by Michael Dean
Ello thought it the bravest act she had ever witnessed.
There was silence for a second. Then Ziegler emitted an indignant coughing-gasp. Ilse Hess’s mouth dropped open. Hess actually touched his gun. Hitler stared at Karl Caspar, his eyes flashing violet.
Ello stepped forward and took him by the arm. The contact startled him; he jumped slightly.
‘Mein Führer,’ she said respectfully, but firmly, unconsciously imitating the way Anni Winter handled him. ‘Come, mein Führer. Why don’t we go back to the apartment now? Hmm?’ She stood close to him, letting her breast touch his arm.
Hitler looked at Carl Kaspar, then at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, very well.’
The others were dismissed; she and Hitler went back to the apartment alone. He acceded immediately to her request for a coffee. She shut her eyes for a second when he ordered one for himself, praying, finally, for some luck. But when it came, it was placed on the far side of her. He made no reference to the events of the afternoon. They sat in silence.
‘Ellochen,’ he said eventually. ‘I want to draw you.’
His gaze met hers. She could leave now, but if she did, would there be another opportunity to kill him? She hesitated.
‘I will fetch my materials,’ he said, standing. ‘Get undressed in Geli’s room and then come back here. We shall not be disturbed.’
‘All right.’
She walked with him toward the dining room, then turned back, telling him she was going to fetch her handbag. When he was out of sight, she tipped four atropine capsules into his half-drunk cup of coffee. Then she went to Geli’s room. She undressed as quickly as possible, before she could start thinking about what she was doing.
When she walked back to him, naked, he had his drawing block and materials ready.
He started to draw her. The coffee was still there, cold and untouched, when he finished.
Part IV - Spring 1933
Chapter One
It was Glaser’s first case from Chief Inspector Sauer since Geli Raubal. Ascher Weintraub had been murdered, shot dead at his gallery. Glaser sat in his office with his eyes shut, squeezing tears, picturing the old man in his mind. All the talks they had had echoed in his head, bringing the Expressionist painters they had talked about alive – Marc, Macke, Kokoschka, Beckmann, Kirchner, Gabriele Münter, Dix ...
He even managed a wry smile as he heard the now dead old man testily say ‘Dix was not an Expressionist, Gerhard, Dix was Neue Sachlichkeit. But colour! Ah colour ... Dix could do colour, like you’ve never seen!’
Glaser sighed, running a hand over his beard. Sauer’s report stated that Ascher Weintraub had three light bullet wounds in his head, but the shot that killed him went into his heart. His safe had been broken into. According to a statement from Weintraub’s sister, Zipporah Ballat, a painting had been stolen from the safe – Blue Horses, by Franz Marc. Sauer’s report gave the theft of the painting as the motive for the murder of the art dealer.
Glaser had known Ascher’s sister was a partner in the gallery. He had not, however, known there was a third partner: Dr Johannes Lange. Lange’s statement said he had employed the man charged with the murder – Sepp Kunde, the gallery’s handyman.
The murder weapon, a Mauser 7.63mm pistol, had been abandoned at the scene of the crime. It had Kunde’s fingerprints on it. Glaser’s task was to establish whether there was sufficient evidence to warrant a prosecution of Sepp Kunde for the murder of Ascher Weintraub.
*
Anger and frustration overwhelmed Glaser’s sadness. Glaser embraced them, hating the helplessness that sadness implied. On impulse, he left his office and went to see Sauer.
For eighteen months, the Chief Inspector had only sporadically put in an appearance at Ettstrasse. From the way he swaggered around, it was generally reckoned he had Party protection. As far as Glaser knew, he had no specific Party job, which made his untouchability even more intriguing.
Anyone wishing to see Sauer – even his superiors – had to visit him at home, where he held court in his villa, on the edge of the Englischer Garten. Nobody dared ask how he had paid for the place.
Glaser went there by tram. His motorcar, the adapted green Opel Frosch, was out of action at the moment – a nut in the radiator outlet had gone missing.
He had not given Sauer advance warning of his visit, to try and catch him unawares.
The lilac-washed villa was surrounded by chestnut trees. A tiny uniformed maid opened the door. Her petulant face, like a little Pekingese dog, tilted up at Glaser.
‘Are you from Herr Forster? It’s about time,’ she spat out.
Glaser, taken by surprise, said ‘No’ and immediately regretted it. The maid bustled off, muttering something about money – her money. Glaser’s mind was whirling, as he walked through the vestibule. The maid had said Herr Forster, not Inspector Forster. Forster is a common sort of name. Only this week he and Lotte had seen a tripey film about U-boats, starring Adolf Forster. But even so ...
A door opened near the end of the hall and Sauer appeared. The Chief Inspector was a huge man. He was carrying even more of a belly than the last time Glaser had seen him.
He had a widow’s peak, walrus moustache and large, though heavily sloping, shoulders.
He reminded Glaser of Lovis Corinth’s Self-Portrait, except that Corinth had painted a skeleton next to himself.
‘Dr Glaser!’ Sauer shouted. ‘Here about the Jew from the art gallery, eh?’
Sauer’s drawing room was sumptuous. The furniture was all strip-steel Bauhaus; new, but clashing with the older Regency-stripe wallpaper. Frau Sauer made a brief appearance, to ask if coffee was needed. Glaser had met her a couple of times. She was a downtrodden, long-defeated woman, with an air of ineffable tiredness. When coffee was ready, brought by the tiny maid, Frau Sauer did not join them – retreating from the fray, no doubt.
Glaser kept his questions bland. He had little hope of information about the case from the Chief Inspector; he merely hoped to get him relaxed and talking about himself, to see what would emerge.
‘Three bullet wounds to the head; that’s very strange,’ Glaser mused. ‘What do you make of that?’
Sauer shrugged his thick, low shoulders. He was wearing a check shirt and a brown tie with a huge knot. ‘The Jew wouldn’t tell Kunde where the painting was. So he was tortured.’ Another shrug.
Glaser nodded, keeping his face neutral. Tortured to get a painting by Franz Marc? It made no sense. The prices for Expressionist paintings were plummeting, since the Nazis had declared them racially deviant. Although admittedly prices were down less for Marc than other Expressionists, because he was considered a war hero. But it still meant the killer wanted that specific painting, not any of the others in the gallery. Why?
‘And the weapon being abandoned?’
Sauer looked impatient, then masked it with a smile so wide it could have been ironic.
‘Kunde was disturbed,’ he said with mock thoughtfulness.
‘By ...?’
Another huge shrug. ‘Who knows? A visiting rabbi?’ Sauer roared with laughter. ‘Who visits art galleries? You maybe. Anyway, it’s hardly worth coming all the way out here for, is it? Or did you just want to see my villa?’ Sauer gave another bellow of laughter.
Glaser thought rapidly, deciding to chance it. ‘Got it in one,’ he smiled. ‘Where did you get the money?’
Sauer’s heavy mouth fell open, his eyes popped. There was a second of silence; Glaser thought the ploy had misfired. Then more laughter – more of a chuckle this time. Glaser understood – the Chief Inspector was bored out of his wits, and only too happy to talk about himself.
Sauer stood. ‘Finish up your coffee. I’ll show you something. You didn’t come by car, did you?’
‘No. How did you know?’
‘I’d have heard it coming. We’ll use mine.’
Sauer had a new cream-coloured limousine. It started to rain, as they drove into town. With the windscreen-wipers swi
shing, the Chief Inspector slowed past his recent acquisitions – proudly indicating the Peter Rath jeweller’s shop in Theatinerstrasse, and the Gelateria Romana, an ice-cream parlour in nearby Löwengrube.
Glaser knew the ice-cream parlour well. He used to take Kaspar and Magda there when they were little. It was their big treat. He used to keep them out late, much to Lotte’s annoyance. The place stayed open until midnight. It was closed now.
Both businesses, Sauer informed Glaser, had been Jewish-owned. The Chief Inspector talked enthusiastically about his plans for his new purchases. Then he headed the limousine back to Prielmayerstrasse, where he pulled up, grazing the white-walled front tyre on the curb.
‘How long have you had the properties?’ Glaser asked, as he got out of Sauer’s car, outside the Ministry. The rain-sodden air stank of malt. Sauer shot him a suspicious glance, but wound down the window to answer.
‘Not long,’ he said. ‘Now’s the time to buy, I tell you. The Jews have got to sell up, and they know it. My advice to you, Glaser, is to liquidise your assets and buy Jewish property. That’s what I did.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Glaser said. ‘Thanks for the advice.’ But he was unable completely to hide his disgust at Sauer, and they parted coldly. He watched the limousine out of sight in the rain.
Back in his office, he reflected, puffing at his pipe. Buying two businesses in the centre of Munich meant a considerable outlay. Liquidise your assets, Sauer had said. Which asset had he liquidised?
Chapter Two
‘Hello, old man.’ Without waiting for a response to the by now customary cheeky greeting, Rüdiger von Hessert perched casually on the edge of Glaser’s desk, and flicked through Sauer’s file on the Weintraub case.
‘Weintraub. Wait a minute, you knew him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gerhard, I’m sorry!’
‘Thank you.’
Rudi had his nose in the case file, reading and murmuring to himself at the same time. ‘Start from the outside and work in. Interview the accused last,’ he said. ‘They’re calling it the Glaser Method in law lectures now.’
Glaser tried not to let the younger man see that the compliment had pleased him. But Rüdiger spotted it and grinned.
‘Hey!’ Rüdiger dabbed at a name in the file. ‘Johannes Lange. What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Apparently, he’s a partner in the gallery. He hired the accused, Sepp Kunde.’
‘Do you know Lange? Come to that, do you know Kunde?’
‘I’ve never heard of Lange. I’ve seen Kunde once or twice, at the gallery, but never spoken to him.’
‘Can I come with you? When you interview Lange? I know him.’
‘You know everybody.’
‘Then I’m in? On the Weintraub case?’
Glaser nodded. ‘Yes, you’re in, if you want to be. But let’s look at the crime scene first, eh?’
*
Glaser was to meet von Hessert at the Weintraub Gallery. He went there by tram, as his motorcar was still out of action. He got off at Lenbachplatz, lowering himself gingerly from the high tram platform. His mood lightened as he took in the elegant open area of irregular shape, dominated by the Wittelsbach Fountain, with its massive limestone and marble statuary.
Aside from the Weintraub Gallery, three other art galleries and two of Munich’s five art auction houses were here – Brüchwiller Brothers at number 78, and the Munich Art Dealing Company at 159.
On this chilly Friday morning, the square was bustling with shoppers and office workers. It had also lately become one of the gathering places for the unemployed. Sitting on the park benches, groups of them were talking in subdued voices. Two or three, near the fountain, were clearly newly unemployed. They were still clutching the dreaded Blue Letters, telling them they were out of a job.
A beanpole figure in a shabby jacket and plus-fours, who clearly knew the ropes, was addressing them:
‘You can’t have it any worse than me, lads. No benefit because I’m single, and got no kids. No work because I’m a communist. I pleaded with them at Thalkirchnerstrasse, but that bastard Wimmer’s got a heart of flint. I tell you, when we come to power we’ll string the Sozis up first. I will personally hang Wimmer by his moustache and bollocks from the nearest lamp-post.’
That got a laugh from the unemployed. Glaser was indignant. Thomas Wimmer, the newly arrested Chairman of the Munich Social Democrats, had a post at the Department of Works – a grandiose pile in Thalkirchnerstrasse. His life in politics and the trade union movement had been dedicated to improving the lot of the working man.
He was also, Glaser thought with rising anger, at least as proletarian as his detractor – he was the illegitimate son of a foundry worker. It occurred to Glaser to buttonhole beanpole and tell him of Wimmer’s imprisonment by the Nazis, but he thought better of it.
Beanpole noticed Glaser watching him, and balled his fists aggressively. Glaser hastily walked on. On the grass, a group of three, all in shabby suits, were playing tarok with a pack of grubby cards. Glaser walked past them, intending to cut across the square.
Ahead of him was an old war veteran with no legs, sitting in the gutter, selling matches from a tray round his neck. His cry of ‘Matches! Matches!’ was ignored by the passers-by. A yellow mongrel appeared from nowhere, cocked its leg and sprayed a few drops on the old man’s tray. The old man yelled at the dog, until it ran away.
A tinny grey van rattled past at walking pace, then stopped with a jerk. Five SA got out of it, the folding seats in the van springing back behind them. Their front-laced boots thudded on the pavement, as they stopped to put their brown caps on. They were armed with belted daggers and holstered pistols.
The Troop Leader wore gold-rimmed spectacles. From his age, he could have been an Old Fighter, one of the beer-hall brawlers who had been with Hitler from the beginning. He fished a Blood Flag out of the van and planted it on the pavement. Two SA flanked it, loudly and threateningly rattling their collecting tins in the faces of passers-by.
‘Winter Help! Support German workers,’ they called out aggressively. Occasionally they varied it, especially to attractive women, with an ironic ‘For the wicked Nazis!’
Everybody who walked past paid up, and paid up well. They were afraid not to. Two of the troop went up to the unemployed men at the benches.
‘Anybody here like a smoke?’ one of the SA-men said. The men broke off their desultory conversation. ‘True National Socialist cigarettes,’ supplied the SA-man encouragingly. ‘Smoke these and you’ll be fighting bloated capitalists, not aiding them.’
Entire packets were offered round.
‘These for free?’ asked one of the men.
‘’Course they are,’ the SA-man said. ‘What’s your favourite smoke? We’ve got Drummer, Alarm, Storm and New Front. The first packet’s on us. After that you get them at the SA rate. Drummer’s the cheapest. Three-and-a-half pfennigs. Come on!’ The SA-man laughingly quoted the Drummer advertising slogan, on all the hoardings: ‘“Full of enjoyment to the last puff!”’
One of the unemployed took a packet of Drummer, took out a cigarette and let the SA-man light it for him. He drew on it luxuriously, then wordlessly led the way to the van, to sign up to the SA-man’s troop. He changed into his new brown shirt there and then, on the pavement, showing his skinny body with its flabby grey skin.
The SA’s brown shirts were originally bought up used from the Colonial Service, but now the Boss factory at Metzingen was making them: they were good shirts, thick and warm – stylish, too. The SA-man and his new recruit, in his new shirt, still smoking his first free cigarette, broke open a bottle of beer.
Glaser needed to pass the SA van to get to the Weintraub Gallery, on the far side of Lenbachplatz. Since the start of what the Völkischer Beobachter called the ‘big clean-up’ – the Nazi seizure of Munich by force a month ago – the SA had standing orders to beat up anybody who did not give a Hitler salute and say Heil Hitler to th
em.
Glaser had never used the Hitler salute, or the Hitler greeting. Would the fact that he was a public prosecutor save him from a beating? Glaser considered the matter. At the Ministry of Justice, it probably would. Out on the streets, after they’d had a few beers – no.
Now was not the time to take chances. The Nazis had smashed up the Social Democrat headquarters and the Münchener Post offices. Glaser knew who had done it, SA Storm 16/L led by Emil Maurice, Geli’s former lover, now restored to Hitler’s favour and a Munich City Councillor.
Unlike the many previous attacks on the offices, this time there were no SPD Reichsbanner fighters defending it. Those who, like Glaser, had argued for the winding down of the Reichsbanner had prevailed. After smashing the offices to splinters, the SA had left the wreckage all over the pavement, stopping anybody from cleaning it up, as a none-too-subtle public reminder of what happened to their opponents.
As a further reminder, an SA troop had chosen the basement of the former trade union headquarters, in Pestalozzistrasse, for one of their torture cellars. It would be typical of the SA, if they found out Glaser was a Social Democrat, to take him there for a beating, or a whipping, or to have his stomach pumped over-full with water. It would make a point. That was how they thought.
He set off in the other direction, walking round three sides of a square. The Weintraub Gallery was closed. The sentry outside was Bavarian Police, green uniformed, not SA. This was pure luck, as the SA now had police status. Glaser identified himself, still without giving a Hitler salute, and was waved in.
*
The current selection was still on the walls. Glaser glimpsed the August Macke, Anglers on the Rhine, the painting he had discussed with the old art dealer. For some reason he mused that Elisabeth Gerhardt, Macke’s beloved girlfriend, must have been the same age as his son Kaspar when Macke was killed in the war.