Hitler's Angel Page 5

  No. It is not his wife that stops his heart. It is the babe she cradles in her arms. Wilhelm. Fritz never lets himself think about Wilhelm.

  Footsteps on the stairs. He tosses the photograph back in the box, then folds down the flaps and shoves the box back into the closet. He pauses, puts a hand over his forehead, presses against the bridge of his nose. Even then, the image will not go away. The one that he sees in his dreams. Little Wilhelm, named by an idealistic youth for his precious and misguided Kaiser. Wilhelm, whose face was so thin when he died that he looked like a skeleton already.

  She knocks, then opens the door. He stands, almost losing his balance.

  ‘Frederich?’ she says. ‘Herr Stecher?’

  He makes himself walk to the door. ‘Fritz,’ he says. ‘Since we are spending our days together.’

  She smiles, a real smile this time. She pulls a box of cigarettes from the bag she carries, and hands them to him. Then she goes into his kitchen and takes dishes from the drying rack. She arranges the sandwiches on two plates as he watches. A woman has not worked in his kitchen, not in the two decades that he has lived here.

  ‘The deli is quaint,’ she says.

  Quaint. The warmth he felt toward her recedes. Quaint. A condescending word. So that he cannot forget the political hegemony that separates them. He would never call anything American quaint.

  ‘It has stood on that corner longer than you have had a homeland,’ he says.

  ‘Well,’ she says, unconcerned by his tone, ‘it certainly seems authentic.’

  She hands him his plate. He takes it and sets it beside his chair. She takes her sandwich and sits. He goes back into the kitchen and pours himself a beer. It is early to be drinking.

  It is late to be thinking of Wilhelm.

  But he does both.

  ‘So,’ the girl says, her mouth full of food. ‘Did the housekeeper confirm Frau Reichert’s story?’

  He grips the counter, marvelling how one part of his past can save him from dwelling on another, darker, infinitely more terrifying part.

  NINE

  The housekeeper, Frau Annie Winter, did not hunch. Each movement she made had a military precision. The wary look she had had in the apartment had hardened into a craftiness that he trusted even less. She sat in the same chair Frau Reichert had, but Frau Winter used it like a battle station to counteract his every move.

  During his brief interview with her in the apartment, she had seemed distracted. Here she had a sharp focus as if the few hours that had gone by solidified events in her mind.

  Fritz did not sit when he spoke to her. Instead he stood over her, crossing his arms and standing as close as he could without touching her. Those who intimidate hated to be intimidated.

  ‘When did you go to the apartment today, Frau Winter?’ he asked.

  She looked up, met his gaze evenly. ‘Frau Reichert called me. She wanted the keys to Geli’s room.’

  ‘Why didn’t Frau Reichert have keys?’

  ‘She is responsible for no one except her mother.’

  ‘What is their position in the household?’

  ‘They are guests of Herr Hitler.’

  ‘They are family then?’

  ‘No.’ Frau Winter’s mouth was tight with disapproval. ‘Frau Reichert was his landlady before he moved to Prinzregentenplaz. She was kind to him. He is kind in return.’

  Fritz clasped his hands behind his back. The room had a chill dampness that seeped from the brick. ‘So she does nothing to help you.’

  ‘Oh, she helps. When it amuses her, ’Frau Winter said. Her tone was even, her face impassive.

  ‘You don’t like her.’

  ‘What I like or don’t like doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Geli is dead.’

  She glanced at him again, as if to make certain he caught the rebuke. He did, and thought it interesting. Witnesses usually responded in anger or fear. Frau Winter merely added to the chill. ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They already had it in the car when I arrived.’

  ‘Whose car?’

  She blinked and small frown lines appeared on her forehead. The pause was slight but, he felt, significant. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Herr Schwarz’s car? Herr Amman’s? Herr Röhm?’

  She brought her head up sharply. Behind the chill in her eyes was something else, something darker. Anger? Or fear? ‘Röhm was not there.’

  Fritz nodded, once, formally. ‘My mistake. I had heard that a Brownshirt was present. I assumed it was Herr Röhm.’

  ‘Who told you a stormtrooper was there?’

  No one had told him. He was guessing. But it seemed logical since one had appeared at Zehrt’s. Hitler’s people trusted the Brownshirts more than they trusted anyone else, especially the Munich police.

  Fritz moved closer, so close he could smell the soap she had used. ‘If you did not see the body, how do you know that Geli is dead?’

  ‘Frau Reichert saw it. She told me.’

  ‘Couldn’t she have been mistaken? She doesn’t seem like a very competent woman.’

  ‘She’s not. She is only in the household because of Herr Hitler’s generosity.’ The fact seemed to bother Frau Winter. She did not approve of Hitler’s living arrangements.

  ‘Frau Reichert and her mother are impoverished?’

  ‘No, they own still apartments on Thierschstrasse.’

  He stored that piece of information as something to explore later. ‘But she is not very competent?’

  ‘She burned sausages yesterday. She blamed in on the Föhn.’

  ‘So why did you believe her when she said Geli was dead?’

  Frau Winter’s mouth set in a straight line. She knew she had been trapped, and she wasn’t pleased with it. ‘Because, Detective Inspector, there are certain things which are impossible even for a dumkopf to miss. Geli was dead.’

  ‘And Herr Amann and Schwarz also believed this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She had not volunteered information. She had merely confirmed it. It still left the mystery of the SA man. ‘What did you do when you arrived?’

  ‘I saw that the household was in disorder. I had seen a constable on the street and I sent for him. Then I calmed Frau Reichert, and Frau Dachs –’

  ‘Frau Dachs?’

  ‘Frau Reichert’s mother. I sent her to her room. And then I looked in Geli’s room. Such blood.’ Frau Winter shook her head. ‘I did not touch anything.’

  ‘I thought Frau Dachs didn’t see anything.’

  Frau Winter shrugged. ‘I do not know what she saw and what she didn’t.’

  ‘I would like to speak to her.’

  Frau Winter waved a hand. ‘She is old,’ she said, in a tone that meant she is crazy.

  They had kept the old woman from him. He would have to remedy that, or have Henrich do so while he was away. He still wasn’t sure how involved he wanted Henrich to get.

  ‘Why did they take the body?’ Fritz asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They were leaving as I was arriving.’

  ‘So you did see them take the body.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was already in the car.’

  ‘How did they get it there?’ he asked.

  Her gaze was level. ‘They carried it.’

  ‘In a blanket?’

  ‘I did not ask.’

  ‘But you’re the housekeeper. Wouldn’t you know if they had taken something?’

  She raised her chin slightly. ‘You saw the apartment this morning, Detective Inspector. It will take me days to return it to order.’

  He leaned on the table. ‘What was their manner when you saw them? Did they think Geli was still alive? Is that why they left so quickly?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think they wanted Geli properly cared for. Herr Hitler would want that.’

  ‘Herr Hitler.’ Fritz backed away a little. He was gripped his hands so tight, pain tingled through his fingers. ‘Geli Raubal was his niece?’

/>   ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where are her parents?’

  ‘Her father is dead. Her mother runs Herr Hitler’s home in Obersalzberg.’

  ‘Does her mother know?’

  ‘I phoned her, yes.’

  ‘And does Herr Hitler know?’

  ‘I do not know. He is on his way to Hamburg.’

  ‘Couldn’t you phone him as well?’

  ‘He was to arrive in Hamburg today.’

  ‘So he left late yesterday.’

  Frau Winter’s mouth became a straight line again. She had caught him before he completely sprung the trap this time. The woman was sharp. ‘He left just after luncheon.’

  ‘Did he lunch with Geli?’

  ‘Spaghetti. His favourite.’

  ‘Were they getting along?’

  ‘Ach,’ Frau Winter said, waving her hand dismissively. ‘No one got along with that girl.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘She was flighty. Dissatisfied. He gave her everything.’

  ‘Could someone have killed her?’

  ‘She was still holding the gun when they opened the locked door.’

  ‘But you brought the keys. How did they get into the room?’

  ‘They broke the door down.’

  ‘Who told you that Geli was still holding the gun?’

  ‘Frau Reichert.’

  ‘Who can’t be trusted.’

  Frau Winter sighed as if Fritz were an exasperating child. ‘The girl killed herself.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because she was despondent.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yesterday. After he left. She found the letter.’

  ‘Letter?’

  ‘From another girl. In Herr Hitler’s coat pocket.’

  Fritz felt off balance himself. ‘And such a letter made her despondent?’

  ‘She wanted to become Gnändige Frau Hitler. He is highly eligible.’

  Fritz started. He had not expected this. ‘But she was his niece.’

  Frau Winter shrugged. ‘She flirted with everyone.’

  ‘So then a letter from another girl would not have mattered.’

  ‘It mattered.’ Frau Winter frowned and shifted in her seat. ‘She wanted to be the most important person to everyone who was near her. It would have made her more important to marry Herr Hitler. He is an important man.’

  Fritz swallowed. He had not thought of this. ‘Where is this letter now?’

  ‘She tore it up.’

  ‘Is it still in the apartment?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frau Winter said.

  ‘I would like it,’ Fritz said.

  ‘I will make sure you get it,’ Frau Winter said. Her acquiescence surprised him after the difficulty she had given him about Frau Dachs. The Chief Inspector was right to have suspicions. But suspicions of whom? Of what? The behaviour around this death led Fritz to believe that Geli Raubal did not commit suicide. But she might have. Even that would be embarrassing to a man with political ambitions.

  ‘I do not understand,’ Fritz said, trying to weave through the tangles to the truth, ‘why such a thing would drive a girl to kill herself.’

  ‘She was possessive, jealous. She wanted Herr Hitler to herself.’

  ‘Was he her lover?’

  ‘No!’ Frau Winter’s cheeks coloured. ‘He was like a father to her. He only wanted to protect her.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘His life has been hard. He did not want hers to be.’

  ‘She was jealous and possessive, yet flirtatious and flighty. I do not understand, Frau Winter, how you knew her heart.’

  ‘She was an impulsive, thoughtless girl. She probably picked up Herr Hitler’s gun and in a moment of rage turned it on herself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fritz said. ‘The gun. Where is it now?’

  ‘It was in her hand.’

  ‘I know.’ Fritz kept his voice level. ‘But it was gone from the room when I arrived.’

  Frau Winter’s eyes narrowed just a little, as if she were weighing him before she responded. ‘Perhaps they could not get it from her hand.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘I do not know what they did with the gun,’ she snapped.

  ‘You said Geli probably picked up the gun and turned it on herself. There was no note then?’

  ‘I did not see any.’

  ‘And the gun belonged to Herr Hitler?’

  ‘All the guns in the apartment belong to Herr Hitler. He was a soldier, you know.’

  No, Fritz had not known that. But it did not surprise him. Most men in Munich had served in the war. ‘How many guns does Herr Hitler have?’

  ‘He has a collection.’

  Fritz knew. He had seen it. Hitler seemed to have a passion for guns. ‘And Geli knew where the guns were stored?’

  ‘He keeps them in a glass cabinet. We all know where they are.’

  They all knew. Fritz suppressed a sigh. This case was twisting him and he did not have the resources he needed. Damn the Chief Inspector. Damn the Minister of Justice. Fritz needed a team to work this. Someone to examine the evidence, another to chase the body, a third to grill the witnesses, and a fourth to find Herr Hitler. ‘So you arrived, saw the broken door, and called the constable.’

  The thin mouth again. ‘I was appalled they had not done so sooner. After all, the girl was dead. The police would have to be involved.’

  She was very astute. Get the police involved before they got themselves involved.

  ‘Tell me again the sequence of events.’

  She sighed. ‘I arrived. The door was broken, Frau Reichert was crying, and the men had taken Geli to the car. I saw the blood, and knew that we had trouble. That girl thought of no one but herself.’

  Fritz decided that the chill in the room had nothing to do with the bricks. ‘No sadness at Geli’s death? Did you dislike the girl?’

  Frau Winter met his gaze. ‘Geli was a woman past 21–’

  Fritz stared. Somehow he had assumed she was younger.

  ‘– and she used that womanliness to her advantage, distracting Herr Hitler and disrupting the household.’

  ‘Did she disrupt the household yesterday?’

  ‘She disrupted the household every day.’

  ‘What happened yesterday?’

  ‘She wanted to go to Vienna. She has been wanting to go to Vienna for weeks. Herr Hitler has told her no, that she cannot go, but still she wants. They fought over lunch.’

  ‘Did the fight get violent?’

  Frau Winter laughed. ‘You cannot make Herr Hitler the villain here. He was long gone by the time Geli died.’

  The denial was interesting. Fritz had not been trying to make Hitler the villain. He had been trying to see if there was a cause of suicide.

  ‘How do you know when Geli died?’ Fritz asked quietly.

  ‘She was alive when I left after I made dinner. Herr Hitler was already on his way to Hamburg. He left in his Mercedes immediately after luncheon.’

  ‘Frau Winter,’ Fritz said, leaning forward and speaking with great respect, ‘who told you that Geli committed suicide?’

  Again, the brief hesitation, the slight frown. ‘Everyone who saw her.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘Frau Reichert, Max Amann, Franz Schwarz.’

  ‘You spoke to the men, but were unable to see the body?’

  ‘They already had her in the car. They did not want anyone gawking at her.’

  ‘Where did they take her body in such a hurry, Frau Winter?’

  ‘To a doctor, of course,’ she snapped.

  ‘But she was dead.’

  ‘They still needed papers to get her out of the country.’

  ‘Out of the country,’ he said as if he had not known. He had learned long ago the importance of double-checking facts. ‘Where?’

  ‘Her mother wants her buried in Vienna.’

  ‘Did you speak with her mother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frau Winte
r’s voice lowered. ‘She was distraught, the poor woman. Blaming herself.’

  ‘And she was in Obersalzberg?’

  Frau Winter’s mouth thinned. The woman’s movements were small, but telling. ‘She was.’

  ‘When did you speak with her?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Before or after you sent for the constable?’

  ‘During,’ Frau Winter said. ‘I sent one of the servants for the constable while I called Frau Raubal.’

  ‘Where will they bury her?’

  ‘The Hitlers are Catholic,’ Frau Winter said. ‘They have had a long relationship with Father Pant in Vienna.’

  ‘How do you know Geli has been sent there?’

  For the first time, Frau Winter bowed her head. Her hand shook as she used it to smooth her hair.

  ‘How do you know, Frau Winter?’

  ‘Because,’ she said softly, ‘Geli is a suicide. It will take family connections to get her buried at all.’

  TEN

  F ritz pushes himself out of the chair. His throat is dry. He hadn’t realised talking would be such an effort. He steps into the small kitchen, intent on getting himself more beer. But he cannot drink too much while he speaks. He must keep his mind clear. Instead, he has one of the American sodas the girl has brought.

  She is watching him. He holds up the can, offering her some, but she shakes her head. He pours the soda into a thin glass without ice and watches the drink foam. That makes him think of beer, which makes him a different, uncontrollable kind of thirsty, and he has already rejected that. So he returns to his chair with his drink.

  She is frowning. Her frowns are elaborate things, so unlike Frau Winter’s. Her round face puckers, her features shift. Frau Winter only moved a small wrinkle over the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Did you know what Frau Winter meant when she said that about family connections?’ the girl asked.

  He set his glass down beside the full ashtray. Ashes have spilled on the blonde wood, staining it. He will have to clean again. ‘You were raised Protestant?’

  She smiles. ‘My parents did not believe in religion.’

  His hand pauses over the table. He had met Communists who claimed not to have religion, but never anyone else.

  ‘It’s allowed in America,’ she says, ‘to believe whatever you want.’