"I say do it," he heard Göring's boisterous voice say. "And quickly."
". . . very risky," somebody said, perhaps Funk.
"Of course it's risky," Himmler said. "So what . . ."
The voice faded away. There was more muffled conversation and he picked up occasional snatches of sentences.
Goebbels: ". . . must convince everyone it was a Communist plot."
Hitler: "That is your problem, Joseph."
Göring: ". . . worry, I know the perfect scapegoat . . . a half-wit who lives . . ."
Himmler: ". . . five days and I will convince him he is the head of the Communist party for the entire continent," followed by a chorus of laughter.
More muffled talk and then he heard Göring finish a sentence: ". . . to arrange the fire."
The fire?
There was more muffled talk. He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony to hear better and heard a snatch of something Göring was saying: ". . . a tunnel from . . ." and he faded out again. Moments later . . .
Himmler: "A rat bomb perhaps . . ."
A rat bomb? Ingersoll wondered. So did Hitler.
"A rat bomb?"
"Simply starve a rat for a day or two. Prepare the fire in the heating ducts in the basement, set a trap so it will ignite the fire when the trap is sprung. Then we let the rat loose in the duct. A hungry rat can smell food for miles. When he takes his meal, poof. The building is old, it will go up like a dry Christmas tree."
What building, Ingersoll wondered. And why?
Someone walked out on the terrace below. Ingersoll snuffed out the cigarette in a drift of snow beside the door and stepped back inside.
Why? he thought. And what was it Goebbels had said, blame it on the Communists?
He sat at the writing desk in the corner of the room trying to put his mind back on the film. There were several minor things he wanted to change. But he could not shake the events of the day and Hitler's outrageous proposal to him.
His decision was sudden and irrevocable.
He got up suddenly and cracked the door to his room a couple of inches. He heard the sitting room doors on the first floor open, the muffled voices of men saying their good nights, a ripple of laughter. He left the door ajar and went back to the table.
At the foot of the stairs, Hitler turned to Vierhaus and whispered, "Well, what do you think, Willie? Will our Schauspieler accept the challenge?"
"I think there is no question," Vierhaus answered confidently.
"Well, after tonight, I don't think his courage could ever be faulted."
"In fact," Vierhaus answered, "after his stunt tonight I would say he is a man who enjoys taking risks. Perhaps without thought of the consequences."
"How do you come to that conclusion?"
"He risked his life scaling your icy wall and he was not at all concerned with what your reaction might be. He simply didn't care."
"Hmm. Are you implying there may be some hidden surprises with this fellow?" Hitler pressed on. "That he may have, what do you call them, fatal flaws?"
"Not at all. I think he's the perfect man for the job."
Vierhaus was shading the truth a bit. He knew all human beings harbor hidden surprises. Vierhaus was a trained psychologist, a conditioned skeptic who impulsively looked beyond the surface. He knew that within that cold cell of the mind there were obsessions, compulsions, dark impulses, secrets, even imaginary companions, and the line between the neurotic and the psychotic was thin indeed. The neurotic submitted to those passions. The psychotic was a victim of them.
Thus far he had only intelligence reports on Ingersoll on which to base his judgment. Simple facts—Himmler's people were not interested in interpretation, they were collectors of data—and the data had not permitted a reliable analysis of the man. Now, after a day and night in which to observe Ingersoll, some questions had crept into his mind.
Sitting in the darkened theater, Vierhaus had focused on the actor. His entrance through the French doors had been a startling piece of showmanship—but did it indicate something else?
Was Ingersoll an eccentric artist? Or was there some dark secret lurking inside his head that could at some crucial moment explode like a volcano and endanger the entire mission?
In short, was this man eccentric, neurotic or psychotic?
Or was he all three?
Vierhaus simply did not know but he had his own megalomania and was confident that if the actor accepted Hitler's proposal, he could control and master the man. It was a risky assumption but one he had to take. He had convinced the Fuhrer that Ingersoll was perfect for the job, it was too late to back away now.
Five minutes passed before Ingersoll heard the footsteps mounting the stairs and coming down the hallway. He leaned over his notes. He heard the footsteps stop and a moment later a tap on the door. He turned, acting startled. Hitler was peering in the doorway.
"Excuse me, Colonel Wolfe, your door was open."
Ingersoll scrambled to get to his feet but Hitler waved him back down.
"Stay down, please. I didn't mean to intrude."
"Please come in," Ingersoll said. "I was just jotting down some notes on the film. Little things, you know. A snip here, a snip there."
Hitler pushed the door open but did not enter the room. He stood framed in the entrance with his hands behind his back.
"Always the perfectionist, eh?"
"I suppose I am. It drives the technicians crazy."
"Then you should get better technicians."
"I keep hoping we have the best."
"Well, I did not mean to disturb you. Thank you again for the film. As you can tell, everyone was thrilled by it. I will watch it many times more, I am sure. And thank you for coming to my home."
"It is the highlight of my life, mein Führer. It is I who thank you." He paused for a moment and then said, "I would like to repay the kindness . . . in a small way of course, I'm afraid I can't match the significance of the dagger."
"Usually a German shepherd puppy goes with the commission. To be a companion during the training period. But in your case, it seemed inappropriate."
"One of my vices is fine wines," Ingersoll said. "I have about two hundred bottles of vintage French reds and whites at my country house. I would like you to have them, Führer."
Hitler was genuinely surprised at the offer. Then the significance of the gift slowly sank in. His expression turned quizzical, then curious, then his eyes widened and he smiled broadly.
"That is a very generous gift, Colonel."
He paused, his eyebrows rounded into question marks.
"When Hans Wolfe dies," said Ingersoll, "the wine will be delivered to you."
Hitler clenched his fists to his chest. His expression was one of pure joy.
"So you agree then?"
"Yes," Ingersoll said, rising to his feet, "I would be honored to become Siebenundzwanzig. "
"I am sure that was a difficult decision for you."
"Yes. And there is something else that is difficult."
"What might that be?" Hitler asked.
"There are two problems we must deal with," Ingersoll said and calmly explained what they were.
Hitler did not flinch. His expression did not change.
"You shall learn," he said to the actor, "those are the kinds of problems we deal with extremely well."
Their eyes met and slowly, very slowly, Johann Ingersoll raised his hand in the Nazi salute.
Adolf Hitler saluted back and smiled.
EIGHT
The five-day-old newspaper lay on top of a scattered pile of current papers on an oak table in the living room. The inside pages had been pulled out so the carryover lay beside the front page opener.
Film Idol Ingersoll Dead in Car Crash Valet Also Dies in 3,000-foot Alpine Plunge
By
Bert Rudman
Herald Tribune Correspondent
BADEN-BADEN, Germany, March 7. Johann Ingersoll, Germany's newest movie star, vacation
ing after the triumphant world premiere of his new film, "Der Nacht Hund," was killed instantly today when his touring car skidded off a mountain highway near here and plunged 3,000 feet to the ravine below.
Otto Heinz, onetime makeup artist who quit films to become Ingersoll's personal attendant, was also killed in the crash.
The two victims were identified by Friedrich Kreisler, Ingersoll's attorney and agent.
"It was difficult for him," said Burgermeister Louis Brunch, of nearby Baden-Baden, where the bodies were taken after their recovery by alpine teams. "Both bodies were horribly mangled in the fall."
Ingersoll was a bachelor and had no heirs, according to Kreisler, who was obviously stricken by the death of his friend and client.
Ingersoll was a colonel in the SS and a personal favorite of Adolf Hitler. He shocked some of the guests at the premiere by appearing in full SS uniform for the first time.
"Germany has lost a national treasure," Chancellor Hitler told the press. "He was on the verge of becoming one of the world's great film stars and as such would have brought new glory to the Fatherland."
Ironically, the film's world premiere, a gala affair held at the Kroll Opera House, was overshadowed by the burning of the Reichstag which was discovered during the party that followed the screening. Guests crowded the balconies of the theater to watch the blaze a few blocks away or rushed to the scene from the party.
Ingersoll's last film, "Der Nacht Hund" was praised by critics as his most difficult and terrifying role. His work was compared favorably to that of American film star Lon Chaney.
Fritz Jergens, who directed Ingersoll's final picture, praised him as an "astounding performer who seemed to actually get inside the grotesque characters he played. He had great potential as a dramatic actor."
Ingersoll was known as an obsessively reclusive star who was never seen without makeup. He went to extraordinary lengths to conceal his true identity from press and public alike. In his two-year rise to international stardom, no pictures were ever released or taken of Ingersoll. Biographical data was sketchy at best. The only known photos of the actor are stills from his films. Publicity stories included only the names and background details of his films.
Ingersoll leaned over the table, chortling with glee, rereading the story and sipping a glass of wine. He was dressed in his black SS uniform, the dagger hanging ominously from his hip in its ebony scabbard. The uniform fit him perfectly. Hitler's tailor had done a magnificent job.
Imagine, he thought, being upstaged by the Reichstag. He strutted around the room, stopping for a moment in front of the hall mirror to admire himself. The uniform was a marvel of stark elegance. Coal black, its stiff puttees arcing from hip to knee, ending at the top of dazzling black riding boots. The death's head on the field cap, the sterling silver belt buckle, emblazoned with the words "Loyalty Is My Honor," the silver SS runes on one collar like double bolts of lightning, all stark against the black wool uniform. He straightened his shoulders and pulled in his chin.
"Achtung," he snapped at the reflection.
Ingersoll strolled back to the table, rustled through the newspapers and reread part of one of the stories on the fire.
Marinus van der Lubbe, a Dutch Communist, was arrested while the building was still ablaze and charged with setting the fire.
Marshal Hermann Göring, head of the State Police, said van der Lubbe was found hiding in Bismarck Hall, behind the Reichstag. According to Göring, van der Lubbe readily admitted setting the blaze "for the glory of the Communist Party."
Göring also said Communist pamphlets and other paraphernalia were found in van der Lubbe's apartment.
"It was clearly a Communist-inspired tragedy," Göring said. "It is a miracle nobody was hurt."
What a brilliant political move! Even the revelation that van der Lubbe was nearly blind and mad as a hatter had been largely ignored by the German people. They didn't care. A frenzy of reaction had started almost immediately. In the five days since the fire, thousands of Communists had been arrested. The political power of the party had been broken. On the pretense of protecting the state against violence from the Communists, Hitler had announced a decree "for the Protection of the People and the State" and in a single stroke he had revoked all the freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution.
Five days since the fire and the man was now ruling Germany by decree.
Ingersoll went to the kitchen to refill his glass. Hitler is now the Emperor of Germany, he thought. He is the ruler of Germany. Laughing aloud, he raised his glass in a silent toast to the Führer.
Then he heard a key click in the front door lock, heard the tumblers clink.
My God! he thought. It's Friedrich. He's the only one who has a key. What the hell was he doing here?
He heard the door open, the floors creak, the door close. He moved to the edge of the kitchen door and sneaked a look. Kreisler was taking off his coat. He looked at the table, walked over to it and began leafing through the papers. He looked around the room.
"Hello," he called out, confused. "Is someone here?"
Well, Ingersoll thought. What the hell.
He stepped into the living room.
"Hello, Freddie," he said casually.
Kreisler was stunned, shocked to speechlessness. He stared at the ghost standing before him.
"My God," he said and his voice was barely audible. "My God, it's you, Johnny!"
"In the flesh, pardon the pun."
"I don't understand . . . what in God's name . . ."
"It's a long, rather involved story, Freddie. Relax. I'll get you a glass of wine. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, twenty-nine. Incredible year."
"What in hell is going on?" Kreisler demanded, finding his voice. "My God, what kind of publicity stunt have you dreamed up now? Where's Heinz? How did you get him in on this?"
"Heinz is dead. For real."
"Then who was that other poor devil I identified? He was wearing your clothes. He was . . ."
"I have no idea who he was, Freddie. I never saw the man. I don't know anything about him and I don't want to."
"What happened? Did Heinz pick somebody up on the road? How did he get into your clothes?"
The lie came as easily as whistling a tune.
"He was Heinz's lover," Ingersoll said. "I assume they were going down to the village from the ski camp. The road was icy . . ."
"But why did you . . . ?"
Kreisler stopped and looked Ingersoll up and down, realizing suddenly that he was wearing his SS uniform.
"And what are you doing in that uniform? What's come over you, Johann? What is going on?"
There was no way to lie to Kreisler. No way to explain. Freddie had made an error by coming to the house. A fatal error.
"What are you doing here, by the way?" Ingersoll asked.
"I wanted to check the place over, figure out what to do with all these antiques, the paintings. The wine. You've got a fortune in wine downstairs, Johnny."
"It's all taken care of. The house will be closed up as is. Caretakers will keep it up. The apartment in Berlin will be sold."
"What are you doing in that uniform?"
Ingersoll stared across the room at his friend. His face turned cold.
"It may be the last time I'll get to wear it for a long time," he said.
"You shouldn't be wearing it at all."
"Why not?" Ingersoll said proudly. "My appointment was made directly by the Führer."
"Christ, Johnny, do you know what that madman's up to? He's abolished the Constitution, taken away all our rights. He decreed it, for God's sake. He decreed away all our rights. Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom to think, to make a phone call, to send a damn letter without having it intercepted. The SA is tearing up Berlin. Hitler's become a damn dictator in just a few weeks."
"Days, actually," Ingersoll said smugly. "Oh, the process of getting elected chancellor, building up the party, all that took years. But actually he's completely taken over a fai
led, corrupt, rotten government, and done it in only five days."
He laughed and held up five fingers.
"How can you support this, Johnny? You're a creative artist . . ."
Ingersoll cut him off.
"I'm an actor in scary movies, Freddie, that's all. Until now. Now I've been invited to play an important role in the greatest revolution in history."
"This isn't a revolution, it's banditry. Common theft. He's stolen the rights from the people. He's . . ."
Ingersoll waved him quiet.
"The Third Reich will change history, Freddie. You don't have the imagination to see that. You have no imagination, Freddie, that's why you're the agent and I'm the actor. I want to be a part of all this. I'm tired of sneaking around in fake whiskers and wigs. Tired of torturing my body in those ridiculous getups. I've got more money than I'll ever spend." He picked up the paper and held it toward Kreisler. "Great notices on the picture. And a wonderful obituary. Time for Johann Ingersoll to die."
"And become a Nazi blackshirt?"
"Become a Nazi patriot," Ingersoll snapped back. "I'm giving up everything, everything, for my country."
"No, you're giving it up for that little man with the Chaplin mustache."
"You're truly straining my patience, Freddie."
"Oh, come on, we've been friends too long for this kind of . . . of . . . for God's sake, Johann, I'm your friend. I'm concerned about you."
"And your ten percent?"
Kreisler's shoulders sagged.
"I was a successful lawyer when I met you and I am still a successful lawyer," Kreisler said. His voice trembled from the strain of the confrontation. "I can certainly live without the frills your ten percent allows me. I didn't know you felt that way, Johann. I didn't know you felt I was cheating you."
Ingersoll's mind was racing. He had an image of the night of the premiere, just after the fire in the Reichstag was discovered.
At the first news of the fire, everyone at the party had rushed to the windows and balconies. A few blocks away, flames scorched the night sky and glowing embers swirled up through the twisting smoke.