McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales

by Michael Chabon

  “Engaging your gears at last, are we, Taffy?” said Begg jumping to his feet. “Come on, Countess. Get us to the morgue, posthaste!”

  Responding with almost gleeful alacrity, Countess von Bek allowed Sinclair to open the door for her. Dolly was still outside, so within moments the investigators were on their way to the Munich police headquarters.

  The countess had already established her authority there. She led the way directly through the building to a door marked “Inspector Hoffmann.” The round, red-faced inspector assured them that he knew them all by reputation and had the greatest respect for their skills. He was grateful, he said, for their cooperation.

  “However,” said the bluff Bavarian when they were all seated, “I ought to tell you that I’m convinced Hitler killed her during quite a nasty fight. Fortunately for your client, Sir Seaton, he has the best possible alibi—with dozens of witnesses to show he could not possibly have committed the murder. Hess? What do you think? Was it Hess who contacted you, Sir Seaton?”

  They all agreed Hess was an unlikely suspect. Indeed, not one of the party hierarchy had an evident motive. All had perfect alibis. A hired killer? Begg put the notion to Hoffmann, who remained convinced that Hitler was the murderer. Another lover? Vaguely mysterious figures had been reported as coming and going, but Geli, of course, had not advertised them. “Coffee?” Hoffmann touched an electric bell.

  After coffee, Hoffman led them down to the morgue, a clean, tiled, up-to-date department with refrigerated cabinets, dissecting tables, and the latest in analytical instruments. Taffy was impressed, unable to hold back his praise for the splendid facilities. “I can’t tell you how old-fashioned Scotland Yard looks in comparison. You can’t beat the Germans at this sort of thing.”

  Herr Hoffman was visibly flattered.

  “Practical science and sublime art,” murmured Taffy.

  Inspector Hoffmann rather proudly crossed the mortuary. “Wait until you see this, my friend.” He went to a bank of switches, each with a number. He flipped a toggle and then, magically, one of the drawers began to open!

  “The wonders of ‘electronics’!” cried Begg. Then he moved quickly toward the projecting steel box, where he knew he would find the mortal remains of Hitler’s mistress.

  Begg’s expression changed to one of deep pity as he studied the contents. Even Sinclair stood back, paying some sort of respect to the corpse. Begg touched the skin, inspected the wound, and then, frowning, bent as if to kiss the frozen lips.

  A shocked word froze on Sinclair’s tongue as Begg straightened up, his nose wrinkling almost in disgust. “See what you think, Taffy.”

  After Sinclair had inspected the corpse, Hoffmann turned the switch to send the temporary coffin back into its gleaming, stainless-steel housing.

  “I know we’re on opposite sides in this, Sir Seaton,” Hoffman said, “but I have to insist the obvious suspect is the masochist. Herr Hitler. Hired killers? Communists? Mysterious lovers? How could we find them? The Winters noted only one lover but hinted at many others. They would not be on our side in court. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying this. But I know your analytical powers, Sir Seaton. And your thirst for justice.”

  “And you know something of the science of psychiatry?” chimed in Taffy.

  “Of course, I first studied in Vienna. To me this Hitler matter seems a classic case of the father figure and the bored young protégée. The father becomes obsessively possessive. The more he grows like that, the more she seeks to break free in the only way she knows— affairs of the heart. One after another. The father, unable to watch her hourly, pretends it isn’t happening. The daughter grows bolder. No one can ignore what is going on. Her affairs become common gossip. Eventually his ego can be suppressed no longer. . . .” He turned to Begg. “You saw the marks on her face and shoulders?”

  “Indeed I did,” said the detective.

  “He had beaten the poor little thing black and blue!” Sinclair barely controlled his anger. “They were fighting, as you say, and brought Hitler’s gun into play. Next thing, ‘Bang,’ and the girl’s dead on the carpet.”

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” said Rose von Bek. “Maybe. But I prefer to believe the girl knows too much about our suspect’s sex life as well as political plans. Election coming up. She tries blackmail. Second time it’s happened. Could she have been behind the first attempt? He snaps.” She spread her hands, palms out. “Open and shut.” She made fists. “This isn’t the first time Herr Adolf Hitler has been involved in some sadistic business or other, I take it.”

  Hoffmann nodded. “But, if it could be proven, Hitler’s enemies would be dancing in the streets. His chances of wheedling any more concessions from Hindenburg would disappear at once. Hindenburg already considers him a parvenu. So he has to go to great lengths to build an alibi.”

  Begg became uncomfortable at this. “You seem to hate Hitler,” he suggested. “Yet you seem to be a conservative yourself. . . .”

  “I hate Bolshevism.” Hoffmann searched through a gleaming filing cabinet for the documents he needed. “But I am also a Catholic, and all the Nazis’ antireligious talk, especially against the Jews, who are amongst the most law-abiding people in the nation, is too much for me to stomach. I know Hitler did this murder, but that alibi . . .”

  “No way he could have come back, committed the crime, then returned to Nuremberg?” asked Sinclair.

  “Too many people know him in Nuremberg. He is very popular there. They would have noticed something. Of course, he could have used another car altogether, and a disguise. I think you’ll agree the bruises might have been delivered earlier than the gunshot?”

  All three nodded.

  “So,” continued Hoffmann, “she knew too much. There was a fight. The gun. A shot. I don’t say it was premeditated. Then he gets into the car and heads for Nuremberg, guessing nobody would want to disturb her until the next morning. He locked her door with his own key. No doubt he had had it made long before.”

  Begg smiled almost apologetically, adding: “And then she appears on the balcony. No doubt she has at last got Hitler’s message. Stemming the blood from her wounded heart she calls: ‘So you won’t let me go to Vienna?’ ”

  “Pretty clear, I’d say.” The countess recognized Begg’s rather inappropriate black humor.

  “I think Hitler beat her up. Then one of his henchmen went back and shot her. Maybe some kind of ‘Murder in the Cathedral’ situation? I gather that’s how Mussolini learned he was responsible for his first murder. Overzealous followers. So who shot her? Röhm? He’s ruthless enough and he doesn’t much like women. Himmler? A cold fish, but too far away at the time. Same with Göring or Göbbels, if we assume they didn’t come to Munich incognito.”

  “I think our people would have known about it,” said the countess.

  “Ours, too, most likely,” confirmed Hoffmann, rubbing at his red jowls. “They have orders to keep track of who goes in and out of the Brown House.”

  “So we have a dozen suspects and nothing which leads to any of them.” Sinclair lifted his eyebrows. “But two of you at least are convinced Hitler did it. What about you, Begg? What do you think?”

  “I’m beginning to get an idea of who killed Geli Raubal, and I think I can guess why. But there is another element here.” Begg frowned deeply. “I think in the morning we’ll set off for Berchtesgaden, for Herr Amman’s little hideaway. You, presumably, have already interviewed Hitler, Inspector Hoffmann?”

  “As soon as he arrived back from Nuremberg, of course. He seemed in a state of shock, but, as stated, his alibi was airtight. Of course, you will wish to prove he didn’t do it, Sir Seaton, and I admit the cards are stacked in your favor.”

  “Not exactly, old boy. But I agree with you that as things stand, any case against Herr Hitler couldn’t be proven in a court of law.”

  With a courteous good night to the policeman, Begg escorted his two friends outside. In the street his car was being guarded by a uniformed constable,
who saluted as soon as he recognized Countess von Bek and opened the doors for them.

  It was only a short drive to the hotel and most of it was spent in silence as the three investigators thought over what they had learned.

  “I suppose there’s no chance of me coming down with you?” asked the countess. “Since Herr Hitler isn’t my client.”

  “Exactly,” murmured Begg, concentrating on the unfamiliar streets. “And I think even you’d agree, Rose, that client confidentiality, at least at this stage, is sacrosanct.”

  While Begg waited with the engine running, Sinclair saw the beautiful adventuress through the doors of her hotel. As they drove off, Sinclair said: “She wants our Mr. Hitler hanged, no doubt about it. She’s afraid you’ll get him off the hook. Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

  “I merely noted,” said the detective with what seemed inappropriate cheerfulness, “that there was no evidence directly linking Hitler with the murder of his niece. Nothing to convince a jury. Don’t worry, Taffy. One way or another justice will out. I have a feeling we will meet at least one more old acquaintance before this business is over.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  INTERVIEW WITH A SAVIOR

  Hess now took the Duesenberg’s backseat. They had been driving for some hours, making for the lodge at Berchtesgaden where Adolf Hitler had retreated, apparently in deep mourning for the loss of his niece. The surrounding scenery was both dramatic and beautiful, with high hills and pinewoods, giving the air a rich, invigorating quality.

  “The Führer is very sensitive. His mind is of a higher order than most. He always comes here when things go wrong. Here he collects himself and makes something of his experience.” The hero worship in Hess’s tone was tangible and had become extremely familiar to the two Englishmen.

  Sinclair’s expression, could Hess have seen it, would have revealed that he had already had far too much of this sort of talk. But Begg remained apparently affable. “Bit like Mr. Gandhi, I suppose,” he suggested.

  “Perhaps.” Hess seemed uncomfortable with the comparison.

  They turned another corner of the winding road. Ahead was a pleasant, rustic hunting chalet of the kind many Germans built for their summer season. As they drove up a tall, thickset, grim-faced man with a head so thoroughly bald it might have been shaven hurried from the door to greet them. They were, of course, already expected.

  “Ah,” declared Sir Seaton Begg, climbing from his car, “I take it I have the pleasure of addressing Reichstag Leader Strasser?” He put out his hand and it was firmly shaken.

  Gregor Strasser’s face was clouded, but he knew his manners. He spoke in a soft, well-educated voice. “We are so glad you have come to help us, Sir Seaton, though I am not sure Herr Hitler is in any real condition to speak to you.” He was almost disapproving. “Hitler has gone into one of his hysterical states again. Always been one to hide under the blankets during a crisis. Hasn’t been out of bed since he got here. Won’t talk to me. Will hardly talk to Röhm.”

  “Captain Röhm is here also.” Begg was clearly pleased. “Excellent. You, I presume, don’t believe that Herr Hitler’s guilty?”

  “I speak, of course, from loyalty as well as conviction. But Herr Hitler loved his niece. He was, of course, very possessive. Even when my brother Otto expressed willingness to take her to a dance, Hitler furiously forbade it. I felt sorry for her. A bit of a bird in a gilded cage, you know. But while Hitler might speak rather fiercely in public, he rarely exposed Geli to that side of himself. It was Himmler who hated her. Even Alf knew that! But I really think she must have killed herself.”

  “The police evidence suggests she was killed, as you probably know.” Now all three men had paused on the veranda outside the front door.

  “Surely you don’t believe—?” The big politician purpled.

  Begg put a reassuring hand on Strasser’s arm. “Fear not, old sport. I think we are going to be able to tell you something about the real killer soon. But I really must speak to your Führer, you know.”

  The house was decorated like a typical hunting lodge, though without the usual trophies of animal heads and skins. Hitler hated such signs of violence against animals, and his host pandered to him. Otherwise, with its hat stands and gun racks of antlers and its heavy rugs and old, comfortable furniture, it felt familiar and secure. Off the main reception room a broad staircase rose up into the darkness of a landing where, no doubt, the bedrooms were. A big fire burned in the grate. The surround was carved with bears, stags, and other game. Leaning against it was a short, stocky individual with a hideous scar marring half his rather pudgy face. He was dressed in what, apart from its brown color, resembled the regular uniform of a Wehrmacht officer, with Nazi emblems on collar, cuffs, and sleeves. Knocking back a ballon of brandy, he came forward, greeting them in a surprisingly hearty rich Bavarian accent. In private, none of these men used the Hitler salute. “Grüss Gott, Sir Seaton. Just as we’re at the point of real power someone’s trying to sabotage the party’s chances. What can you do for us?”

  “A miracle would help,” said Strasser, pouring schnapps for the two men.

  Captain Röhm helped himself to another large cognac.

  Only Hess did not join them in a drink. He almost immediately made an excuse and disappeared upstairs, presumably to report to his old friend and leader.

  Röhm was the worse for drink. He leaned easily, excessively relaxed as the habitual drunkard usually is. In spite of his hideous appearance, his tightly buttoned and belted uniform, there was an almost sensitive set to his features, a haunted look to his eyes which suggested he knew and rather approved of the arguments against almost every statement he made. His rough charm, his loyalty, his bluntness allowed him to survive. Not long after he had returned from Bolivia, affectionate Spartan letters from Röhm to a young cadet had been published in the yellow press. Yet somehow Röhm had survived the scandal, and even today made no secret of his Greek tendencies.

  “I gather Herr Hitler has taken his niece’s suicide to heart.” Begg strolled to the gun rack and casually examined the rifles. He was interrupted by a gusty, brandy-laden laugh at once sardonic and angry.

  “Suicide! Absolutely, my dear Sir Seaton! Suicide! Certainly! And I’m the bloody Virgin of Lourdes.” Still chuckling, the Brown-shirt leader, considered by many to be the most powerful man in Germany, turned to throw his cigar butt into the flames.

  “Perhaps if we had a word with Herr Hitler himself?”

  Again the Herculean snort. “Good luck, my friend. He’s a wreck. Maybe you can get more sense out of him than we can. He’s a classic Austrian. All talk and trousers and useless in a crisis. Feckless as they come. Yet he’s my leader, and I live with it. I am an infantile man, at heart, and a wicked one. I offer my loyalty to whichever leader best serves my interest. I have too many weaknesses to be more than an ordinary soldier taking orders.”

  “You’ve known him a long time?” Begg asked quietly.

  “I threw in with Alf, as we knew him in the trenches, soon after the Stab in the Back of the Armistice. Just as we were on the verge of winning, victory was stolen from us by Jews and Socialists at home. I didn’t need to explain anything to Alf. We had a lot in common. He was a great infiltrator. Used to get in with the Commies, find out what they were up to, then report back to me. They say he won the Iron Cross for bravery, as a runner in the trenches, but that’s not his talent. My guess is that he was terrified the whole time. No choice. Run the lines or be shot as a coward. He’s always managed to slip away from the violence. Bad precedent, of course, in a soldier. Learns the wrong lessons.” Röhm shrugged. “I doubt if he ever had to shoot anyone personally in his life. Good luck to you, my dear sir.”

  Strasser was sober and collected. He put down his glass halffinished. “Let me see if the Führer is ready.”

  As he walked up the staircase, Sinclair murmured to Begg, “Classic case of manic depression, eh?”

  From the landing above, Rudolph Hess peered
down. “I have very good hearing, Mr. Sinclair. We reject the debased jargon of the Jew Freud. We have perfectly good German words and good German precedents to describe our leader’s state of spirit. Goethe, himself, I believe coined several . . .”

  “Our Anglo-Saxon phrase would be ‘barkingbarmy,’ Herr Hess.” Sinclair craned to look at their customer. “Would that be better?”

  Hess adopted a haughty manner. “Perhaps,” he said. “Herr Strasser. Would you like to bring them now?”

  With a somewhat theatrical movement of his hand, Gregor Strasser motioned for the two Englishmen to follow him up the stairs.

  Hitler’s room was at the far end of the landing. There was only faint flickering candlelight issuing from it. When, at Hess’s knock, they entered, they found a dark, ill-smelling room in which guttered a few church candles of yellow wax, placed here and there on dressing table and nightstands. The Englishmen were immediately reminded of Father Stempfle’s den. The mirror of the dressing table reflected a man’s naked legs, scrawny feet. The knees were bare. The man had hastily pulled on a raincoat in lieu of a dressing gown.

  Adolf Hitler sat at the end of his bed. Clearly he had just allowed himself to be coaxed out of bed. He sat hunched with his hands folded in front of him and did not look up as Begg and Sinclair were introduced. Then a thin whine, like a distant turbine, started in the man’s throat. “No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  Strasser stepped forward. “Just a few minutes, Alf. They want to find out who killed Geli. This means you’ll be able to punish the culprit and put an end to suspicion within the party. It will save your career.”

  “What do I care for my career now that my angel is dead?” The soft, Austrian accent was unexpected.

  When the man looked up, a ghastly intelligence in his sleepless eyes, even Begg was shocked. Hitler had the familiar red blotches on his cheekbones, the drawn lines of anxiety, a face so mad and yet so utterly without redeeming character that one might have been looking at a damned soul in Limbo. It was all the two men could do not to turn away in disgust.