by JJ Toner
#
A quick check of the archives at headquarters produced police files for both Emil Maurice and Julius Schreck. A former watchmaker, Maurice had a long criminal record dating back to the Munich Beer Hall Putsch of 1923, when Maurice, Schreck and Adolf Hitler, were all jailed in Landsberg Prison. Maurice’s SS number was 2.
Schreck was SS number 5. He had been a close friend of Hitler’s since the foundation of the Nazi Party, and commanded his personal bodyguard for two years from 1925 to 1926.
Maurice’s present whereabouts were unknown. Saxon put Glasser to the task of finding him, saying, “I’m going back to the brothel to speak with Tania again.”
At Angel Wings, Tania quickly confirmed that Glasser was an occasional visitor to the brothel. There was nothing kinky about his sexual preferences and nothing unusually violent about his behaviour. Saxon showed her the school picture and asked her if any of the boys were patrons of the business. She pointed out several of the boys.
“This is Heinrich,” she said, pointing to Kratschik junior.
“Is he ever violent?”
“It’s more than my life’s worth to answer that question.” Tania flushed, casting her gaze down to her shoes.
“In confidence, Tania. I swear no one will ever know that you told me.”
It took a few more minutes to persuade her to give him the information, but finally, she said, “The boy is a tiger. He has sharp claws and can be heavy-handed at times.”
“How heavy-handed?”
“Very, and that’s all I’m going to say on that subject.”
As Saxon adjusted his hat to leave, Tania picked up the school photograph and pointed to it again.
“This man is a regular customer,” she said.
Chapter 3
Glasser was open-mouthed. “Freudl, the headmaster of Altenadler School for Boys? I don’t believe it.”
“Tania picked him out of the school picture. That makes him a live suspect, since we can link him to two of the victims.”
“But not the third.”
Saxon listed his suspects on his fingers. “Kratschik senior, Kratschik junior, alias Heinrich the heavy-handed, and Freudl. We can link them all to the two young women.”
“But none of them links to Frau Happeck,” said Glasser, thoughtfully. “What about your fourth suspect?”
“What fourth suspect?”
“That miserable reprobate Glasser. You know he’s a regular visitor to the brothel.”
Saxon laughed at Glasser’s solemn, straight-faced delivery. “If we included all the clients of Angel Wings, half the male population of Munich would be suspects.”
“I assume you asked Tania about me.”
“I did. She confirmed that you are always well behaved. You’re not a suspect, not until I can link you to at least one of the other two victims.”
Glasser gave his toothy grin. “I located Emil Maurice, Hitler’s ex-driver. He’s living in Innsbruck. Hitler fired him and he moved there immediately after Geli Raubal’s suicide.”
Saxon recalled the case of Geli Raubal. Hitler’s niece and lover had committed suicide in Hitler’s apartment in September, 1931. At the time, there were rumours, spread by his political opponents, that Hitler had murdered the girl, but murder was ruled out.
#
SS-Standartenführer Kratschik dropped in after lunch. Saxon told him that Freudl was now a suspect. He made no mention of his other two suspects.
Kratschik gripped his hands together as if in prayer. “Progress at last! But Herr Freudl? I know him, Kommissar. He’s a most unlikely killer, headmaster of my son’s old school, a pillar of the community.”
“A pillar of the community who attends a brothel?”
“Good point, good point, and you must follow up on every possible suspect, leave no stone unturned until the madman has been apprehended. I’ll arrange a search warrant for his home for this afternoon.”
#
While they waited for the search warrant, Glasser fetched the Geli Raubal case file from the archives and gave it to Saxon to read.
The file consisted of a couple of pictures of the dead girl, and half-a-dozen sheets of paper: The Medical Examiner’s report concluded that Geli had died at Prinzregentenplatz 16 on Friday, September 18, 1931 as a result of a single gunshot wound to the chest. The Examining Magistrate’s determination was that the young woman had used Hitler’s gun to take her own life. A statement from Hitler’s chauffeur, Emil Maurice, was the basis for Hitler’s alibi: he had driven Hitler to Nuremburg that day. They spent the night in a small hotel and had picked up a speeding ticket as they dashed back to Munich the following morning on receiving news of the tragedy. The file contained a copy of the speeding ticket. The housekeeper, Frau Happeck, had given a statement as she had discovered the body. Apparently no one had heard the shot.
A quick mental calculation told Saxon that Hitler’s alibi was as watertight as a sieve with a large hole in it. He could easily have shot Geli Raubal on Friday and sped away north to spent the night at the Nuremburg hotel. Nuremburg was only two hours away.
Frau Happeck had left Prinzregentenplatz and joined the Goldfarb’s household a month after Geli’s ‘suicide’, in October, 1931.
#
Armed with a search warrant, and accompanied by four uniformed Orpo municipal policemen in a meat wagon, they arrived at Herr Freudl’s home at dusk. Located in Feldafingerplatz, within easy walking distance to the north of the school, the 3-storey house had the look of something from the film Nosferatu with leaded windows, overhanging gables and encircling giant fir trees.
An elderly woman met them at the door and tried to bar their way. Glasser waved the warrant at her and pushed past into the hallway, followed by the uniforms.
Saxon asked the old lady to announce their arrival to the headmaster. She shuffled off to do his bidding while Glasser organised the search party.
When Freudl arrived he steered Saxon into a cavernous study, three of the walls lined with bookcases, floor to ceiling. They sat face to face by a cold fireplace.
Saxon presented the warrant. Freudl put on his glasses and read it slowly.
“And the reason for the search? You suspect me of some crime?”
“Tell me, Herr Freudl,” Saxon replied. “Are you acquainted with a Frau Henrietta Happeck, a woman of middle years, a housekeeper?”
Freudl shook his head. “No, but I’ve seen the name in the newspaper. Wasn’t she of one of the three murder victims?”
“Did you know her? Had you ever met her?”
“Never.”
A stray thought scampered across Saxon’s mind. Freudl had the look of a petty thief – the classic slack jawed stare and hollow smile of a life of crime. His eyes were too close together. His receding hairline suggested receding morals. The man could not be trusted.
“Who does your housekeeping?”
“Mother looks after the house.”
“That was your mother who opened the door? It’s a big house for one woman on her own.”
Freudl laughed, “She may be old, but she’s fiercely proud. She would never allow another woman into this house.”
Saxon felt a twinge of pity for the man. “You’re not married, Herr Freudl?”
“I’ve never had a wife.”
“You have been seen at a brothel in Hofgraben.”
Freudl coloured quickly. “I have to… I need… I’m sure you understand. But Angel Wings is fully registered. I have broken no law.”
“Even so…”
“Even so, I know the school board would frown on the practice.”
“Your feet wouldn’t touch the ground,” said Saxon with a blank face.
“They don’t have to know, do they? I have broken no laws, after all.” Freudl’s eyes were pleading.
“They won’t hear it from me,” said Saxon, thinking he couldn’t guarantee Glasser’s silence. “Now tell me where you were on Thursday night.”
“I was here, marking pape
rs.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“My mother. What are you accusing me of, Kommissar?”
“I am accusing you of nothing, Herr Freudl, but we must eliminate your name from our enquiries. Where were you on the night of Saturday the eighteenth of February?”
Freudl hesitated before answering. “That Saturday night I spent some time at… that place.”
“Angel Wings?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t there for more than a couple of hours. I was home and tucked up in bed by eleven.”
“Your mother will confirm that?”
“Yes.”
“Who were you with in the brothel? Were you with Maria Kazinski?”
“I don’t recall, but it wasn’t her.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. I was definitely not with Maria that night.”
“But you’ve spent time with Maria on other nights?”
“Not often, but yes.”
“And where were you last night?”
“I was here all night.”
“Your mother will confirm that?”
“Yes, of course.”
#
Saxon and Glasser sat at a quiet table in a tavern some distance from headquarters. The search of Freudl’s house had revealed nothing but an unusual collection of exotic magazines hidden in a box in an attic.
Saxon paid for two steins of beer. “I won’t be in the office tomorrow. I want you to keep things ticking over while I’m away.”
“Where will you be, Boss?” said Glasser.
“I’m travelling to Austria tonight. I hope to talk to Emil Maurice in Innsbruck in the morning. I don’t want the Standartenführer to know where I’m going, so I’ll be relying on you to cover for me.”
“Right, Boss.”
The train journey from Munich to Innsbruck took four hours. Saxon was weary, and if it hadn’t been for the spectacular scenery – the Austrian Alps, the precipitous viaducts spanning fast-flowing rivers – the clack-clack of the wagon wheels on the rails would have lulled him to sleep.
He had left an angry wife at home with a baby on one hip, a book of baby names on the other. She would finally have to choose a name by the weekend when they had an appointment with the pastor at his christening font. Ruth had had been hoping for a girl. She was caught unprepared when her baby arrived with that unexpected extra appendage.
Saxon turned his mind to the case. Of his three suspects, the SS man seemed the most likely, especially given the way that he had inserted himself into the investigation, presumably intending to interfere with the outcome. Of course, he might have done the same in order to protect his son. Freudl seemed the least likely candidate. There was no evidence against him and while living a life of enforced celibacy in a cavernous old house with an infirm mother was probably not good for his nerves, and dipping his quill in a house of ill repute was doing little to advance his career, nothing had suggested that he was a frenzied killer of women.
Surrounded on all sides by towering snow-capped mountains, Innsbruck was shrouded in perpetual mist. Saxon took to the streets on foot. Emil Maurice’s address was not far from the railway station.
The city had an altogether Austrian feel, with brightly painted houses sandwiched together in narrow thoroughfares that owed much to the German style of urban planning. Hitler’s grim portrait adorned every shop window. The women wore colourful flared dirndl skirts and aprons; some even wore lederhosen. And while Bavaria was no stranger to felt alpine hats, here every man seemed to wear one. Saxon felt conspicuous in his plain suit, police boots and Homburg.
Maurice was not at home. His landlady hadn’t seen him for several days. Saxon explained that he was a distant cousin of Emil’s on a walking tour. He had hoped to meet Emil before he continuing his journey. She suggested that Maurice might be found in Elferhaus, a popular beer cellar.
The beer cellar was full of happy drinkers. Saxon asked a young serving wench with a prominent mole on her upper lip where he might find his distant cousin.
“He’s not in tonight, but it’s early,” she said. “What can I get you?”
He ordered a half-stein of the local brew.
As the night wore on the place filled to capacity. Saxon kept his half-stein topped up. He checked with his serving wench from time to time, but Maurice never appeared. At 11 pm, with drooping eyes, he picked two cards from the bar advertising a local hotel and handed one to her. They’d spoken so many times during the evening that Saxon thought of her as an old friend.
“I can’t wait any longer. If you see Maurice, ask him to contact me here.”
Returning to Maurice’s lodgings, he gave the landlady the second card and the same message.
In order to avoid awkward questions about his lack of luggage, Saxon paid the hotel owner in advance for a room for a single night. He hadn’t eaten for hours, but he was too tired to care. He called his wife on the telephone and listened to the account of her day. After the call he barely had enough energy to take off his clothes and climb into bed.
A knock at the door woke him in total darkness. He switched on a light and checked his watch: 4 am.
He went to the door and called out, “Who’s there?”
When no one answered, he opened the door cautiously. The corridor was deserted, but someone had pushed an envelope under the door. Inside the envelope he found a single sheet of paper bearing the words: Valluga midday. It was signed with the initials E.M.
#
Maurice couldn’t have chosen a safer place for a meeting. Valluga: the highest peak overlooking Innsbruck, reachable only by cable car. The gondola could carry no more than a handful of people at a time, and anyone in there would be clearly visible long before they arrived.
The journey to the peak took 2 hours in a succession of funiculars, each gondola smaller than the last, all swinging in the breeze at mind-numbing distances from the ground.
Saxon was accompanied to the top by three excited skiers, finally stepping from the gondola at the mountaintop in bright sunlight, gasping in the thin, icy air. The skiers dispersed, leaving the detective alone with the 360 degree panorama of the Alps and Innsbruck laid out below like a model village.
He climbed the last few metres to the rest station and stumbled inside, took a table by a window and ordered coffee. The clock on the wall read 12:10. Casting his gaze around, he checked out the 10 people sitting at the tables. Maurice was not among them.
At 12:45 he ordered a second cup of coffee. As the waiter moved away, a man approached wearing a ski suit and heavy boots. He sat at Saxon’s table and removed his gloves. Saxon recognised Emil Maurice, older, more wrinkled and more tanned than the photograph on his Munich police file, but definitely him.
“My name is Saxon. Thank you for meeting me, Herr Maurice.”
“Police?”
“Yes. I’m investigating the recent spate of murders in Munich, and I’m hoping you can help me.”
Maurice shrugged. “I left Munich nearly two years ago. I haven’t been near the place since then.”
“I need to ask you some questions about 1931.”
Maurice picked up his gloves and got to his feet. “I have nothing to say about that. The Geli case is closed. Why dredge all that up again? Why do you think we’re meeting on the top of an Austrian Alp?”
“I’m not interested in the old case. I’m just looking for some background information. I can pay.”
Maurice sat down again. Saxon placed 100 Reichsmark on the table. Maurice swept up the notes and tucked them inside one of his gloves.
“One of my murder victims is called Frau Henrietta Happeck. Can you confirm that she worked at Prinzregentenplatz 16 in September 1931?”
“She was the housekeeper at the time, yes.”
“Who else was present when Geli died?”
“The boss and I were in Nuremburg. Hoffmann, the photographer was with us, so I can’t be sure who was there, but Geli had a close companion, a young
woman who tutored her from the age of about 15, when the boss took her – under his wing. She may have been in the apartment when Geli died. Her name was Maxine.”
“Maxine Weiss?”
“That’s right.”
Saxon’s heart did a somersault. “Was there anybody else present at the time? What about Maria Kazinski?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Did the Führer ever use the services of a prostitute?”
“Not that I know of, but you should ask Georg Bell about that.” He got to his feet and put his gloves. “I have to go.”
“Where can I find this Georg Bell?”
“Speak to Michael Gerlich.” And Maurice swept out the door. Saxon watched him clip on his skis and head off down the mountain.
The return journey down in the cable cars was a blur of happy skiers and stunning vertiginous views. Saxon now had a positive link between victims 2 and 3 and a possible motive for their deaths. He knew Michael Gerlich, editor of the anti-Nazi newspaper The Straight Path, one of a handful of journalists who consistently questioned the Party’s anti-Semitism and dubious tactics. If Gerlich could supply the missing link to tie Maria Kazinski to the Geli case he might be able to solve the case.
He took the train back to Munich, arriving at the apartment well after dark.
He kissed Ruth. “How’s the baby?” he whispered, peering at the infant asleep in his cot.
“Little Samuel’s been well, but he refuses to sleep more than four hours between feeds. I’m exhausted. I’m going to put him on a bottle.”
Samuel. Good name, he thought. “Remember what the doctor said, Ruth. Breast milk is best for young babies.”
“What would he know? He’s never had to undergo torture like this. I’ve got to get a night’s unbroken sleep.”
#
The early morning fog was there to welcome Saxon back to the city.
“Where were you?” roared Kriminaldirektor Mydas. “I’ve had Kratschik in my ear for the past 24 hours demanding to talk to you.”
“I took a short trip to Austria.”
Mydas clenched his sausage fingers into fists. “This is no time for holidays, Saxon, what were you thinking?”
“I was following a line of enquiry, sir.”