The lumbering half-American seemed relieved to hear this. He loosened his big coat and made himself more comfortable. As he listened to the tunes of Strauss and Lehar, he relaxed. “This isn’t for publication. I have your word on it?”
“Our word as English gentlemen,” said Begg.
For a while “Putzi” chatted about the old days of the Nazi Party when there were only a few of them, when Hitler had been released from prison a hero, the author of Mein Kampf, which was published here in Munich by Max Amman. “We have a concession on pictures of the Nazi hierarchy and Amman publishes what they write. It’s pretty much our only business. This scandal could wreck us.” Since the party’s success in elections, sales had climbed. Mein Kampf was now a best-seller and it was money from royalties, Hanfstaengl insisted, not from secret financiers, which was paying for the Mercedes and the place in Prinzregensburgstrasse. He seemed to be answering questions neither Begg nor Sinclair had asked. And when Sir Seaton threw the big query at him, he was rather surprised, glad that he did not have to hide something from the detective. It was dawning on him at last who Begg and Sinclair were.
“You really are the ace sleuths they say you are,” he said. “I know those Sexton Blake things are heavily sensationalized, but it’s surprising how like him you are. Do you remember The A fair of the Jade Skull?”
Blake was, of course, the name said to disguise the identity of Sir Seaton Begg in a long series of stories written for The Union Jack, The Sexton Blake Library, and other popular British publications known as tuppenny skinnies and four-penny fats.
“I’m surprised they’re read at all beyond the London gutters,” said Begg, who made a point of never reading the “bloods.” “Speaking of which—what about that material itself? I’ve seen some of it, of course. The stuff Hitler was being blackmailed with? Weren’t you the middleman on that?”
Only Taffy Sinclair knew that his friend had just told a small, deliberate lie.
“What earthly need is there for you to know more? If you’ve seen how dreadful that stuff is—?” Hanfstaengl’s brow cleared. “Oh, I get it. You have to eliminate suspects. You’re looking for an alibi.” He sipped his drink. “Well, I, too, dealt through a middleman. An SA sergeant who had got himself mixed up in something he didn’t like. Called himself Braun, I think. Nobody ever proved it, but he pretty much confirmed who the blackmailer was and nobody was surprised. It was that crazy old Heironymite. Stempfle. I’m not sure how a member of an order of hermits, like Father Stempfle, can spend quite so much time drinking in the seedier Munich beer halls, but there you are. He has a certain following, of course. Writer and editor, I think. He worked for Amman once.”
“The publisher?”
“Do you know him? Funny chap. Never really took to him. He’s putting Hitler up at the moment. My view is that Amman could be cheating Hitler of his royalties. What if he’s covering his tracks? Could Geli have found something out, do you think?”
“You mean she knew too much?”
“Well,” said Hanfstaengl, glancing up at the big clock over the bar, “she wasn’t exactly an innocent, was she? Those letters! Foul. But his pictures were worse. It was my own fault. I was curious. I wish I’d never looked.” He let out a great sigh. “Party funds paid the blackmailer, you know. The stuff was impossibly disgusting. I said I’d burn it—but he—Alf—wanted it back.”
The orchestra had begun to play a polka. The couple on the dance floor were having difficulty keeping time. Begg studied the musicians for any sign of cynicism but found none.
Hanfstaengl’s tongue, never very tight at the best of times, it seemed, was becoming looser by the moment. “After that, things were never the same. Hitler changed. Everything turned a little sour. You want to ask crazy old Stempfle about it. I’m still convinced only he could have had the inside knowledge. . . .”
“But where could I find this hermit?”
“Well, there’s a chance he’ll be at home in his cottage. It’s out in the Munich woods there.” He jabbed his hand toward the door. “Couple of miles or so. Do you have a map?”
Sinclair produced one and Hanfstaengl plotted their course for them. “I’d go with you myself, but I’m a bit vulnerable at the moment. I think someone’s already had a potshot at me with a rifle. Be a bit careful, sport. There are lots of homeless people in the woods these days. They could spell danger for a stranger. Even some of our locals have been held up at gunpoint and robbed.”
Begg shook hands with Hanfstaengl and said that he was much obliged. “One last question, Herr Hanfstaengl.” He hesitated.
“Fire away,” said “Putzi.”
“Who do you think killed Geli Raubal?”
Hanfstaengl looked down.
“You have an idea, I know,” said Begg.
Hanfstaengl turned back, offering Begg a cigarette from his case, which Begg refused. “Killed that poor little neurotic girl? Almost anyone but Hitler.”
“But you have an idea, I know.”
Hanfstaengl drained his glass. “Well, she was seeing this SS guy. . . .”
“Name?”
“Never heard one, but I think they planned to go to Vienna together. Hitler knew all about it, of course. Or at least he guessed what he didn’t know.”
“And had her killed?”
Hanfstaengl snorted sardonically. “Oh, no. He doesn’t have the guts.” His face had turned a terrible greenish white.
“Who does—?” Begg asked, but Hanfstaengl was already heading from the room, begging his pardon, acting like a man whose food had disagreed with him.
“Poor fellow,” murmured Begg, “I don’t think he has a taste for the poison or the antidote. . . .”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE POLITICS OF EXCLUSION
An hour or so later, Taffy Sinclair was shining the hand-torch down onto their map, trying to work out what Hanfstaengl had shown them. All around them in the woods were the camps of people who had been ruined by Germany’s recent economic troubles. While Munich herself seemed wealthy enough, the homeless had been pushed to the outlying suburbs and woodlands, to fend for themselves as best they could. The detectives saw fires burning and shadows flitting around them, but the forest people were too wary to reveal themselves and would not respond when Begg or Sinclair called out to them.
“I suppose it’s fair enough that a follower of Saint Heironymous the Hermit makes himself hard to find,” declared Sinclair, “but I think this place was less populated and with fewer caves when— aha!” His torchlight had fallen on the penciled mark. “Just up this road and stop. Should be a cottage here.”
The car’s brilliant headlamps made day of night, picking up the building ahead as if lit for the cinema, with great, elongated black shadows spreading away through the moonlit forest. An ancient, thatched, much-buttressed cottage was revealed. The place had two main chimneys, three downstairs windows and three up, including the dormer, which had its own chimney. The whole place leaned and declined in a dozen different directions, so that even the straw resembled a series of dirty, ill-fitting wigs.
“This has got to be it.” Noting shadows moving in the nearby trees, Sir Seaton climbed from the car and walked across the weed-grown path to the old door of Gothic oak and black iron, hammering on it heavily and calling out in his most authoritative tone: “Open up! Metatemporal detectives! Come along, Father Stempfle, sir! Let us in.”
A grinding of locks and rattling chains confirmed Sir Seaton’s inspired guess. A face that looked as if it had been folded, stretched, and refolded many times regarded them in the light of the lamp it held over the chink in the door, still latched by a massive row of steel links.
“Open up, sir.”
Seeing their faces seemed to weaken the old man’s resolve, for another bolt turned and the door creaked slowly open.
Begg followed Stempfle into the hermit’s horrible candlelit den, which stank of mold, old food, woodsmoke, and dust. Everywhere were piles of books, manuscripts, scrolls. There
was no doubt the man was a scholar, but whether he followed God or the Devil was hard to determine. In a small grate, a sparse, damp fire emitted a little heat.
“You’re a close friend of Adolf Hitler, I gather, Father?” Begg hardly gave the unshaven old man in the filthy cassock a chance to catch his breath.
Father Stempfle stuttered. “I wouldn’t say that. I have very little to do with him, these days.”
“You helped him write his book—Mein Kampf, is it?”
Now Begg’s long hours of reading and study were coming to his aid as usual. Sinclair remembered how impressed he so often was with his friend’s ability to put together a jigsaw with pieces from so many apparently disparate sources.
Father Stempfle began to turn scarlet. He fumed. In his mephitic cassock and sandals, he stamped about his paper-strewn study until it seemed the unevenly stacked piles of books would fall and bury them all alive. “Helped him, my good sir? Helped that illiterate little trench terrier, that scum of Vienna’s pervert’s quarter? Helped him? I wrote most of it. The manuscript was unreadable until his publisher asked me to work on it. Ask Max Amman. He’ll confirm everything. He and Hitler fell out over it. Or perhaps he has now been persuaded to lie by Röhm and his apes. My arguments are the purest and the best. You can tell them because I offer a much more sophisticated analysis of the Jewish problem. Hitler’s contribution was a whine of self-pity. For years Amman didn’t publicize the book widely enough. Now, of course, it’s selling very well. And do I get a pfennig in royalties?” The squalid old monk shuffled to a stop, his face breaking into something which might have been a grin. “Of course, it’ll sell even better once they know about the murder. . . .”
Begg had no stomach for this. He drew a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “You think Hitler killed her?”
“Nobody seems to think he’s up to it,” murmured Sinclair. “Not a strong man, physically at least. A pacifist, we were learning today . . .”
Stempfle crushed old parchment in his hands as he moved toward the fire. Something had made him feel the cold. “He says he hates violence. But you should see how cruelly he treats that dog of his. Wulf? He calls it such a name so that he can demonstrate his own masculinity the better. I think he is capable of any violence.”
Sinclair stepped forward. “What about those pictures—those letters—the blackmail attempt?”
“Oh, he’s calling it blackmail now, is he? I simply wanted fair reimbursement for the work I’d done. . . .” Stempfle glowered into the fire, which seemed to flicker in sympathy.
“If you still have some of that stuff, I could see that it got into the appropriate hands. Would it not strengthen the case against Hitler?”
Stempfle snorted. The sound was almost gleeful. “It would top and tail him nicely, true. . . .”
“That material is here?”
Stempfle grew cunning. “The originals are elsewhere, in safekeeping. Still, I don’t mind showing you the copies.”
“I am prepared to pay one hundred pounds for the privilege,” declared Sir Seaton.
At this the old man moved with slightly greater alacrity, ascending a ladder, moving a picture, rattling a combination, then going through the whole process backward again. When he came down, he had an envelope in his hands. Begg paid him in the four crisp twentyfive-pound notes he held ready, and Sinclair accepted the envelope, casually drawing out the first photograph and then blanching at what he saw. He returned the photograph to the envelope and covered his mouth. “Great Jehovah, Begg! I had no idea! Why would any woman involve herself in this? Or any man demand it?” Now he knew why Angela Raubal could not help being a disturbed young woman and why Hanfstaengl had left the bar so swiftly.
Stempfle’s crooked body shook with glee. “Not how Adolf might wish to be remembered, eh? They would make excellent illustrations for certain works of the Marquis de Sade, no? I think I’ve been very modest in my request for my share of the royalties. Since I suspect you are already representing him, you can tell him that the originals of these are much more expensive!”
“I’ve yet to become a blackmailer’s runner, Father Stempfle,” Begg protested mildly. “Good night to you.”
He ducked beneath the warped lintel and began to make for his car, Sinclair slightly ahead of him. Only then did the two men realize that someone was beside their car, trying to force the lock. With a roar of rage Sinclair seized and grappled with the ill-smelling thieves. But there were at least a dozen of them. Others slipped out of the shadows, clubs and fists flailing as they came to their companions’ assistance.
Begg was skilled in most forms of unarmed combat.
“Hold them for me for a moment, old man!” He carefully removed his hat and then weighed in.
Several of the assailants soon lay on the ground. The others began to regroup, still a threat.
Then, suddenly, Begg heard a sharp thud against the tree nearest his head and the distinctive crack of a high-powered Mauser rifle. Almost immediately, as if familiar with the sound, the vagrants melted back into the trees. Sinclair paused, ready to pursue them, but with a smile Begg retrieved his hat and hurried his friend into the car. “No one else intends us any harm, Taffy. But it might be wise to keep moving.”
Within the wholesome comfort of the great automobile, Sinclair was still more upset by the photographs than afraid of the gunshot. He continued to vent his disgust. “How could he make her—? I mean—?”
“Not a position any sane creature would volunteer for,” Begg agreed. He began to reverse the car back down the short drive. “I think it’s time we paid a call on the local cop shop, don’t you?”
CHAPTER SIX
THE FEDERAL AGENT
As it happened, there was no need to visit the police station. Arriv-ing back at their hotel’s foyer and collecting their keys, they were immediately confronted by an extraordinarily beautiful young woman who rose from a couch and came toward them smiling. Her full red lips and dark red hair worn in a fashionable wave were complemented by her green evening dress as she stretched a gloved hand toward Sir Seaton.
He bent to kiss it. Of course they had immediately recognized the woman. Once a ruthless adventuress whose love affair with Begg had resulted in her decision to make herself his ally, she was now a freelancer. Unlike Begg she took retainers from any government that valued her skill.
From her reticule the woman took a small book on which was fastened a metal badge. After they had glanced at it, she returned it swiftly to its place.
“My dear Countess von Bek,” exclaimed Sir Seaton, “I had no idea you were in Munich. Are you staying here?”
“Nearby, Sir Seaton. I wondered if you had seen my cousin lately?” This was prearranged code. Countess Rose von Bek wanted to speak urgently and privately. Begg immediately led them into the deserted sitting room, ordered some tea, and closed the doors.
Once they were settled and the tea served, Sir Seaton relaxed. “So, my dear Rose, we appear to be working on the same case? Can you say who your client is?”
The adventuress responded with her usual charm. “I have made no more a secret of it than have you, Seaton. The German Federal Government Special Political Service. They sent me down from Berlin to give support to the local cops—the ones who don’t actually believe Herr Hitler to be the next world savior and that Jews are damned to hell for not accepting the Messiah. So far I’ve met a good number of decent cops and some very clever newspapermen.”
“So we find ourselves on different sides in this case. I take it, therefore, you know who killed Geli Raubal?”
She took an ironic sip from her Dresden cup. “We’ve been working on the broader political associations.”
“But surely everything we need to know hinges on the circumstances and solution of this case?” Taffy Sinclair chipped in.
“No doubt, Mr. Sinclair. But the government’s priorities aren’t always our own.” She spoke softly, anxious not to offend him. “I agree it is possible to argue
that Fräulein Raubal’s death is emblematic, if not symptomatic, of her times, but at the moment we’re worrying that the National Socialists have a sizable representation in Parliament. And a large amount of armed support. We are thinking ‘civil war’ here. Cherchez la femme is not a game we often play in my section.”
Taffy mumbled some polite apology and said he thought it was time he turned in, but Begg insisted he stay. “I think I’m going to need your help tonight, old man.”
“Tonight?”
“Afraid so.”
Sinclair rather reluctantly poured himself a fresh cup of Earl Grey.
“Was the corpse still in the apartment when you arrived on the scene?” Begg asked his old paramour.
“Hinkel of the Taggeblat called us. He’s our best man down here. So I caught the express from Berlin and was here in time to have a look at the body.”
“You’re certain she was murdered? How? Did some expert sniper shoot her through the window?”
Rose was certain. “Nothing so complicated. Someone’s made a clumsy attempt to make it look as if she’d shot herself through the heart. Hitler’s gun—easy accessibility. Dead canary nearby—she’d been carrying it around all day—no doubt adding to the impression that she was suicidal. But the angle of entry was wrong. Someone shot her, Seaton, while she was lying on the rug—probably during an amorous moment. Half-undressed. Evidently an intimate. And Hitler was certainly an intimate. . . .
“You’ve seen these pictures?” He handed her the envelope.
“No wonder the poor girl was confused.” Even the countess winced at what she saw. “They might have tried to push her toward suicide but she wouldn’t fall. Eventually someone shot her at close range, then put the gun in her hand so it seemed suicide. Only there were too many clues to the contrary.”
“Any chance of taking a look at the corpse?” Taffy’s dry, decisive tone was unexpected.