Hitler's Angel (4 page)

‘I have nothing here,’ Zehrt said without looking at them.

Fritz stopped at the open door. His relationship with Zehrt had always been cordial, sometimes even friendly. They had the same attitude toward detail, the same desire to catch even the most common criminal. Zehrt had never stopped him at the door before.

‘Henrich,’ Fritz said, without looking at his assistant, ‘I believe I left my cigarettes in the auto. Will you get them for me?’

Henrich nodded and clicked his boots together, a habit he had picked up from the soldiers in the department, even though he had been too young to serve in the war. He closed the outer door loudly as he left.

‘I am looking for the body of a young woman. Her name is –’ Fritz had to check his notes. The conversation with the housekeeper was more interesting for the information it lacked than the information he received ‘– Angela Maria Raubal. Also known as Geli. She would have been brought from Prinzregentenplaz.’

‘I have no such body here,’ Zehrt said. ‘It’s Saturday and the wife is making potato pancakes for lunch. I hope, this weekend, to get a chance to enjoy her cooking. No Communist marches, eh? No speeches. All quiet.’

The hair on the back of Fritz’s neck prickled. ‘I won’t keep you. I just want to see the body. Then I’ll be on my way.’

‘There is no body here,’ Zehrt said again. He continued wiping the faded and stained wood. His cloth was bloody.

‘But you had a body here earlier, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here this morning.’

Zehrt shrugged. He tossed the cloth on top of the smock, then went to the sink and washed his hands. ‘Too many people die on Friday night. The wife would think I had a lover if she did not know better. I am never home on Friday nights.’

‘I know you, Gerhart. You would have finished Friday night’s work on Friday night.’ Fritz crossed his arms. ‘I was told that three men brought a body here this morning.’

Zehrt studied him a moment. They both knew Fritz would not leave until he had what he wanted.

‘Two men,’ Zehrt said. His voice came out softly, like a sigh. ‘One dressed in the brown shirt of the National Socialist’s private army, and the other, well, you know Franz Xaver Schwarz.’

Fritz did. Schwarz was the treasurer for the NSDAP. The Kripo had accompanied the political police more than once in an effort to determine where NSDAP was getting money to finance its new offices. Fritz had gone along on more than one of those visits.

‘They called me. At home. I did not think it wise to say no.’ Zehrt dried his hands on a thin towel hanging from a ring beside the sink. He gripped the edge of the counter and bowed his head. ‘The body was already on the table when I arrived.’

Huge patches of sweat had dried under the arms of Zehrt’s white shirt, leaving yellowish stains. Fritz had never seen the doctor look so dishevelled.

‘You examined her?’ Fritz asked. ‘And she was dead?’

‘Suicide,’ Zehrt said. His voice had an odd strangled quality. ‘That is my determination. Suicide.’

‘How?’

Zehrt turned. His skin was grey, the lines deep around his mouth. ‘A single gunshot wound through the heart.’

Fritz started. ‘Through the heart?’

‘Through the heart.’

‘She lost a lot of blood for a single shot into the heart.’

For a moment, Fritz thought Zehrt wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, ‘The body was not discovered for some time.’

‘Enough time to leave a stain three feet wide and two feet long?’

‘I did not see where she was found,’ Zehrt said.

‘I did.’ Fritz crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You would have noted the blood loss.’

‘The body had lividity in the rear extremeties,’ Zehrt said. ‘The remaining blood had settled.’

‘She was on her back then,’ Fritz said.

‘So it would appear.’

‘Shot through the heart, she landed on her back. She had an exit wound.’

‘Yes.’ Zehrt swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

‘She fell onto the carpet. Such an odd thing for a woman to do. One would think she would sit on the bed, put the gun to her temple, and shoot.’

‘There is no understanding people,’ Zehrt said.

‘No,’ Fritz said. Zehrt’s nervousness was infecting him. ‘There is no understanding people.’

‘If that is all,’ Zehrt said, ‘I am expected at home –’

‘Was the rest of the body untouched?’ Fritz asked.

Zehrt turned around.

‘The poor girl was very beautiful. Did you ever meet her? I did. Once. At the opera. She was laughing. You should see her.’ Then he smiled. ‘I mean you should have seen her. At the opera. So lovely.’

He picked up a piece of paper off the counter and crumpled it. ‘Her mother is quite upset. The girl is to be buried in Vienna. They had a train to catch. Such a hurry to get the right papers. It is difficult to send a body across the border these days.’

He tossed the crumpled piece of paper into the empty metal wastebasket near the door. The basket pinged as the paper hit. ‘I am going to finish cleaning up. The wife has lunch waiting. Would you mind helping with the trash?’

Fritz frowned. Zehrt never played games with him. Fritz went to the waste basket, plucked the crumpled paper, and shoved it in his pocket. ‘You know, Gerhart,’ he said, ‘we do not drink beer as much as we used to.’

Zehrt rolled down his sleeves, but did not button the cuffs. ‘I do not socialise much any more. The wife believes it is not good for my health.’

His gaze finally met Fritz’s. Zehrt’s eyes were dark, the pupils wide. He was not nervous. He was scared. Fritz had never seen Zehrt scared before.

‘I thank you for the help with the clean-up,’ Zehrt said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get home.’

Fritz nodded, and backed out of the office. He glanced at the windows, but saw nothing, no one watching. He hadn’t had this feeling since 1919, just after the war, when a man had to watch his back at all times.

He let himself out of the office, and as he did, he heard the lock click behind him. He knew how the NSDAP stormtroopers could frighten. He had interrogated them for many of the violent crimes that Munich had seen in the last five years. But he had served alongside men just like them. They listened to authority. They thrived on fear.

Henrich was waiting at the car. He leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed. He was not wearing his uniform, and the sleeves of his shirt were too tight, leaving
lines in his wrist. When he saw Fritz, he said, ‘I couldn’t find your cigarettes. I was wondering if you wanted me to buy you a pack.’

Fritz shook his head. ‘I found them in my shirt pocket.’

He waved Henrich into the driver’s seat, and Fritz let himself into the passenger side. He waited until the car pulled out before taking the crumpled paper from his pocket.

‘So,’ Henrich said, ‘did he work on the girl?’

‘He saw her. But he’s afraid to talk about it.’ Fritz smoothed the paper on his lap. ‘Did you see anyone suspicious?’

‘In Munich?’

They both laughed. Everyone looked suspicious these days. The city had taken a slight turn, and what had seemed like bohemian strangeness before the war now appeared to be a manic desire for control. No one listened any more, although everyone expressed an opinion. The opinions merely grew louder and more violent.

Henrich turned the car back toward Bogenhausen. ‘Precinct?’

‘Yes.’ Fritz stared at the sheet of paper. It was dated 19 September 1931. That day’s date. ‘So, did you see anything?’

‘No,’ Henrich said. ‘Not even people passing by.’

Which was strange in and of itself. Fritz frowned at the piece of paper. It was a letter. It read:
I have seen the body of Geli Raubal. She is, lamentably, a suicide. Please hasten the paperwork so that the body may be transported to Austria. The family would like to put her to rest outside of the public eye.

It was signed by Franz Gürtner, the Bavarian Minister of Justice.

‘S
 o many names,’ the girl says. She has brought a notebook with her this morning, and is scribbling as Fritz speaks. A pile of cassette tapes sit beside her tape recorder, as if she expects him to talk all day. ‘I do not know this one.’

Fritz’s fingers are wrapped around a glass cup filled with coffee and cream. The rich smell of the blend is more enticing than the pastries she has purchased from the faux German bakeries that cater to tourists. Next time he will tell her where to get real food.

The sun is warm on his back and shoulders. He has opened the curtains and straightened the apartment, no longer willing to be ashamed of where he lives. It took him most of the night, but it prevented the dreams.

‘Some you will recognise. Some you will not. You will find all of the names in the papers of the day.’ Fritz takes a sip of coffee. It is warm, bitter, and sweet at the same time. Soothing. ‘We were all famous once.’

‘I’m sure,’ she says, patronising him. ‘Go on.’

He sets the cup down next to the full ashtray. ‘If you are uninterested, I can find someone else –’

‘No!’ she says quickly. ‘I mean.…’

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear (her nervous gesture, he
notes), and sighs. ‘This worries me, dealing with Hitler. I never expected to.’

‘None of us ever expected to,’ he says.

Fritz did not have time for meetings with the Chief Inspector. Fritz had a case to finish, witnesses to interview. But that was the message waiting for Fritz at the desk.

One of his men remained on the scene. The other three had returned, bringing evidence and witnesses. Fritz glanced over the preliminary list of seized evidence, noting that Hitler had a gun collection, although none of the weapons had been fired. Fritz let Henrich supervise the witnesses, keeping them safe until Fritz could question them. Then he headed to the Chief Inspector’s office.

The office of the Chief Inspector had once been a hallway, but reorganisation in the precinct after the war had caused a redesign in the building. The exit leading to the alleyway had been sealed off and the hallway leading to that exit became a dead end. The walls were knocked out and a wall was built along the front, with a new door. The space was larger than any of the other offices, but it had never been repainted, and the grey walls served as a reminder of the room’s former status. The Chief Inspector had covered the sealed-up door with posters announcing police charity events, and through the window which no one had bothered to remove were the bricks that now covered the back side of the building.

Fritz entered without knocking and closed the door behind him. The Chief Inspector was a slender man with a hawk-like nose who wore gold wire-rim glasses and kept his hair cropped
short. He wore suits and ties, but never buttoned his sleeves, rolling the cuffs over the edges of the coat so that his wrists stuck out as if he were an overgrown schoolboy. His desk was littered with books, most taken from the shelves he had built on the new wall. A stack of papers teetered at the edge of the desk, and Fritz resisted the urge to straighten them.

‘You knew,’ Fritz said. ‘You knew that the body was gone and that Gürtner was involved.’

‘A crime was committed. We needed to look at it.’ The Chief Inspector’s blue eyes sparkled. He often worked Saturdays, but he rarely looked so cheerful about it.

‘Gürtner says it was a suicide.’

The Chief Inspector folded his hands over the open book before him. ‘What do you know of our friend Hitler?’

‘I didn’t know that he lived in Prinzregentenplaz until this morning.’

The Chief Inspector laughed. ‘Ah, and I thought you did. I should have told you then.’

Fritz nodded. He lifted the books off the metal chair in front of the desk, looked at the Chief Inspector who said nothing, then set the books on the floor and sat on the chair. ‘Our friend Hitler, his housekeeper says, is in Hamburg to give a speech.’

‘Not just any speech. He is to kick off his presidential campaign at a rally tonight.’ The Chief Inspector leaned forward. ‘And how, you may ask, does a man imprisoned seven years ago for high treason, a crime that usually commands the death penalty, get out of jail within a year and become a national figure? No one knows, exactly,
although some say that a certain Minister of Justice influenced the three judges hearing the case to be lenient. After all, Herr Hitler was following a moral imperative higher than the law.’

Fritz remembered hearing that argument before. Hitler’s beer hall putsch in 1923 was known for its ineptness and for the egoism of its leader. Eighteen men died and a number more were wounded. But the loss of life didn’t seem to matter, nor did Hitler’s failure. Even the Schupo who had been in the crossfire swore that Hitler had the right to attack a weak and ineffective government.

No one was comfortable with the democracy forced upon Germany after the war. But that did not make treason right. The police knew that best; they were in charge of keeping the peace.

‘Hitler has important friends,’ Fritz said. ‘Perhaps we should acknowledge that.’

‘Oh, I do,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘But Hitler was, as you say, out of town. Perhaps he does not yet know of his niece’s death.’