allowed inside. He too let go of the door.
Hitler shook his head and gazed down at the polished floor. He seemed very small, shrunken, as if the news had diminished him somehow. He was not the man Fritz had watched in the streets of Munich.
‘I am sorry, Detective Inspector,’ Hitler said. His voice had lost all the force he had used a moment ago. ‘I have only just returned. My niece is dead. I simply cannot face talking with you at this hour. Perhaps in the morning…’
‘I think it would be best for all of us to have this matter closed by tomorrow,’ Fritz said.
‘No,’ Hitler said. He looked up. His eyes were large and glistening. The hall was full of the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint odour of sweat. ‘No. We shall talk tomorrow, Inspector.’
And then he closed the door so swiftly that Fritz barely had time to move his hand off the frame.
Fritz stood before the door, staring at the carving in the wood. The apartment number had been etched in Gothic numerals. He could not hear any movement inside, and it almost felt as if Hitler were standing on the other side of the door, waiting for Fritz to move.
Fritz raised a hand to knock again, then decided against it. Best to go to Vienna, and see if he had a case at all.
ELEVEN
‘Y ou were kind to Adolf Hitler?’ The girl sounds stunned. Her posture has shifted subtly and he can’t quite read it.
‘I treated him as I would have treated any witness,’ Fritz says.
‘That’s not true,’ she says. ‘You wrote in the handbook you compiled after Demmelmayer that an inspector should never let a witness determine the time and place of questioning.’
The recorder clicks beside her. The tape is done.
Fritz sighs. He should never have compiled that handbook. Reporters, investigators, and rookie detectives have all quoted his words to him as if any violation of them was violation of sacred writ.
‘I had unusual problems in this case,’ he says. ‘If I pressured Hitler, he would contact the Minister of Justice, who would then wonder why I was pursuing a closed investigation.’
The girl grabs a tape from the top of her stack, and slips it into the recorder. Then she closes the lid and hits the record button. When she looks at him, she smiles, as if she has caught him at something.
‘That’s not why you didn’t pursue him,’ she says. ‘You didn’t pursue him because at that point, you thought Geli had committed suicide.’
‘No,’ Fritz says. ‘At that point, I hoped she had.’
He drove all night, across roads that were difficult for the alert driver. He pulled over for a short nap near the Austrian border, waking when the chill in the car grew too great. He arrived in the outskirts of Vienna before dawn and was at the church when the first mass of the morning had just ended.
It took no time to find Father Pant. The priest was younger than Fritz had expected – a thirtyish man, slender to the point of gauntness, with deep shadows under his eyes. He tried to hide his great height by slouching, which only made his body seem both tall and crooked. Father Pant was removing his vestments when Fritz entered the priest room behind the altar of the church, revealing a conservative black suit underneath.
‘Forgive me, Father,’ Fritz said, keeping his head down. He felt tired and rumpled. He had yet to find a hotel room and change. Instead, he had concentrated his efforts on finding the church. ‘One of the altar boys told me where you would be. I’m Detective Inspector Stecher from Munich. I am here about Geli Raubal.’
The priest adjusted the collar and cuffs of his suit, then smoothed his hair. ‘You arrived quickly, Detective Inspector. I am surprised at your haste. I thought that German police have no sway in Austria.’
Fritz nodded. He felt like an altar boy himself in this room, small and powerless next to the man before him. ‘Of course not, Father, but I was wondering if you could help me. The family removed Geli’s
Hitler shook his head and gazed down at the polished floor. He seemed very small, shrunken, as if the news had diminished him somehow. He was not the man Fritz had watched in the streets of Munich.
‘I am sorry, Detective Inspector,’ Hitler said. His voice had lost all the force he had used a moment ago. ‘I have only just returned. My niece is dead. I simply cannot face talking with you at this hour. Perhaps in the morning…’
‘I think it would be best for all of us to have this matter closed by tomorrow,’ Fritz said.
‘No,’ Hitler said. He looked up. His eyes were large and glistening. The hall was full of the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint odour of sweat. ‘No. We shall talk tomorrow, Inspector.’
And then he closed the door so swiftly that Fritz barely had time to move his hand off the frame.
Fritz stood before the door, staring at the carving in the wood. The apartment number had been etched in Gothic numerals. He could not hear any movement inside, and it almost felt as if Hitler were standing on the other side of the door, waiting for Fritz to move.
Fritz raised a hand to knock again, then decided against it. Best to go to Vienna, and see if he had a case at all.
ELEVEN
‘Y ou were kind to Adolf Hitler?’ The girl sounds stunned. Her posture has shifted subtly and he can’t quite read it.
‘I treated him as I would have treated any witness,’ Fritz says.
‘That’s not true,’ she says. ‘You wrote in the handbook you compiled after Demmelmayer that an inspector should never let a witness determine the time and place of questioning.’
The recorder clicks beside her. The tape is done.
Fritz sighs. He should never have compiled that handbook. Reporters, investigators, and rookie detectives have all quoted his words to him as if any violation of them was violation of sacred writ.
‘I had unusual problems in this case,’ he says. ‘If I pressured Hitler, he would contact the Minister of Justice, who would then wonder why I was pursuing a closed investigation.’
The girl grabs a tape from the top of her stack, and slips it into the recorder. Then she closes the lid and hits the record button. When she looks at him, she smiles, as if she has caught him at something.
‘That’s not why you didn’t pursue him,’ she says. ‘You didn’t pursue him because at that point, you thought Geli had committed suicide.’
‘No,’ Fritz says. ‘At that point, I hoped she had.’
He drove all night, across roads that were difficult for the alert driver. He pulled over for a short nap near the Austrian border, waking when the chill in the car grew too great. He arrived in the outskirts of Vienna before dawn and was at the church when the first mass of the morning had just ended.
It took no time to find Father Pant. The priest was younger than Fritz had expected – a thirtyish man, slender to the point of gauntness, with deep shadows under his eyes. He tried to hide his great height by slouching, which only made his body seem both tall and crooked. Father Pant was removing his vestments when Fritz entered the priest room behind the altar of the church, revealing a conservative black suit underneath.
‘Forgive me, Father,’ Fritz said, keeping his head down. He felt tired and rumpled. He had yet to find a hotel room and change. Instead, he had concentrated his efforts on finding the church. ‘One of the altar boys told me where you would be. I’m Detective Inspector Stecher from Munich. I am here about Geli Raubal.’
The priest adjusted the collar and cuffs of his suit, then smoothed his hair. ‘You arrived quickly, Detective Inspector. I am surprised at your haste. I thought that German police have no sway in Austria.’
Fritz nodded. He felt like an altar boy himself in this room, small and powerless next to the man before him. ‘Of course not, Father, but I was wondering if you could help me. The family removed Geli’s
Similar Books
