, backing toward the door. Has he misread her? Does he look frightening in the dark? An athletic old man with a fierce face? Is that why she continues to watch him instead of turning her back on him? She puts her hand behind her and turns the knob. As she lets herself out, she calls, ‘Good night.’

He does not reply. The door closes with a click. He drinks the last sip out of his beer glass – an ancient stein he stole from the Cafe Heck on a dare – then sets it down. The apartment is too quiet. The American has left him with his ghosts.

Before he even thinks, he is across the room, picking up the receiver on the phone bolted to the kitchen wall. His index finger barely fits in the dial’s holes. He listens as the rotor turns, reflecting the size of each number he dials, but as he reaches the last one, he stops.

The last time he called, it cost him half a month’s rent for a scrawny blonde who did not know how to apply false eyelashes, and who wore pantyhose instead of silk stockings. When he complained, he was told that the girls met his fantasy out of courtesy because he was a long-time customer, but silk stockings were expensive, and no one really remembered what the 1920s were like, now, did they?

He hangs up the receiver and leans against the plastic countertop. If he is honest with himself, he knows it is not the pantyhose that distracted him. It is the ancient look in the girl’s eyes, a look he does not remember in Gisela’s. When he was younger, he could ignore the look or pretend it was not there. But he sees everything now, in his old age, as clearly as if it were blown in on the Föhn. And if he is really honest with himself, he will remember that by the time she left in January of 1923, Gisela’s eyes had no look at all. They were dead to everything but her own fear.

The dishes in the sink have the faint odour of soured milk. He needs to eat something, but he does not want to eat alone. Nor does he want more conversation. The past tightens his throat, churns his stomach. He will go to the beer hall down the block, eat sausage and sauerkraut, and drink until he cannot feel anymore.

B
y the time he left the apartment, five members of his team had arrived. He only took the best of them – Henrich Felke, a detective sergeant who had worked well on previous cases. Fritz left four members on site: one to survey the crime scene, one to remove possible evidence, one to shepherd the witnesses to the precinct, and one to remain on the scene in case other people showed. Fritz spoke to the housekeeper enough to determine that Hitler had left after lunch the day before, and was not expected back all weekend. She did not know if anyone had informed him of the death.

The police coroner had offices near the police
präsidium
in the centre of town. When Fritz had become a member of Kripo in the mid-1920s, the coroner had also been a practicing doctor. But since the agitations of the last few years had risen, more and more of the coroner’s work had been for the police. He now handled only murders and accidental deaths, sometimes five to ten a day.

The doctor’s offices were in an ancient five-storey building. The grey stone was soot-stained, and the steps
were worn in the centre. The building smelled of dust, old leather, and rubbing alcohol. Fritz always sneezed the moment he entered.

Henrich said nothing as he flanked Fritz down the long, arched hallway. When they reached the end they stopped in front of a wooden door with a frosted glass window. On the glass, in old German script, was the doctor’s name: Gerhart Zehrt. Henrich gripped the cut-glass door knob and turned it. The door squeaked as it opened, the ever-present smell of formaldehyde mixing with the scents in the hall. The reception desk was empty, as it had been since Zehrt switched his practice to police work, but the door behind it, leading into the office, was open.

Zehrt was wiping off a wooden examining table. His sleeves were rolled up to show his massive arms. He was wearing a white shirt which loosely covered his round stomach. A blood-stained smock had been tossed onto the room’s only chair. The walls were covered with glass-doored cabinets, revealing jars of medicines and canning jars filled with items that Fritz didn’t want to speculate about.