All he felt was the strangely muted impact and he was sprawling in the road. He was aware of the weight of his body against the implacable weight of the stone, as though he should be sinking, going down, folding into the earth from which he came, but the solidity of the road was holding him back. And then he was aware of something else: he was alive.
His mouth tasted of blood and he couldn’t move, but he was almost certain that he wasn’t dead. Perhaps he was dying, but it didn’t seem the way he had imagined it in the long hours of anticipating imminent death as shells and mortars pounded the trenches. He was face down, his eyes open but seeing only darkness. He tried to shift himself and he heard a voice, distant and weird, yet somehow familiar.
‘Can you move?’ it said.
‘I think so,’ he mumbled, still face to the ground, the blood seeping through his teeth.
‘Then get up. Quickly.’ The voice’s hands were under his arms, hoisting him roughly.
Seb was on his elbows now. He twisted his head towards the voice.
Winter. Sergeant Hans Winter.
‘What happened?’ Seb asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.
‘I just saved your life, Wolff, that’s what happened. I pushed you out of the way of a speeding car. Someone wants you dead.’
Seb was on his hands and knees, forcing himself up. He felt shaky but strong enough and stood. He spat blood and ran his tongue along his teeth. All still there. ‘I thought you wanted me dead, Winter.’
‘No, I want you in Dachau, where you belong. I’m not a murderer, I uphold the law.’
Seb dusted the gravel from his trousers and his jacket, then wiped his sleeve across his face. The cut was inside his mouth, with nothing more than a graze or scrape on his cheek.
‘Well, thank you, Winter. Whatever your intentions, you did me a good turn.’
‘You’re a mess. What were you doing at the Beobachter?’
‘Talking to someone.’
‘You’re still working on the Friedlander case, aren’t you? You won’t let it go.’
‘Like you, Winter, my sole aim is to uphold the law. Anyway, what are you doing here?’
‘Following you. We work together, if you recall.’
‘Of course we do. How could I forget? Who was in the car?’
‘I didn’t see. I was too busy saving you. But if you want the answer, just ask yourself this: who wants you dead?’
The answer to that was obvious: whoever killed Rosie Palmer.
‘And I have a message for you,’ Winter continued. ‘Hanfstaengl demands your presence at the Brown House.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In ten minutes.’
Seb nodded and realised his head was throbbing. Strange how the fall hadn’t hurt while it was happening, but now he could feel it. He fished out his handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his lip. So then, a quick drive down to the Brown House to see Putzi Hanfstaengl. Fair enough; he wasn’t going to go to Hoffmann’s studio anyway, not with Winter in tow.
He dusted himself down again and combed his fingers through his hair. Ironic that Winter should comment on his unkempt appearance, he thought, given the state of his own greasy attire. Seb climbed into the Lancia and opened the passenger door. ‘Coming?’
‘I have my own transport.’ He indicated a small black car on the other side of the road. ‘I’ll follow you.’
*
‘What’s going on, Wolff? I have heard disturbing reports about you.’
Putzi Hanfstaengl had refused entry to Winter and was speaking with Seb alone. His face was twitching, his hooded eyes darker than ever.
‘I’m sorry, Herr Hanfstaengl, I don’t think I know what you mean.’
‘I mean the affair of Rosie Palmer’s murder is closed. The final act will be played out tomorrow and then a date will be set for the execution. And yet it seems you are still inclined to investigate the crime, as though a man’s confession is not enough for you.’
‘May I ask who told you this, sir?’
‘Never mind who told me – is it true or not?’
‘I believe there are loose ends, yes.’
‘Such as?’
‘The marks on the body. They have not been fully explained. The possibility of an accomplice. And the motive.’
Hanfstaengl, a tall man, rose to his full height, then clenched his fists and shook them. ‘The motive is clear, as explained by Miss Mitford. Friedlander couldn’t have the girl so he wasn’t going to allow anyone else to have her. Call it what you will – a crime of passion or just plain old-fashioned brute savagery, but I see no reason to doubt that the killer has been caught.’
‘What if there were two of them? What if the marks were not Hebrew script? What if the maidservant Lena Popp was lying?’
‘God in heaven, Wolff, there are a lot of damned what ifs there. Here’s another one: what if I tell you that you are in grave danger of enraging the Führer. He wanted this matter settled and you have settled it. Don’t scratch at the wound, man. Talking of which, what’s happened to your mouth? There’s blood on your lip.’
‘I nearly got run down a few minutes ago.’
Seb knew that Putzi Hanfstaengl was one of Hitler’s oldest friends, going right back to the days of the attempted overthrow of the Munich government in Hitler’s famous Putsch of 1923. Hanfstaengl and his sister Erna had tried in vain to protect him from arrest. It was even said that there was a love affair between Hitler and Erna. Certainly the Hanfstaengls had done all they could to introduce the would-be dictator to the upper classes in Munich – people like the Regensdorfs, the Bechsteins and the Bruckmanns. People who could raise money for the cause and give Hitler a veneer of respectability.
Now, though, Hanfstaengl did not sound like a close friend, he did not sound like a man who could charm the Führer with his piano playing. He sounded, rather, like a nervous underling – a servant petrified that his master would turn on him and cast him out into the wilderness or worse. And so there was no point in trying to reason with him, because it wouldn’t work.
If there were any doubts about the guilt of Karl Friedlander, Hanfstaengl didn’t want to know about them.
‘Then you’d better be more careful crossing the road, hadn’t you, Wolff. In fact you had better be more careful about other things, too. Get a grip on yourself, man. Your boss Ruff tells me he has given you another murder case to solve. Deal with that.’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
Hanfstaengl took a deep breath and at last the twitch disappeared. He forced a smile onto his broad face. ‘Good man.’
‘Thank you for the beer, sir. It is very much appreciated.’
‘Oh, a very small gesture. And Councillor Weber tells me you’ve been invited to his big show tomorrow night. He tells me it’s going to be very risqué and very pagan. You are coming, aren’t you? And you’ll bring a girl, yes? I’m told you have a delightful and very beautiful lady. My wife Helene will be thrilled to meet you both. A much better use of your time than chasing your tail like a dog.’
Seb smiled back. Yes, it would be interesting to meet Helene Hanfstaengl, yet another woman who was said to have won the heart of Hitler with her beauty, though there was no suggestion that anything had ever occurred between them. ‘I’m very much looking forward to it Herr Hanfstaengl, but I haven’t asked the girl yet.’
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Just don’t bring your awful Gestapo shadow with you, eh?’
‘He’s Bavarian Political Police, sir.’
‘Same damned thing.’
*
It had been a long day. Tomorrow promised to be longer. He wasn’t going to be called to give evidence in the trial of Karl Friedlander, but he was going to be there anyway. Perhaps the young Jew wouldn’t plead guilty, and what then? It was an interesting possibility.
And as for Jurgen and Silke, all he and her family could do was wait and hope. Silke sounded a reasonably sensible girl so the chances were she would call soon.
Tonight, though, he needed to lose Winter and somehow discover whether Hoffmann’s studio had processed the anatomy pictures. Then he wanted to put his mind to the matter of Caius Klammer’s murder. Yes, of course, the two cases had to be linked, but that fact alone didn’t help much.
Not long ago he hadn’t been sure he would ever enter the Police Presidium in Ettstrasse again, but everything had changed since then. Someone had tried to kill him, and he needed to keep possession of his police badge to find out who.
From his office, he called Hexie and agreed to meet her at the Schelling-Salon. It was too late to ask the new counter girl about the anatomy pictures, but hopefully Hexie would know whether Hoffmann dealt with such things.
He arrived a few minutes before her and she seemed uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t know. There was a whisper of cutbacks. I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘You’d get another one easily.’
‘But I like it there. It’s easy-going. We have a few laughs.’
‘And you hear everything.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How about a schnapps with your beer?’
‘How well you know me, Detective.’
With her fears for her job it did not seem an opportune moment to bring up the question of photographic plates. Perhaps later in the evening. For the time being she needed cheering up, and no one liked a party more than Hexie Schuler.
‘We’re going out tomorrow night. Out of town to The Pig’s lakeside palace. He’s putting on some huge show and we’re invited. It’ll be champagne and dancing until dawn knowing him.’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘Asking, of course.’
‘Then I’d be delighted to accompany you.’
‘We’ll drive out there and stay until dawn. We can sneak off from the party for some of the swimming we missed on my birthday. Don’t bring a costume.’