McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales

by Michael Chabon

  Sinclair shook his head. “Afraid I don’t follow the German gossip columns.”

  “You should, old boy.” The lean detective sprang from his chair. He tapped out his own pipe against the fireplace. “You’d learn a lot more from them, Taffy, than from any piece of biased front-page news.” He waved at the untidy stacks of Der Spiegel, Svenske Dagbladet, Berliner Poste, and Munchener Telegraf which shared not always agreeable space with Le Figaro, Les Temps, Al Misr, The Times of India, The Cape Times, El Pais, La Posta, and the Berlin-published Munda Veritas. Few were open at the early pages. “Now, anything else?”

  “Well, the thing’s from Briennerstrasse. Seems to be genuine. That’s a pretty posh avenue in the salubrious bit of Munich. Papal Nuncio’s there and all that. So these chaps seem to have some powerful backers, as you say. Naturally, Begg, you wouldn’t consider working for such people!”

  “Well, I agree it might be a bit unsavory to take their money, but I’m curious. Fascinating, eh, the dreams of power of failed shopkeepers and frustrated shipping clerks?”

  “That’s downright perverse, Begg!” exclaimed the sensitive Celt. “Keep ’em away with a ten-foot pole, I say.”

  “Currently President Stalin’s favorite foreign policy strategy, the ten-foot Pole.” Sir Seaton referred to Lenin’s successor, who led the Bolshevik Party in the Duma and was spouting nationalistic rubbish every day, winning votes from Monsieur Trotsky, the liberal internationalist. “Poland as a buffer zone in case civil war breaks out in Germany. Could be the touch paper for another world conflict.”

  “Germany’s safe enough,” Taffy insisted. “She has the best and most just political constitution in the world. Certainly better than ours. Even sturdier than the American.”

  Like so many old Harrovians, but unlike his former schoolfellow Begg, Sinclair had a comfortable, phlegmatic belief in the sense of the commons and their strong survival instinct both as social democrats and as self-interested individuals with jobs and businesses to ensure. War made economic sense for a couple of years at most and then began impoverishing the participants. It was the one lesson learned from the recent beastliness ending with the Treaty of Versailles.

  Begg took back the German wire and read it aloud, translating swiftly. “ My dear Sir Seaton: Here in Germany we have long admired the exploits of your famous English detectives. We are sufficiently impressed with your national virtues as a detecting folk to inquire if you, paramount in your specialized profession, would care to come at once to Munich, where you will have the satisfaction of rescuing a reputation, bringing the guilty to justice, and also knowing you have saved a noble and betrayed nation. The reputation is that of our country’s most able philosopher-general. I refer, of course, to our Guide Herr Adolf Hitler, author of Mein Kampf and bearer of the Iron Cross, who has been devastated by the murder of his ward, Fräulein ‘Geli’ Raubal, and whose reputation could be ruined by the scandal. With a view to seeing the triumph of justice, could we, the National Socialist Party, enjoin you to lose no speed in taking the earliest zeppelin from Manchester to Munich? While B.O.A.C. provides an excellent run from Croydon and appears quicker, there is a long delay making stops at Berlin and Frankfurt. Therefore we recommend you take the modern German vessel which leaves Manchester Moss Side field at five PM and arrives at ten AM the next morning. An excellent train leaves Kings Cross at two PM and connects with the airship, the Spirit of Nuremberg. Please excuse the brevity of this telegram. My inner voices tell me you are destined to save not merely Germany but the entire Western world from an appalling catastrophe and become the best-loved Englishman our country has ever known. On the presumption that you will accept our case, as you accept your historic destiny, I have sent, via courier, all necessary first-class travel documents for yourself and an assistant, together with documents enabling you to bring any personal transport you favor. We are, you see, familiar with your foibles. I will personally be at Munich International Aerodrome to meet the ZZ.700. I look forward to the honor of shaking your hand. Writing in all admiration and expectation that your famous sense of fair play will move your conscience, I am, Yours Most Sincerely, Rudolf Hess, Deputy Leader, The N.S.D.A.P., Briennerstrasse, Munich, Bavaria, Germany.

  “Rum style, eh?”

  “About as laconic as his countryman Nietzsche,” reflected Sinclair with a snort. “No doubt the poor blighter’s trench-crazy. Harmless enough, I’m sure, but still barking barmy. I mean to say, old sport, you are our leading metatemporal snooper. There’s all sorts of ordinary ’tecs could do this job. This case is merely about a particularly grubby murder of a girl, who was probably no better than she ought to be, by a seedy petit bourgeois who sets himself up as the savior of the world. He’ll likely find his true destiny, if not on the gallows, among the sandwich-board men of Hyde Park Corner, warning against the dangers of red meat and Asian invasion. A distinct case of an undersatisfied libido and an overstimulated ego, I’d say.”

  “Quite so, old man. I know your penchant for the Viennese trick cyclists. But surely you wouldn’t wish to see the wrong cove found guilty of such an unpleasant crime?”

  “There’s no chance he’s guilty, I suppose?” Sinclair instantly regretted his words. “No, no. Of course we must assume his innocence. But there are many more deserving cases around the world, I’m sure.”

  “Few of them cases allowing me to take the very latest in aerial luxury liners and even put yourself and Dolly on the payroll without question.”

  “It’s no good, Begg, the idea’s unpalatable to me. . . .”

  With an athlete’s impatient speed, Begg crossed to his vast, untidy bureau, and tugged something out of a pigeonhole. “Besides, our tickets arrived not ten minutes before you turned up for tea. Oh, say you’ll do it, old man. I promise you, the adventure will be an education, if nothing else.”

  Taffy began to grumble, but by midnight he was on his feet, phoning down for his Daimler. He would meet Begg, he promised, at Kings Cross, where they would travel to Manchester that afternoon on the high-speed M & E Flyer, so as to be safely aboard the zep by four-thirty.

  Begg was delighted. He trusted and needed his old comrade’s judgment and cool head. Their personalities were complementary, like a couple of very different fives players. This time Begg felt he had involved himself in a job that would have him holding his nose for longer than he cared.

  As for the Presbyterian Taffy, he would still be debating the morality of accepting the tickets when they met the next day and began the journey to Munich.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HOMICIDE OR SUICIDE?

  Sir Seaton and Taffy had fought the “pickle-fork brigade” for too long to hate them. They understood that your average Fritz wasn’t so very different from your average Tommy and that it took self-interested and foolish politicians to make men kill one another. Yet for all his certainty that the War to End War had done its work, Begg knew that vigilance was forever the price of freedom. Few threats to our hard-won rights came from the expected sources. The unexpected angle of attack was generally successful. Authority is by nature conservative and therefore never truly prepared for surprises. It was Seaton Begg’s job always to be prepared for the unexpected. That was why the Admiralty, the War Office, the Home Office, and the Foreign Office all continued to pay him substantial retainers to investigate any affair that, in their opinion, required the specialized services of one versed in the subtleties of alternative time-lines, which he was able to cross with rare ease. It was also why they encouraged him to take the occasional foreign case.

  The service aboard the Spirit of Nuremberg was impeccable. This made Taffy a little nervous.

  “Sort of military feel about it, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I think I prefer the old, sloppy cockneys we get on the Croydon-Paris run.”

  Begg was amused by this. “Sit back and enjoy it, old man,” he said. He had asked for that morning’s Munich newspapers, which were full of the recently averted bomb attack on the new Miami-Havana rail t
unnel. After quickly scanning the headlines, Begg ignored this news, and concentrated his attention on the newspapers’ interiors, especially the back sections.

  “I see a well-known hater of Hitler and Co. is leading a new orchestra at the Carlton Tea Rooms. Though wisely he has adopted another name. Margarita Sarfati remains Mussolini’s most trusted art advisor, and the Nazis berate the Duce for keeping a Jewish mistress with decadent modernist tastes. Roosevelt is proclaimed the new Mussolini by some American papers and the new Stalin by the Hearst press, who are supporting Hitler. And Marion Davies, Hearst’s long-time mistress, is secretly keeping a liason with Max Peters, the Jewish cowboy star who is such a close friend of Mussolini. Ah, the intrigues of the powerful. . . . The Raubal murder case has proved meat and drink for the left-wing press. They are thirsty for any sign of Hitler’s downfall, it seems. But the public still expects evidence if it’s going to change its loyalties now!”

  Taffy hated gossip. Deprived of his Times, he contented himself with the Frankfurter Allgemeine’s crossword puzzle, which he found surprisingly straightforward.

  The wind and rain thudded hard against the huge airship’s canopy as she swayed at anchor between forward and stern masts. In spite of the stirring waltz tunes coming over the Tannoy, there was still an air of adventure about boarding an airship, especially in bad weather when you realized how much you were at the mercy of elemental nature. Outside the windows, Moss Side Field was obscured by mist and even Manchester’s famous chimneys were hardly visible, wrapped, as they were, in cloaks of their own making. Begg had been pleased to see the smoke.

  “Those chimneys are alive, Taffy,” he had said upon boarding. “And a live chimney means a living wage for those poor devils in the factory towns.”

  Since Begg needed to make notes, they had ordered cabin service. At seven PM sharp, as the lights of London faded on their starboard bow and they saw below the faint white flecks of waves, there came a discreet knock on their door. At Begg’s command, a short, jolly, red-faced waiter entered their little sitting room. They had already decided on their menu and the efficient waiter soon converted a writing table to a dining table and laid it with a bright, white cloth. He then proceeded to bring the first courses, which, while of the heavy German type, were eaten by the pair with considerable zest. A good white wine helped the meal down.

  The signs of dining magically removed, Taffy took up a light novel and read for an hour while Begg continued to make notes and refer to the newspapers. Eventually, the pathologist could stay awake no longer and, with a yawning “Good night, old man,” decided to turn in. He took the sleeping cubicle to the left of the main room. He knew from experience not to compete with Seaton Begg, who needed at most five hours’ sleep in twenty-four.

  Indeed, when Sinclair rose to use the well-designed hidden amenities, it seemed Begg had done no more than change into his pajamas while retaining his place and posture from the previous night.

  Only the scenery below had changed. They had crossed the North Sea and were now making their way above the neat fields of the German lowlands. In another two hours they would berth in Munich, the Spirit’s home port. Meanwhile there was a full English breakfast to consume and wash down with what, even Sinclair admitted, was a passable cup of Assam.

  Munich Aerodrome had the very latest in winching masts. Disembarking from the fully grounded zeppelin, Begg and Sinclair descended the ship’s staircase. They were greeted at the bottom by a tall, rather cadaverous individual in a poorly fitting Norfolk jacket of chocolate brown, two swastika armbands in the German colors of black, red, and white, rather baggy riding breeches, and highly polished polo boots. He offered them a Quo Vadis Roman salute, made famous in the popular film drama, then immediately began to pump Begg’s hand.

  “This is such an honor, Sir Seaton. I have read about you so much. I myself have a natural affinity with the British aristocracy. I so admire your Prince of Wales. The best of English and German blood breed fine specimens of humanity, eh?” Then his affable manner turned abruptly anxious. “Might I know your eating habits?”

  Begg, as Sinclair could tell, was a little taken aback by Herr Hess’s intensity.

  “Eating habits?”

  “I ask because of lunch,” Hess confided.

  Begg gave every appearance of insouciance as he replied. “A plate of weisswürst and a pint or two of your marvelous beer will suit us down to the ground, old chap.”

  Hess frowned. “Both Alf”—he coughed, anxious to let the investigators know he was on such intimate terms with Hitler—“I mean Herr Hitler and myself are convinced vegans. We are firmly opposed to the cruel treatment of animals and understand the dangers to health involved in eating their slaughtered meat.” He shuddered. “Adolf Hitler is a man of considerable feeling. He would not harm a fly, let alone another human being. I hope you don’t judge us all by Berlin decadence or aggression, which is largely a foreign and alien invention, anyway.”

  As they talked, they strolled through the passenger foyer of the great modern aerodrome. Over a dozen pairs of steel masts held ships, or awaited vessels from all over southern and eastern Europe. The ’drome was one of Munich’s very latest monuments to municipal pride.

  The weather was much improved and a warm, golden sun was reflected in the silvery hulls of the airships. Through massing white clouds, rays of sunlight struck the distant outlines of Munich herself, her twisted gables and glittering spires. As they reached the exit, Begg was delighted to see Dolly waiting for them at the curbside.

  Dolly was Begg’s massive, supercharged Duesenberg touring car, custom-made, powered by a V-12 engine tuned to take the great automobile up to two hundred miles an hour if necessary.

  Sinclair slipped discreetly into the shadows of the backseats, leaving Hess to sit next to Begg as the detective engaged the engine and gears. With a mighty purring roar, they were soon on their way to Munich, following Hess’s precise directions. In what seemed a quixotic request, Begg asked Hess to give him a quick tour of the city and take them to the Nazi HQ, familiarly known as the Brown House, before lunch. Knowing the ways of English detectives to be mysterious and circuitous, Hess did not hesitate in obeying.

  Sinclair had visited the city several times and had an affection for it, but Begg knew Berlin much better. He remarked on Munich’s pleasant architecture, the broad tree-lined avenues and parks, her well-appointed public galleries and museums, her extraordinary Grimmelshausen Museum, which warned of the horrors of war, the little landing fields, right on the edge of the city, where the autogyro buses came and went.

  Hess had lived here for much of his life. He pointed out the various sights. Munich was a busy provincial metropolis with an excellent public transport system, chiefly trams and buses, though increasingly the autogyro companies were taking business from the main lines. As her many churches indicated, she was predominantly Catholic by religion. Her almost Italian embrace of modernity was striking, especially since so much of her new architecture was in the vein of Gaudi and the Viennese moderns. The Nazis, Hess informed them primly, would tear down all decadent architecture and replace it with impressive classical designs. Meanwhile the old Bavarian capital had the baroque quaintness usually associated with German provinces, tributes to the taste and vision of her princes and governors.

  Dolly was soon purring through the old quarter of the city, making a circuit of the huge, covered market, then driving along another avenue, sparsely occupied by large mansions and official buildings, some flying the flags of other nations. Here Hess gave the order to stop. They had arrived at the Brown House, the N.S.D.A.P. headquarters. The respectable surroundings made one think twice about the party’s violent image. The huge silk Nazi “hooked cross” banners were very striking as they stirred in the faint, westerly breeze.

  Once at the Brown House, Hess’s status was confirmed. Smartly uniformed SA men in their odd ski-cap headgear and brown uniforms sprang to open the doors of the car, and the three occupants were greeted w
ith a barrage of “Heil Hitlers” and lifted arms, as they entered the busy vestibule decorated in the very latest “Folkic” style. Bustling as it was, the place had a mournful, depressed quality, as if everyone in it grieved for their leader’s loss and feared for his safety in the face of slander and scandal.

  Now Hess became a different man. He took on the authority and manner of a high-ranking officer as he led the two Englishmen through the simple, quasi-rustic foyer and up the low, wide staircase.

  “This is the Führer’s own office.”

  Hess guided them into a large, triangular room dominated by a portrait of Hitler himself, his hands in Napoleonic pose, his stern, cool eyes fixed on the problems of the Nation and those who would threaten Germany’s security again. Outside there appeared to be a large amount of building work going on.

  “We are making a barracks for the SA boys,” explained Hess. “This place, of course, is a natural target for Sozie attack.” Sozie was the slang for Socialist, just as Nazi was slang for National Socialist. The street clashes between the two groups had become endemic and notorious throughout Germany.

  “I’d be obliged, Herr Hess,” said Begg, “if you wouldn’t mind telling us again exactly what you know about the circumstances surrounding the discovery of poor Fräulein Raubal’s body. I know you were the first party member on the scene.”

  “Naturally the Winters called me first,” agreed Hess. His black, bushy eyebrows twitched as if with a life of their own. He pulled at his earlobes and, grinding his teeth, stared into a middle distance where he seemed to be looking at a cinema screen presenting the events he described.

  “Geli is Alf’s ward, you know. His niece. His half sister’s child. When he moved into his new apartment in Prinzregensburgstrasse he needed someone to look after the place, so he invited his sister to come and be his housekeeper. He insisted she bring her daughter Geli, too. He was, I will admit, a little infatuated, but more in the way a childless man might yearn for a daughter. He doted on the girl. He bought her whatever she wanted. He paid for drama lessons. Singing lessons. Dancing lessons. He took her with him everywhere he went.”