‘Been waiting long, Sergeant Winter?’
‘Of course I have, Wolff. You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.’
‘Herr Wolff. You will address me with proper respect or I will have you on a charge for insubordination. And what’s happened to the Hitler salute this morning?’
Winter’s face betrayed his bemusement and indignation. He was supposed to be the one doing the threatening. He was the one who had the power to have Wolff despatched to Dachau. Or, at least, he had had that power. Things had somehow turned on their head and the new situation was confusing for the secret policeman. Unable to explain these feelings, he clicked his heels, threw out his right arm and said the two magic words.
‘That’s better. Now, let’s head for the river.’
‘I have already been to the spot where the body was found. I went there yesterday evening after we parted.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Grass. Leaves. Mud. What do you expect?’
‘Who knows? That’s where murder team training comes in. Well, I haven’t been to the spot, so you can accompany me there now. It’s a fine day, let’s walk.’
Without another word, Seb led the way out of police HQ, heading north and then eastwards along Prinzregentenstrasse across the old Luitpold Bridge over the Isar river and turned north into the picturesque but rather discreet woods.
Sunlight filtered through the ancient trees, all in their summer green finery, hugging the bank between the river and Maria-Theresia-Strasse, one of the loveliest residential streets in the city. Putzi Hanfstaengl had had a house built here as had the writer Thomas Mann in the old days before he became a non-person and fled for his life to Switzerland.
Seb stopped and consulted the map he had been given. It had been carefully drawn by the first officers on the scene and passed on to him by Thomas Ruff. It looked like they must be close.
‘It’s just down there, Herr Wolff, to the left,’ Winter said.
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ That was an improvement. Winter had said something useful and had addressed him correctly.
They sidestepped their way down the bank, which fell away steeply down a muddy incline to the water’s edge, where roots tangled driftwood and other detritus.
‘Right, Winter, get down on your hands and knees and examine the area with extreme care. I shall do the same. We will be looking for anything that could possibly be a clue.’
‘Such as what, Inspector? I have already looked here.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘I told you. Leaves and mud.’
‘Then you didn’t look very hard.’ Seb took out a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket, bent down and used it to pick up a cigarette packet, carefully. ‘Was this here when you examined the area.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. And if it was, so what? It’s a cigarette packet not a clue.’
‘Well, maybe it belonged to the killer, or the victim. Maybe there are fingerprints to be recovered. Maybe the killer is known for using this brand of cigarette.’
Winter shrugged irritably. ‘I suppose it’s possible. In which case why would the killer have left it here? Anyone could have dropped it.’
‘Or it could have fallen out of the killer’s pocket. Take nothing for granted.’ He removed a brown paper bag from his other pocket and deposited the carton in it.
For a few moments he wondered why he was bothering to explain such basic and obvious procedures to Winter. The man wasn’t there to investigate a murder, merely to report back to his political bosses at the Wittelsbach Palace.
Trying to teach Winter anything was clearly a hopeless task. And yet Seb couldn’t resist the challenge; it was his nature to inform and enlighten. He had trained up several detectives in the past few years and had been satisfied with the results of his endeavours.
‘Did you look for footprints?’
‘There was nothing. Lots of scuffed dust from the uniformed police who were here first and the stretcher bearers who carried the corpse away.’
They spent the next half-hour on their knees, scrabbling through the dry earth and vegetation.
‘What about this?’ Winter said, holding up a tube about the size of a slim half-smoked cigar. ‘Lipstick by the look of it.’
‘You’re getting your own fingerprints on it.’ Dear God, the man was a lost cause. The BPP was welcome to him. Seb took the lipstick in his handkerchief and examined it. It was almost empty but what remained was bright red, not unlike the lipstick on the body of Rosie Palmer. There were no identifying marks on the object for either owner or maker.
‘Well done, Winter, that’s a good find. It could be important.’
‘You really think so?’
‘It’s possible. Come on, we’ve seen enough here. I want to talk to the people she lodged with.’
‘You know who that is, I take it?’
Yes, he knew. And going there was not a comfortable prospect. The well-connected Miss Palmer had been living with Walter Regensdorf, the wealthy industrialist and early sponsor of one Adolf Hitler back in the mid-twenties. He and his wife Maria had introduced the would-be Führer to other rich and powerful industrialists and had taught him how to feel at home with the upper classes. They were Nazis to the core.
‘Do you not think we should ask for an appointment?’
‘No, Winter, this is a murder case. We just go and knock on their door. I am sure we will be expected. They must want to find the killer of their guest as much as we do.’
*
The Regensdorfs lived on Karolinenplatz in an enormous square mansion house – a five-storey palatial monolith named Villa Saphir, that dominated the circular crossroads of Brienner Strasse, Barer Strasse and Max-Joseph-Strasse. The house lacked beauty but impressed by its sheer power-exuding size, right at the heart of Nazidom.
It was close to the Brown House and various other important party and Reich buildings, and within a hundred metres of political police headquarters in Wittelsbach Palace. Towering over the centre of the square was an obelisk dedicated to the Bavarian soldiers who died in the Napoleonic Wars.
Karolinenplatz was, perhaps, the most sought-after address in Munich, even allowing for the present dust and noise and traffic chaos around nearby Königsplatz.
Seb imagined he would be expected to go to a side or rear entrance where tradesmen might make their deliveries to the grand household, but he walked straight up the stone steps to the front door and pulled the bell-chain.
The door was answered by a liveried serving man who looked at Seb and then the ill-dressed Winter with disdain.
‘No beggars.’ He was about to close the heavy door.
Seb flashed his badge. ‘We’re Kripo, regarding the murder of Miss Rosie Palmer.’
The servant stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah, yes, indeed. Please wait here, gentlemen.’ He clicked his heels, gave the Hitler salute, then closed the door on them before they had a chance to return the courtesy.
*
Maria Regensdorf should have been the height of elegance, given her place at the forefront of Munich society. Yet here in her mid-forties her glum face was a veritable potato. She was dressed in expensive Bavarian tracht – a dark green knee-length skirt and jacket with deer-horn buttons – and yet she managed to look vaguely unkempt. Untold wealth did nothing for her appearance. Perhaps, thought Seb, she just felt comfortable in herself with no necessity to put on a show for the world, which suited him just fine.
Seb had seen her picture in the papers several times, for she was a doyenne of the opera and arts in Munich and even further afield, but in the flesh, she was hausfrau writ large. That said, she retained vestiges of the attractive young woman she once was.
‘You must be Herr Wolff,’ she said. ‘My good friend Putzi Hanfstaengl has told me all about you. In fact he spoke very highly of your skills as a detective.’
‘You are very kind, Frau Regensdorf.’
‘Oh, and he said you were fluent in English, which may be very important in getting to the bottom of this dreadful tragedy. Such a lovely girl, Rosie. I can’t believe anyone would wish her harm. She had become like a daughter to me these past few months. You might know that my husband and her late father were good friends at school in England.’
‘I believe I heard as much, yes.’
She turned to Winter as though only just registering his presence. ‘And who is this? Is he your assistant?’
‘He is, madam. This is Sergeant Winter.’
‘Well, you had both better come in. Herr Regensdorf is on the telephone presently, but he shouldn’t keep you waiting long.’
They stepped inside the magnificent hallway and were directed towards a side room. ‘You should be all right in here. It’s our little library. My husband so likes his books.’
‘Actually, I was hoping I might have a few words with you, too, Frau Regensdorf. I am very keen to get the names of her friends and any thoughts you might have about the murderer and his or her motive.’
‘Really? I’m sure my husband can fill you in about all that.’
‘But when did you last see her? Did she go out with friends? I need to understand her last movements.’
‘You know, much as we loved Rosie, she was merely lodging here. She came and went as she pleased. She was a young woman not a girl.’
‘I understand, of course. But was there a moment when you realised she was missing – that she hadn’t come back here?’
Maria Regensdorf sighed. ‘You don’t seem to be hearing me, Herr Wolff. I told you – she did as she pleased. She sometimes ate with us, but not always because she had a life of her own. We didn’t keep checks on her. That was the arrangement we agreed with her family.’
This was not going to be easy. ‘Would I be permitted to talk with your servants?’
‘Another question for my husband, I think. He is the master of the house.’
‘I believe you have a daughter of your own. Is she here?’
‘My stepdaughter is married and living in Ingolstadt. Rosie Palmer was staying in her old room.’
‘Might we have a look at the room?’
‘Dear me, you are asking rather a lot. This is a private home, you know.’
‘Of course, madam, and we will ensure that we leave everything as it is. But this is a murder inquiry.’
‘At the risk of repeating myself endlessly, all I can say is that you can talk to my husband about that. Also, if he says I should talk to you, then of course I will comply. But that is his decision. In the meantime, I shall leave you here. Please, do make yourself comfortable.’
Without another word, she wafted from the room and closed the door behind her.
Winter stood in awe of his surroundings. The little eyes in his rat face became almost wide as he turned and looked at the exquisite panelling and the shelves with thousands of books.
Seb was irritated. He rather thought he would acquire more information from Maria Regensdorf than her husband. She, surely, would have had more to do with the English girl and her education on a day-to-day basis, especially as she had described her as becoming like a daughter.
Idly, he examined the books. All Goethe’s works were here, of course, bound in leather and very probably first editions. Shakespeare, too, and all the greats of European literature, from the Greeks and Romans to Cervantes and Zola. Everything was in alphabetical order and so he looked under H and was not surprised by what he found. Hitler’s Mein Kampf was there, but no Heinrich Heine. Then his gaze went to M and R, just out of interest. No Thomas Mann; no Remarque. Even in this house they had been consigned to the Nazis’ bonfire of history.
There were other German works, though, much of it rather obscure. Histories of the Nordic peoples and gods, particularly the works of Guido von List and Helena Blavatsky and Nietzsche. Völkisch tracts that stressed the closeness of the Germanic peoples to the land and the hunger for a German religion distinct from Christianity, along with other tracts that stressed the superhuman nature of the pure-bred German. He supposed it made sense that Regensdorf would be a man of such racial sensibilities given his closeness to Adolf and his ideology.
The library door swung open and the liveried serving man appeared. ‘Herr Regensdorf will see you gentlemen now. If you would follow me, please.’
They were taken along a wood-lined corridor to the great man’s study, a room that seemed to contain as many books as his library, as well as a large desk and a window with an expansive view over the tree-lined square.
Walter Regensdorf was scribbling something on a pad of paper with a fountain pen. With an expansive gesture, he dashed off a signature, folded the paper and slid it into an envelope. Only then did he look up.
‘Ah, Herr Wolff and Herr Winter, is it? Do sit down both of you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Seb said. ‘I am Inspector Wolff.’
‘Well I’m very pleased to meet you both, though the circumstances are extremely unhappy. In truth, I am devastated by the death of my late friend’s lovely and delightful daughter.’
Two chairs had been placed in front of his desk. Seb took the one on the right.
Walter Regensdorf was at least ten years older than his wife and wore the tweeds and brogues of an English gentleman, which was not surprising for one who had spent their tender years at an exclusive boarding school in the English Midlands. He was almost certainly in his mid-fifties and had evidently lived well, given the thickening of his cheeks and the smooth, untroubled sheen of his large forehead and bald pate. With his Lenin beard, he had an aura of power and had most certainly been a sportsman in his younger days; perhaps he still was, reflected Seb.
‘And you should know,’ Regensdorf continued, ‘that I have just got off the telephone to the Führer. He is as deeply saddened as we are and demands that the killer be brought to book and despatched without delay. This matter must be dealt with at speed and there must be no errors. Herr Wolff, perhaps you can tell me exactly how you intend to proceed.’
‘Well, first of all, sir, I need to talk to the occupants of this house, including the servants. I need to know all about Miss Palmer’s movements in the days and hours before she was murdered. Who did she meet? Where did she go? I have told Frau Regensdorf that I would like to inspect the young lady’s room. Also I would like the names and addresses of her tutors and her friends.’
‘Of course, of course. I will put you in the capable hands of my secretary, Frau Huber, and she will assist you with all of that.’
‘And for yourself, sir, do you have any suspicions of anyone in Miss Palmer’s circle?’
‘Good Lord, no. If I had, the suspect would be under lock and key by now.’
‘Do you know of any boyfriends she had? Were there men in her life?’
‘I suppose there must have been. She was an attractive girl.’
‘When did you last see her, sir?’
‘Well, that would have been the evening before last, about nine o’clock. I chanced upon her in the hallway. She was all dressed up and she told me she was going out with her English friends and that they would most likely join up with some young SS officers. I wished her a pleasant evening and carried on into my library. I didn’t see her again. It was only the following day at breakfast when my wife and I realised that neither of us had seen her that we spoke with the servants and it became obvious she was missing. Frau Huber telephoned the police on our behalf.’
‘I would like the names of these friends she was to meet and, if possible, the SS officers you mentioned.’
‘I couldn’t say with certainty because I didn’t interrogate her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them was the Mitford girl – Unity Mitford, daughter of Lord Redesdale. I was introduced to him last year when he visited Munich, but I couldn’t tell you much about the family. All I know is that young Unity has enchanted the Führer with her beauty and delightful conversation. He enjoys her company greatly and she was a close friend of Rosie.’
‘Do you have an address for Miss Mitford?’
‘Well, at the time I met her father I believe she was lodging with Baroness Laroche in Koniginstrasse. Certainly the baroness will be able to help you further. Yes, that might be your best course of action, Wolff. Talk to the Mitford girl. She should be able to give you a list of Miss Palmer’s acquaintances.’