soda into a thin glass without ice and watches the drink foam. That makes him think of beer, which makes him a different, uncontrollable kind of thirsty, and he has already rejected that. So he returns to his chair with his drink.
She is frowning. Her frowns are elaborate things, so unlike Frau Winter’s. Her round face puckers, her features shift. Frau Winter only moved a small wrinkle over the bridge of her nose.
‘Did you know what Frau Winter meant when she said that about family connections?’ the girl asked.
He set his glass down beside the full ashtray. Ashes have spilled on the blonde wood, staining it. He will have to clean again. ‘You were raised Protestant?’
She smiles. ‘My parents did not believe in religion.’
His hand pauses over the table. He had met Communists who claimed not to have religion, but never anyone else.
‘It’s allowed in America,’ she says, ‘to believe whatever you want.’
Her tone has a subtle shade of judgement. All Americans do when they speak of religion, as if Germans do not understand tolerance.
Perhaps they don’t. The history doesn’t show it. In fact, very few people he knew showed tolerance. Even now.
She leans forward. For a moment, he thinks she is going to touch him. He does not move.
‘So,’ she says. ‘What did she mean by family connections?’
‘To Catholics, suicide is an unpardonable act. The victims are placed in unconsecrated ground. Often a priest will not conduct the funeral. Angela Raubal’s family sent her body to a priest who knew her, who would probably be willing to, in the least, beg God’s mercy for her soul.’ Fritz is grateful to be talking again, grateful the awkward moment is over, grateful that she has given him a way to continue gracefully.
‘I think I read about that practice somewhere,’ she says, her smile back. ‘Religion makes people do strange things sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ he says with more sadness than he intends. ‘Yes, it does.’
The daylight was fading when Fritz emerged from the precinct. If he wanted to find the body, he would have to go to Vienna. Even if he left now, he would drive all night.
Fritz stopped beside his car and rubbed the tension in his neck. He would have to go now. The family would appear for the funeral. He needed to arrive first. He wanted to view the body privately, to examine it for any clues he could find.
He had got another detective to use the precinct’stelephone to contact the priest. The parish apparently had a telephone as well, but the priest was as averse to its use as Fritz was. The detective’s conversation was short and loud, but he did manage to confirm a day and time for the funeral. It would take place on Monday in the morning.
So few hours for Fritz to be alone with Geli, to see what secrets she would share before taking them with her to the grave. At least he had those few hours. Frau Winter’s mention of Father Pant meant that Fritz was not spending his evening with train schedules and porters, asking who had taken the body of Geli Raubal out of the country.
Fritz got into the car, and placed his overnight bag beside him on the front seat. He kept extra changes of clothes at the precinct, often because he was not able to go home at night, and he preferred to wear clean clothes even if he had not slept. Those were the clothes he packed for his trip to Vienna. Next to the bag, he placed the department’s camera. It was large, awkward and square. It took both hands to hold it. But he had become accustomed to it. It had been useful in several other investigations. He had taken it for this investigation without asking.
As he pulled away from the curb and flicked on the headlights, he felt more alone than he had felt since he joined the Kripo. To do this case properly, he should stay in Munich, interview the men who spirited the body away, find Hitler, see the letter Frau Winter had mentioned, speak to Frau Dachs, and discover the history of Geli’s
She is frowning. Her frowns are elaborate things, so unlike Frau Winter’s. Her round face puckers, her features shift. Frau Winter only moved a small wrinkle over the bridge of her nose.
‘Did you know what Frau Winter meant when she said that about family connections?’ the girl asked.
He set his glass down beside the full ashtray. Ashes have spilled on the blonde wood, staining it. He will have to clean again. ‘You were raised Protestant?’
She smiles. ‘My parents did not believe in religion.’
His hand pauses over the table. He had met Communists who claimed not to have religion, but never anyone else.
‘It’s allowed in America,’ she says, ‘to believe whatever you want.’
Her tone has a subtle shade of judgement. All Americans do when they speak of religion, as if Germans do not understand tolerance.
Perhaps they don’t. The history doesn’t show it. In fact, very few people he knew showed tolerance. Even now.
She leans forward. For a moment, he thinks she is going to touch him. He does not move.
‘So,’ she says. ‘What did she mean by family connections?’
‘To Catholics, suicide is an unpardonable act. The victims are placed in unconsecrated ground. Often a priest will not conduct the funeral. Angela Raubal’s family sent her body to a priest who knew her, who would probably be willing to, in the least, beg God’s mercy for her soul.’ Fritz is grateful to be talking again, grateful the awkward moment is over, grateful that she has given him a way to continue gracefully.
‘I think I read about that practice somewhere,’ she says, her smile back. ‘Religion makes people do strange things sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ he says with more sadness than he intends. ‘Yes, it does.’
The daylight was fading when Fritz emerged from the precinct. If he wanted to find the body, he would have to go to Vienna. Even if he left now, he would drive all night.
Fritz stopped beside his car and rubbed the tension in his neck. He would have to go now. The family would appear for the funeral. He needed to arrive first. He wanted to view the body privately, to examine it for any clues he could find.
He had got another detective to use the precinct’stelephone to contact the priest. The parish apparently had a telephone as well, but the priest was as averse to its use as Fritz was. The detective’s conversation was short and loud, but he did manage to confirm a day and time for the funeral. It would take place on Monday in the morning.
So few hours for Fritz to be alone with Geli, to see what secrets she would share before taking them with her to the grave. At least he had those few hours. Frau Winter’s mention of Father Pant meant that Fritz was not spending his evening with train schedules and porters, asking who had taken the body of Geli Raubal out of the country.
Fritz got into the car, and placed his overnight bag beside him on the front seat. He kept extra changes of clothes at the precinct, often because he was not able to go home at night, and he preferred to wear clean clothes even if he had not slept. Those were the clothes he packed for his trip to Vienna. Next to the bag, he placed the department’s camera. It was large, awkward and square. It took both hands to hold it. But he had become accustomed to it. It had been useful in several other investigations. He had taken it for this investigation without asking.
As he pulled away from the curb and flicked on the headlights, he felt more alone than he had felt since he joined the Kripo. To do this case properly, he should stay in Munich, interview the men who spirited the body away, find Hitler, see the letter Frau Winter had mentioned, speak to Frau Dachs, and discover the history of Geli’s
Similar Books
