The Führer’s apartment in Prinzregentenplatz, a pregnantlooking building with bulging bays, stood across the river in a smart part of town, offset from the tight core of its central locations. The front door had an electrical release. No one answered number 16. Morgen tried the tradesman’s bell and they were buzzed in, but when they rang the apartment door they heard someone coming. Schlegel wondered how long since the Führer was last there.
Schlegel’s first impression of Frau Winter, the custodian of the apartment, was a woman conditioned by service, duty and obedience – and, to outsiders, an expert in proprietorial silence.
She was younger than Schlegel was expecting and presented herself as neither attractive nor unattractive. She dressed formally and carried herself with the self-contained air of one elevated above regular domestic service to a position of responsibility and trust, in exchange for total discretion. Frau Winter did not greet, she admitted. Schlegel wondered what she thought of her boss.
Morgen said they were there for a security inspection, a precaution after recent events. However reluctant she looked about letting them in, Frau Winter had no choice but to defer to Morgen’s rank.
The apartment had been given a full makeover, with uncontroversial but no doubt extremely expensive interior design calculated to show evidence of a thoughtful, contemplative man of taste and judgement, surrounded by massive, dark furniture, so solid that most of it looked immovable. The first impression was of a space under-lived in for all the money chucked at it.
The grandest rooms overlooked the square, with huge doors out of all proportion to human scale. Schlegel decided it wasn’t that the taste was bad, just wonky, with no personality beyond flat statements about acquisition and power. On a low table in a formal reception room stood a bronze bust of a young woman, clearly Raubal. Schlegel asked and Winter said it had been commissioned after the girl’s death, making it plain that her job was to protect her master’s privacy and not to act as a tour guide.
Morgen asked how many people had been there at the time of the niece’s death.
Winter asked what did that have to do with present security.
Morgen snapped, ‘Your job is to answer my questions, not question them.’
‘None,’ she replied coldly. ‘We were dismissed as she meant to go out that evening, to the cinema with a friend.’
‘Was she upset about anything?’ asked Schlegel.
‘Well, her pet canary had just died,’ Winter eventually offered, with barely veiled insolence.
Morgen said, ‘We have been asked to summarise the case of Fräulein Raubal, to refute certain false documentation recently come to light.’
Schlegel thought that sounded convincing enough; he had no idea if it were true. Morgen, as usual, continued to play his hand very close to his chest.
‘When was this business of the canary?’ Morgen went on.
‘After the Führer left, I saw her wandering around the apartment, crooning to the dead bird, which lay on cotton wool in a little box.’
Schlegel asked what staff had been present that day.
‘Myself, as house manager. Frau Reichert, the live-in housekeeper; she had been the landlady at the Führer’s former lodgings.’ Winter made that sound rather infra dig. ‘The daily housemaid and the cook. There was was Frau Drachs too.’
Drachs turned out to be Reichert’s mother and profoundly deaf. She had no duties but the Führer had taken pity on her and let her live there.
Schlegel thought: And the lot of them conveniently out when it happened.
They were shown the library with the Führer’s extensive collection of books. Morgen spotted several self-help manuals on how to improve your public speaking and pointed them out to Schlegel, who kept a straight face. He wondered if the Führer’s relationship with Anton Schlegel had extended to being in this room, and under what circumstances.
The Führer’s sleeping quarters were surprisingly modest. At first Frau Winter claimed the bedroom was out of bounds, being private. Morgen whipped out Müller’s lengthy description of his responsibilities and held it up for inspection. ‘Be quick, then,’ she said and stopped Schlegel, establishing her authority by saying, ‘Only one of you.’
She made it plain without saying so that in the absence of her master this dead space was hers to command. Schlegel supposed, given that it had been empty for so long, she had nothing to do other than treat their intrusion with resentment.
He contented himself with inspecting the bathroom, which had an air of impersonal luxury, like something in the Adlon Hotel. He found it impossible to imagine the man naked in his bath; and had the niece ever sat in it, having her back soaped by her uncle?
They were shown the kitchen and staff quarters: separate enough to ensure the apartment’s privacy.
‘And Fräulein Raubal’s room?’ Morgen asked.
Frau Winter took them there with the greatest reluctance. It was at the front, next to the main reception.
‘The room is a shrine,’ she said. ‘To which no one is admitted but the Führer and myself, to change the flowers.’
Morgen insisted. ‘We have authorisation.’
Frau Winter said she hadn’t got around to replacing the flowers yet.
‘Chrysanthemums. Her favourite.’
The door was locked. The key was produced unwillingly and Morgen asked, ‘Did Fräulein Raubal lock the door before shooting herself?’
‘Yes,’ said Winter.
‘When did anyone grow alarmed?’
‘I came in on the Saturday morning and saw her breakfast and newspaper were still on the tray outside the door.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Morgen.
‘About half past nine. I decided she must have had a late night.’ Frau Winter said it in such a way that implied such nights were not infrequent. ‘It was the Oktoberfest.’
‘Did you knock?’
She sighed as if to say she couldn’t see the point of their questioning. ‘About an hour later I did to ask if she was all right. That was when I found the door locked.’
‘Did she usually lock it?’
‘I am not here at night.’ Frau Winter said.
They were still standing outside the room. Schlegel thought: If it turned out that the niece hadn’t killed herself then it was like one of those old locked-room mysteries.
Frau Winter opened the door and they stepped over the threshold into the gloom of what resembled a theatrical set. The shuttered room made the presence of any flowers pointless. Those in the vase hadn’t been changed in a long time. Schlegel suspected the room’s neglected state reflected Frau Winter’s depression at being abandoned by her master.
Frau Winter looked as though she wanted to stop Morgen as he turned on the main light. The room stood in stark contrast to the renovation of the rest of the apartment with nothing changed in the past thirteen years, frozen as in a fairy story. Schlegel noted the single bed, a desk under the window, a settee, and a gramophone. The furniture was painted with stencilled motifs. The walls were pastel green. An illusion of continuity was maintained by the made-up bed with its embroidered sheets. In contrast to the cavernous space next door the room was poky and ill-proportioned, with the ceiling too high for its width. Schlegel wondered how often the Führer thought of this morbid space as he put the world to rights.
‘I need your version of what happened for the record,’ said Morgen.
Frau Winter looked at him with great hauteur, as though he was questioning her loyalty.
Morgen went on. ‘We can take it here or you will need to accompany us to a police station.’
Slowly she began to speak. Her automatic recital of how the girl died came out pat, as if it had been kept in mothballs all those years.
The bare facts were that the Führer and his niece had lunched together on that last Friday. Spaghetti, Frau Winter remembered; after which the Führer was fetched by his photographer Hoffmann to drive to Nuremberg. Soon after their departure the girl locked the door of her room and at some point later must have shot herself with the Führer’s pistol. As Fräulein Raubal had the only key to the room, Frau Winter, upon growing alarmed the following morning, telephoned her husband to discuss whether to break down the door. In the end, not wanting to incur a bill for damages, a locksmith was summoned. The long and short of it was that it was midday before the police were contacted. By the time the Führer arrived back that afternoon they were done and gone.
‘It doesn’t sound as though the police were particularly thorough,’ said Morgen.
Frau Winter said, ‘If they acted in haste it was out of consideration. They were very efficient and sympathetic. Such a tragic death and they could see how upset we all were.’
*
Hoffmann’s version blamed the weather. The autumn Föhn had been blowing, an ill wind causing everyone to be out of sorts.
‘Enough to shoot yourself?’ enquired Morgen mildly.
‘It can be the very devil. The Führer remarked on it at the time, saying he had the most uneasy feeling of premonition.’
They had found Hoffmann in his shop. He was short, fat, with a vastly protruding belly and a head with an otter’s sleekness. The first thing he asked was whether they had been sent by Bormann, to which Morgen replied, ‘Why ever should we be?’ and Hoffmann responded, ‘I tell you, that man wants me dead.’
When he learned they were there to ask about the Führer’s niece he assumed the air of a forgetful man.
‘Whatever for? Yes, of course. Come through.’
He made a show of ushering them in and drew the blind on the door after him, taking them through the shop and down a corridor to a comfortable room with a tiled stove. Schlegel realised Hoffmann was drunk as he walked past him.
‘Real coffee, gentlemen? Which I happen to have.’ Hoffmann rubbed his hands in a show of bonhomie and said it was all such a long time ago that he doubted what he could remember.
He called, ‘Fräulein Braun!’
A thin very well-dressed woman in her early thirties came through, in a haze of perfume, and regarded them haughtily.
‘Would you mind serving these gentlemen coffee?’
Fräulein Braun looked at Hoffmann as if to say it was beyond her brief, whatever that was.
The woman was a perfect clothes horse. The tinted, permed blonde hair looked like it had just been set. The immaculate make-up was understated, with carefully applied lipstick in a cupid’s bow. The presentation was in calculated contrast to the natural look advocated for women, but Braun got away with it by being obviously trim and sporty, and generally alert. The impression was of brimming good health. Only the startled brightness of the eyes suggested it might be enhanced.
Hoffmann said, ‘Fräulein Braun was my assistant at the time of Fräulein Raubal’s death. She still comes in when her other duties allow.’
Morgen supposed this was the Fräulein Braun, described by Gestapo Müller as Hitler’s friend. The mutual dislike between her and Hoffmann was evident. Morgen noted straight seams on silk stockings as she turned away after agreeing to make coffee.
The point of that was to show how it was properly done. They were called through to a set table, with silverware and a coffee aroma strong enough to turn their knees weak.
Why the woman should be in the shop at all, Morgen could not decide. It was clearly beneath her. He suspected the silver service was to put Hoffmann in his place. The man gave every appearance of letting standards slip. Fräulein Braun served them as though she were conducting an etiquette lesson, with a saccharine overlay (cake and fake cream). She withdrew, closing the door behind her, after pointedly asking, ‘Is that all?’
‘What does Fräulein Braun do?’ enquired Morgen as they listened to her departing footsteps.
‘She supervises the Führer’s mountain retreat,’ said Hoffmann with sufficient innuendo to make his meaning clear. ‘She first met the Führer here in the shop when Herr Wolf came to visit.’ Hoffmann chuckled obsequiously. ‘He liked to present himself as a man of mystery and often went by that name. Fräulein Braun was up a ladder at the time and he admired her legs.’
A brittle creature, thought Morgen, certainly with airs and graces, given the way she had just put them all in their place.
‘When did this historic meeting occur?’ he asked.
‘She was seventeen at the time, so fifteen years ago. In October, I do remember that. October was always a significant month for the Führer.’
‘I say, this coffee is really good,’ Morgen remarked conversationally. ‘Yet Fräulein Braun still works for you.’
‘When she’s in town she handles my photographic press. She likes to use the darkroom here as she is a photographer in her own right.’
Hoffmann looked doubtful about that.
So the woman lived in the mountains, kept a place in town and used her employer’s facilities; it didn’t strike Morgen as a particularly extravagant relationship between her and the Führer. Much younger. Nothing too grand. He wondered if the Führer had been running the two young women in tandem.
‘Did Fräulein Raubal and Fräulein Braun know each other?’ he asked.
Hoffmann gave another chuckle. ‘Only as rivals.’
Hoffmann served himself a large belt of schnapps from a sideboard, after half-heartedly offering it in the expectation of their refusing. Hoffmann took a mouthful, smacked his lips and set the glass down with the steadiness of a seasoned drunk. A sentimental one, too, Schlegel saw from the way the man’s eyes moistened at mention of the niece.
Fräulein Braun, in a hat and putting on gloves, came through to tell Hoffman she was going out and might be back later. She barely glanced at Morgen and Schlegel as she swept past, saying only, ‘Gentlemen.’
She was opening the door when Morgen called her name and she turned with a look that told him he was exceeding himself.
‘Well?’ she asked as she continued to fiddle with her gloves.
‘Were you at all familiar with Fräulein Raubal?’
‘I don’t see what business that is of yours.’
‘We are looking for her diary.’
Even Hoffmann sat up at that.
‘I am sure I wouldn’t know. We never met. There was a mother and a brother, I believe,’ she said with affected vagueness. She remained by the door, dismissive and expectant. Morgen said nothing and finally she turned to Hoffmann. ‘Perhaps they are confusing me with Henny. She knew Fräulein Raubal well. Picnics and all that.’
Henny was his daughter, Hoffmann chipped in, and she was now wife of the governor of Vienna. He sat back, the proud father.
‘Yes,’ concluded Fräulein Braun, ‘she would be the one to ask.’
She left without further ado. Hoffmann muttered under his breath what sounded like, ‘Stuck-up bitch,’ but he would not be drawn further on the subject of Fräulein Braun. Instead he stood and said, ‘Come.’
Hoffmann was an unstoppable show-off. He boasted that he was the only one who could talk the hind legs off the Führer. Although a man of immense self-regard, he was careful to make out he was just ‘a humble snapper’.
They were shown photograph after photograph of the Führer. Boxes and boxes, albums and albums. Early selfconscious poses. Rallies. Speeches. Resting. Themed. And the books churned out! Hoffman reprised the story told to Schlegel by Goebbels, how in the earliest days an American agency had put a price on the Führer’s head.
‘A fabulous bounty for any photograph of the elusive, unsnapped Führer, and I got him too, only to have the film confiscated by his bodyguard.’ Hoffmann looked at them with buzzing delight. ‘What they don’t know is I nailed him again, without anyone noticing. Let me show you.’
The photograph was proudly displayed: the young Führer leaving a building, accompanied by henchmen. Schlegel was struck by the strutting, naked thuggishness, with the entourage assuming the pose of gangsters.
Schlegel asked Hoffmann if he knew the others in the picture. Hoffmann named them. On the right, next to the Führer: Emil Maurice. He wore a uniform and cap, which distracted from any proper impression. Young. They were all young men. Maurice looked wiry.
Schlegel stared at the man who was supposed to have killed his father, yet apparently hadn’t. The dark eyes, if not murderous, suggested huge indifference towards the general welfare of his fellow man. Schlegel found he couldn’t look for long.
He turned to the rest of the photograph, noted the dressing up, as though they were trying on an image. Everyone appeared strangely unformed, even the glaring Führer and Emil Maurice, who had the air of an aspiring matinee idol with his narrow little moustache. Unpressed uniforms but shiny boots. A huge sense of playacting. Those that grew moustaches and those that didn’t.
Hoffmann said he had always remained popular with the Führer, who was amused and entertained by him, but not so Bormann. ‘You see, I shattered the wall of isolation that Bormann has been building around the Führer, so he plotted against me.’
Bormann had recently insisted anyone exposed to the Führer be subjected to a medical checkup and in Hoffmann’s case rigged the results to show he was carrying a highly infectious strain of typhus, which disqualified him from any further contact.
‘What rot! I am as fit as a fiddle. Even Fräulein Braun supports me on this because she knows Bormann is capable of any dirty trick that suits his book.’
Hoffmann turned back to the photographs with a bitter laugh, and said, ‘Now, here’s something. What’s unusual about this photograph?’
‘Two Führers,’ said Morgen.
The occasion was the opening of an autobahn in 1936, when the man and one of his understudies had turned up for the same ceremony. One stood to the left, wearing a peaked cap, hands folded, as if protecting his crotch. He looked entertained, as did the senior Party officials around him, at the sight of an identical looking man cutting the tape, who wore the same cap and uniform, making it appear as though an act of teleportation had occurred.
‘Why two?’ asked Morgen.
‘Admin cock-up, which was good for me. I sold this for big bucks to Time magazine, which reported the story and the good-natured response of the Führer to the amusement of the crowd.’
Living proof, thought Schlegel, of the existence of doubles.
‘You must have photographed the niece too,’ Morgen said.
‘Never to my satisfaction. Something essential always seemed missing.’
‘We heard Fräulein Raubal was a great beauty,’ Morgen said.
‘In the room, undoubtedly. Such joie de vivre.’
The photographs were disappointing. The subject over-projected. Hoffmann failed to hide a heavy jaw, or make much of her round face or capture any animation. The impression was of a pleasant-looking pudding of a young woman.
Hoffmann sighed. ‘It’s like being a sharpshooter. You may miss a lot but you bag them in the end. I never did that with her. The closest I came was one afternoon on a picnic. There’s this one.’
The photograph showed her in profile leaning back on the grass, wearing a summer dress with a bold print, and gazing in adoration at her uncle, who was zonked out in a deck chair, making the picture unintentionally comic.
‘And this one. A saucy moment,’ said Hoffmann.
It showed her paddling on a lakeshore. She wore a pale sleeveless shift, and was standing up to her knees in water, turning to laugh at the lens.
‘I was trying to catch her unawares. She was staring at the water lost in thought, a quite wonderful expression, but then she caught me watching and lifted her skirt and flashed her thigh, giving me that daring look.’
It was the only photograph in which she looked natural, Schlegel thought.
Hoffmann said mournfully that you had to be with her to appreciate her. ‘Such spirit.’
‘Such a tragic end,’ said Morgen, with the air of a weary prompter. ‘You must have been one of the last people to have seen her alive when you collected the Führer on the Friday afternoon.’
‘Who could have known it would turn out like that when we said goodbye to her? I remember her leaning over the bannister as if it were yesterday. There had been a spat but nothing to suggest that she felt impelled to kill herself. The Führer admitted to me in the car that Fräulein Raubal had been in a mood because she thought he was neglecting her. He was embarrassed that staff had heard them arguing over lunch – he had asked the cook for spaghetti, one of his favourites, and a good meal was ruined by her running from the table and smashing things in her room, which could be heard all over the apartment. But nothing to suggest . . .’
Schlegel pointed out that this was very different from the official statement which insisted there had been no disagreement between the Führer and his niece.
Hoffmann said, ‘He only wished to protect her reputation.Well, she had confessed to me that she felt constrained and neglected . . .’
Morgen asked what sort of constraints.
‘She liked parties and dancing.’ Hoffmann did a shimmy and gave them a glimpse of his act as life and soul of the party. ‘But Herr Wolf don’t boogie-woogie.’
‘You’re pretty light on your feet, Hoffmann,’ said Morgen.
Hoffmann stopped, breathless, and smoothed down already smooth hair, passing both hands over his scalp, as he told them that the outcome of her social restrictions was a series of much older chaperones, himself included.
‘The innocent fun of such outings was quite spoiled.’ He assumed a serious expression to make up for the frivolity of a moment before. ‘Frau Winter confided to me that Geli was not happy about living in the apartment, and on that last afternoon, after we had gone, she remained disconsolate and angry, and complained, “I have nothing in common with my uncle.” ’
‘She told you that?’ Morgen exclaimed. ‘Frau Winter doesn’t strike me as the type to volunteer anything.’
‘To outsiders. When it came to the Führer’s welfare, she was fiercely protective.’
Hoffmann and Winter’s combined versions made complete sense to Schlegel. That said, he couldn’t see Winter confiding anything to Hoffmann under normal circumstances: one a blabbermouth and the other a basilisk of discretion. Neither would speak ill of the niece – loyalty to the Führer would preclude that – but the impression was of a spoiled brat who was hard to handle. Although Schlegel didn’t actively question anything that either had said, he thought it might be because they had both learned their lines like actors for a play.
‘In the end, do you have any idea why she did it?’ Morgen asked.
‘The only thing I can think of is the letter,’ said Hoffmaback letter and the business of thenn.
‘What letter?’
‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but Fräulein Raubal must have gone through her uncle’s pockets after he had left, found it, read it and tore it up. Frau Winter discovered it later in the wastepaper basket and taped it back together.’ Hoffmann shrugged and said, ‘Geli could be a compulsive girl. The letter . . . and the Führer’s pistol to hand . . .’
‘A note from whom?’ asked Morgen.
‘Why, Fräulein Braun. Did I not say?’
The Führer’s flame, the same woman who had just served them a fine cup of real coffee.
The torn-up taped-back letter and the business of the dead canary – Schlegel thought them like clues in a thirdrate mystery. It occurred to him that for a woman who volunteered so little, Frau Winter had observed a lot.