For the second time in eleven days Seb found himself in a rather nice office in Wittelsbach Palace, home of the Bavarian Political Police. Being a Sunday it was quieter than his previous visit, the one which had ended with him in a van being driven to Dachau.
The palace was a grand nineteenth-century building, once the home of royals, now headquarters of Munich’s version of the Gestapo. It had crenellations like a castle and towers at the corners. And it had its own cells below ground where screams could not be heard. But Seb was not down there; he was in an upstairs office with heavy drapes and good furniture.
This time Josef Meisinger, Winter’s ambitious boss, was not in attendance. Perhaps he was a religious man, thought Seb, and had gone to mass to look after his soul. A much better use of his time, though likely to be fruitless.
‘Name, age, place of birth, religion.’ The words rattled from Winter’s lips.
‘I think you know all that.’
Winter’s fingers were poised over the keys of the typewriter. ‘Name, age, place of birth, religion,’ he repeated.
‘Charlie Chaplin, ninety-eight, Timbuktu, Buddhism.’
‘Damn you, Wolff. Answer the questions or pay for it.’
‘One day you save my life. Two days later, you haul me from a peaceful sleep. Are you going to give me a clue as to why you have brought me here, Winter?’
‘Sergeant Winter. I am the senior officer today, you are the felon.’
‘Well, good for you.’
‘And I am sure you know perfectly well why you are here.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
Winter jabbed his half-smoked cigarette at Seb. ‘You have been sticking your nose into police matters outside your jurisdiction, namely in Franconia. You have been talking to the foreign press when you were explicitly told not to. And there are other concerns regarding your general behaviour and dissident dealings. So you see, Wolff, I now have you exactly where I want you.’
‘At your mercy, you mean?’
‘Those are your words but I won’t argue with them.’
Winter’s BPP colleague was smirking at his side. He was rubbing his right fist with his left hand as though he had used it many times before and was looking forward to using it again. He was a great deal heavier and physically more powerful than Winter and a few years older, though almost certainly of a lower rank; his role was muscle, not thinking.
‘As for talking to the foreign press, Ernest Pope is a friend of mine and a respected professional, accredited by the regime. We were just sharing a bottle of whisky, not talking about anything concerning my police work. You probably know that he also has good friends here in this building. It is his job to meet people, and he is very good at it. I like him. Perhaps you would too if you met him.’
‘I doubt it. Anyway, if your conversation was so innocent, why did he go down from Hesselberg to the home of an enemy of the state named Albert Heiden, presently in Dachau for his treachery?’ It was framed as a question, but it was not a question, merely an accusation.
Seb was irritated to discover that he had yet again been watched without his knowledge. Had someone actually followed him from Munich on the 150-kilometre drive to Hesselberg? If so, how had he not noticed the vehicle? Or did Winter have BPP contacts in that area? Perhaps they had been shadowing Ernie Pope and Seb simply got caught in another man’s web. Either way, Seb had had enough of this. ‘Sergeant Winter, do you think you and I could have a quiet word alone, just the two of us without King Kong in attendance?’
‘I have nothing to say that my colleague can’t hear.’
‘Yes, but I have.’ He leant forward, cupping his hand to Winter’s ear. ‘It relates to Dortmund,’ he whispered.
Winter blinked rapidly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m sure you heard me loud and clear. Perhaps you’d like me to explain in a bit more detail about—’ and then he simply mouthed the word Dortmund without speaking the name of the city. ‘Your choice.’
‘God damn you, Wolff, you think you’re so damn smart.’ He waved his arm at his underling, the smoke from his cigarette swirling. ‘Go, get out. Wait outside and close the door after you.’
Seb smiled as Winter’s bewildered and disappointed sidekick reluctantly trudged away and did what his master had ordered.
‘So now then, Winter, do you want me to tell you what an old friend has discovered about you in Dortmund. Oh, by the way, he works for your old Gestapo team there and he has excellent contacts. So far he has spoken only to me, but I know that if ever anything untoward happened to me he would feel compelled to speak out – either in Dortmund or here in Munich. Perhaps you would like to hear what he told me?’
‘No, Wolff, I want you to say nothing.’ Winter’s eyes were scanning the desk, the lights, the telephone as though looking for hidden microphones.
‘Probably wise. Shall we call it quits then? I’d rather like to get back to my bed.’
‘Are you intending to mention this to anyone else?’
‘No, Sergeant, I wouldn’t dream of it. And in the same spirit of friendship, I would ask you to do your utmost to keep me out of Dachau. A fair deal, I think. How does it sound to you?’
*
Instead of going straight back home to bed, he went to Hexie’s apartment and woke her up. She was warm and welcoming and suggested he slip between the sheets with her, an invitation which he felt compelled to accept.
She folded herself into his arms. ‘Seb, what’s going on? Where have you been? I wanted to see you last night.’
‘I was at Hesselberg, investigating a pair of murders and preventing another.’
‘And have you come here for a day of Sunday sex magic?’
‘Actually, I was wondering about going back to Hesselberg. Perhaps you’d like to come with me?’ He looked at the clock on the wall. Not quite seven o’clock. It would probably take two and a half hours to drive there if he put his foot down in the Lancia. He had learnt that the big event with Streicher and Goering and Unity Mitford would be starting sometime between 10 a.m. and 11 a.m. and he very much wanted to be there. ‘I think we could fit in some quick magic sex first, though.’
‘You are a very smooth talker, Herr Wolff. And before we begin, let me tell you something I heard yesterday, for I know you have developed an interest in such matters. It was something about the Thule Society.’
‘Now that is interesting. How would you have heard such a thing?’
‘I went to work – and I hear everything in Hoffmann’s studio. That’s why you love me, isn’t it?’
‘Who mentioned Thule?’
‘Herr Wandering Hands – Otto Raspe. He just happened to be there when Regensdorf turned up.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Oh, it must have been just before lunch because we close at one on a Saturday. I was in a bit of trouble because I was in so late after The Pig’s big bash at the lake. I was actually scared I might be fired, which would be awful because I love it there. Anyway, I was told I would have to stay on for a couple of hours to do some cleaning and dusting, so that wasn’t so bad. But I was warned not to be late again. But that’s nothing to do with what I am trying to tell you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Raspe was collecting some prints – all sealed up as usual – and then Walter Regensdorf turned up with a film to develop. I think it was pure coincidence but they greeted each other like old friends and then Raspe lowered his voice and said something, but the only word I heard was “Thule”. “Wouldn’t miss it,” Regensdorf replied. Then he clapped Raspe on the shoulder and off he went. His poor wife was waiting for him in the car outside.’
‘What colour was the car?’
‘Oh, black Daimler-Benz or Mercedes, I think. They’re all black these cars, aren’t they, these Nazi ones. And they don’t come much more Nazi than Walter Regensdorf, do they?’
No, he supposed they didn’t.
*
On the way back to Hesselberg, Seb began to wonder what this trip was about. What could he hope to learn? When this all began after his release from Dachau it had been suggested that he was Munich’s finest murder detective. Well, it didn’t feel like that now.
Perhaps he had got as far as convincing himself that Karl Friedlander was not the murderer, but he had convinced no one else except an American reporter, and even he wasn’t certain. But had anything come of that? Had Ernie Pope managed to get a story linking the killings of Rosie and Hildegard into one of today’s London papers? They weren’t available here so the only way he could find out was to speak to Ernie.
Apart from that he was getting nowhere. He hadn’t even made any progress on the murder of his friend Caius Klammer.
Most of the way they drove in silence. Hexie sat back in the passenger seat of the Lancia Augusta with her eyes closed while Seb held the wheel and ate up the road north. It really was a superb car. They arrived as the crowd was preparing for the arrival of the big names: Goering, Streicher and various other high-ups.
‘Why are we here exactly?’ Hexie demanded as they trekked up the hill.
‘Did you have other plans?’
‘Everyone seems to be here so we could have stayed in Munich and had the English Garden to ourselves. A picnic, a bottle of cherry schnapps and a sunny day. That wouldn’t have been so bad.’
They managed to weave their way to a point thirty or forty metres from the imposing eagle-fronted rostrum. Hundreds of SS men had appeared overnight and were keeping the crowds back and ensuring that the top men would be well-protected.
And then they came up the hill in their big black cars, through a tunnel of wide-eyed men, women and children. Goering and his new wife – the celebrated actress Emmy Sonnemann – were there, waving to their enthusiastic supporters. Once out of the car, Fat Hermann walked side by side with Julius Streicher. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of flags fluttered in the stiff breeze.
Streicher, his bald bullet-head shining, his little moustache quivering like a trapped baby mouse beneath his nose, took the stage with Goering and received tumultuous cheers. Goering then stepped down to allow the Franconia gauleiter to introduce the session.
Julius Streicher was careful with his words as he thundered out his message to the faithful, waving his hands around as though he had studied and rehearsed newsreels of his idol, Adolf Hitler.
‘We do not wish to foment hatred towards other people,’ Streicher bellowed. ‘We offer the hand of friendship to everyone!’
Tell that to Karl Friedlander and his parents, Seb thought.
Almost immediately Streicher was joined on stage by a black-clad Unity Mitford, and then he turned back to the audience with his punchline: ‘But it is the Jew who does not want peace!’
Unity saluted the crowd with her gauntleted right arm and then delivered her own little speech denouncing international Jewry and praising the godlike qualities of Germany’s wonderful leader and saying she hoped Germany and England would always be friends.
The crowd thrust out their right arms. ‘Heil England!’ they shouted.
Seb sensed a face close to his and turned to see Adam Rock standing at his side. ‘Isn’t she magnificent, Inspector?’