He went back to the hospital. He needed a voice of sanity to calm him down and try to make sense of what he knew and didn’t know – and how to proceed. No one better than Hexie for that.
Before he entered, a car’s horn caught his attention. He turned and saw a black Mercedes and instantly recognised Uncle Christian’s driver.
‘Are you here for me?’
‘Councillor Weber wants you.’
‘Well, he can wait. I’m here to visit someone. Tell him I’ll come and see him later today.’
‘He wants you now.’ The driver pulled out a pistol.
Seb laughed. ‘I don’t think he’d be very happy if you shot his beloved nephew.’ He turned his back on the driver and strode into the hospital. Then he turned again and retraced his steps. Let Hexie sleep, he might just get more out of The Pig. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘put your toy pistol away, I’ll see him now. Is he at the Residenz?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll follow you in my car. I don’t like your driving.’
Fifteen minutes later he found himself once more in the Black Hall of the royal palace. Christian Weber had a face of rolling dark clouds. He had a toothpick and was trying to pull something – probably a stringy bit of pork – from between his incisors. He didn’t bother with small talk.
‘You are making enemies, boy, and you are embarrassing me. What in the name of your sainted mother are you up to?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I mean that with my assistance you were given an important case, a very important case with international implications. One that meant a great deal to the Führer himself and by extension to me. You solved it, there was a guilty plea, sentence was passed and executed. I had even brought in Munich’s finest lawyer on the defendant’s behalf at your request so that there could be no question of a mistrial, no doubt about the result. Yet for some reason known only to yourself you won’t let it go. And now, to cap it all, you have been dismissed from the police force.’
‘The case needs to be reopened. I have new evidence. The killer is still at large and no young woman is safe.’
‘And what will you do when you find this killer? Tell the court that they executed the wrong man? Tell the British government that the German police are utter incompetents? Do you think your Führer would thank you for that?’
‘I don’t have any option.’
‘Really? You’re not even a police officer any longer. This is not your responsibility. Or perhaps you want to go back to Dachau? Well, if that’s the case, you’re going the right way about it and I won’t be getting you out this time.’
‘This isn’t easy for me, Uncle. There have been two attempts on my life. You know about one of them because your driver was at the hospital and so you must have heard about my so-called accident. I also have the names of two BPP men who killed a witness who just happened to be helping me with my inquiries, but I am powerless to do anything about it. Does no one care about the murder of a decent man in this godforsaken city just because he is of a different sexual orientation? Does no one care that an innocent man has been guillotined just because he is of a different religion or race? Does no one care that girls are having their throats cut?’
Weber’s voice softened. ‘You’re rambling, boy. This is getting you nowhere, and it’s not helping me. I can only dig you out of so much shit, you know, and then you’re on your own. Anyway, who are these two BPP assassins?’
‘What would you do with the names if I told you?’
‘I could make life difficult for them.’
‘I can’t tell you, Uncle. I wish I could, but I can’t. I’ve made a promise. Anyway, they’re pretty well untouchable with their contacts at Wittelsbach Palace.’
‘Let me guess then. Matthäus and Fuchs.’
Seb couldn’t reply.
‘Your silence confirms it, boy. Those two holy cunts would kill their own mothers for a litre of beer and a plate of grilled sausages.’
‘Even if it was them – and I’m not confirming or denying it – there’s nothing to be done. Your friends Heydrich and Himmler aren’t going to admit that they employ murderers.’
‘There are always ways and means.’
‘You mustn’t front them up for they would know my source and do for him.’
‘Front them up? Why would I do that? Sometimes I wonder about you.’
‘I need to know who hired them.’
‘I could extract that from them.’
‘No. Leave it to me.’ He could only imagine what methods Uncle Christian might bring to bear.
Weber shrugged. ‘Anyway, let’s get you back on the force.’
‘I doubt it will happen.’
His uncle grinned and his vast belly wobbled. ‘Now that’s something you can leave to me. In the meantime, how’s that girl of yours? Bashed her head, I hear.’
‘The doctors think she’ll be all right.’
‘And have you asked her to marry you yet?’
Seb couldn’t help smiling. ‘Funnily enough, I have. And the yet more remarkable thing is, she said yes.’
Weber’s little eyes widened. He tossed away the toothpick and threw his arms wide.
‘Well done, boy, well done.’ He moved forward and enveloped Seb in a sweat-and-cologne embrace. ‘My heartiest wishes to you both. She’ll make a man of you yet.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’ll be the Munich wedding of the year. I’ll get Adolf along as guest of honour. That will see you right for a long and fruitful union and do your career no harm either.’
‘I’ll have to talk to Hexie about that, Uncle.’
‘Nonsense. Leave this all to me. Money will be no object. We’ll get you promotion and a good pay rise. You’ll need to keep the copper pfennigs coming in to raise a healthy brood of children. Your mother will be so proud – and what of young Jurgen? He’ll be happy for you, won’t he?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure.’
‘It’ll be a tremendous day. If you live long enough to see it, of course.’
*
Seb turned up at the Vier Jahreszeiten Hotel with no real idea what might lie in store. He had wondered whether to go home and change into a smarter suit, but thought better of it. Why in damnation should he kowtow to this strange, credulous bunch of people? Otto Raspe, who had extended the invitation, knew what sort of man he was; if he or the rest didn’t like his appearance, that was their business and none of his.
A valet in the smart entrance lobby directed him to a lift and told the liveried operator to take him up to the fourth floor. The man somehow doffed his peaked cap and did a Heil Hitler simultaneously, and then set the elevator on its way.
‘This is my first Thule meeting,’ Seb said.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Does the society meet here often.’
‘Every month. It has always been associated with the Vier Jahreszeiten, of course, but it hasn’t been so well attended recently. I believe it is not well thought of by some of the senior men in the movement these days.’
Seb nodded. That was the way he understood it. Though an outright ban had not been imposed, the Thule Society did not have Hitler’s approval, not since its founder Rudolf von Sebbotendorf wrote a book titled Before Hitler Came, which seemed to suggest that the Führer learnt all his politics from the society. Sebbotendorf had since scarpered abroad somewhere, leaving only the diehards like Raspe and a few others, almost always among the more wealthy and influential members of Munich and the other cities with branches.
It was true that in 1919 two of the original members, Karl Harrer and Anton Drexler, had founded the German Workers Party, which Hitler would soon transform into the National Socialist German Workers Party, otherwise known as the Nazis. It was also true that Sebottendorf had acquired the Münchener Beobachter newspaper on behalf of Thule, changing its title to Völkischer Beobachter before it was sold to Hitler.
So there were links. But such truths did nothing to endear Sebottendorf or the Thule Society to Hitler. He was his own man, his politics were his own and no one else’s. That was the way he saw it, and no one was going to take an iota of credit for what he had devised and built. The Nazi movement was his achievement and his alone.
Despite this, the links were strong. Hadn’t Alfred Rosenberg – Hitler’s ideological chief man – been a member of the Thule Society well before the Nazis came into existence? And didn’t he still write at great length about Teutonic mythology and the mystical destiny of the Germanic peoples? And what of that other early member of Thule, Rudolf Hess; he was now the Führer’s official deputy.
And those other names, what had become of them? Well, Sebottendorf had disappeared, Harrer was dead and Drexler was still around and well thought of, though had no power within the Party. Perhaps he would be here tonight.
Meanwhile, Germany’s love affair with the occult continued unabated. And if the state came down hard on frauds and charlatans, they still allowed room for those – like the Thule Society – who laid claim to a scientific basis for their risible beliefs of mythical northern islands and Norse gods.
‘Ah, you’ve actually come, Herr Wolff. Welcome, welcome.’
It was Otto Raspe.
‘Thank you,’ Seb said.
‘And Heil Hitler, of course.’ They exchanged salutes. ‘And was Frau Raspe of assistance?’
‘Perhaps. It’s difficult to tell. I hadn’t been at your house long before Adam Rock turned up. He was actually more forthcoming than I expected, so I learnt a few things about Rosie Palmer and her friends. Time will tell whether I can make any progress.’
‘Well, for the moment, you can simply think of Germany and the German race for the evening. This is all very gentle, I promise you. We’ll have a talk, a conversation. There will be a break for drinks and I hope you find it all as engrossing as I do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And if you like us, perhaps you’ll consider applying for membership. The main qualification, of course, is proof of pure Aryan blood.’
Raspe led Seb through to a room with a smart lectern at one end and several rows of straight-backed wooden chairs arranged in a semicircle around it. The room wasn’t large. There was easily room for the thirty of forty chairs, but a hundred would have been a squeeze. Two rifles dating back to pre-war days hung on a wall opposite the window that looked out onto Maximilianstrasse. Above them was a pennant bearing the curved swastika of the Thule Society, much like the one Seb was certain he had seen fluttering in the distance at Hesselberg.
‘Looking at the guns, eh, Wolff?’ Raspe said. ‘Mementoes of 1919 when we resisted the Bolshevik Jews who imposed their dirty politics on Munich for four mad weeks. We used this room even back then, but our arsenal was considerably bigger, as was our membership – in the region of sixteen hundred for the whole of Bavaria. It didn’t take us long to clean up the Bolshevik pigsty.’
‘I believe you came under attack.’
‘The Reds raided us here on April twenty-sixth of that year. Some of our finest were dragged away, but I shot my way out. If I had been captured I would doubtless have been murdered in cold blood by those Russian Jews like my good friends Countess Haila von Westarp and the Prince Gustav von Thurn und Taxis. Two of the most delightful and upstanding people you could hope to meet. Haila was simply beautiful and a glorious spirit. That was the Thule Society’s darkest day, and yet also its proudest. One must always admire someone prepared to die for their country and their race.’ He sighed, seemingly lost in his memories.
Seb decided it was wiser not to mention that the version of events he had heard involved a great deal of bloodshed on both sides.
‘But that is a story for another time,’ Raspe continued. ‘Come, Herr Wolff, it is a great deal more peaceful now. Sit with me at the front, won’t you? And I hope you won’t mind if I introduce you to my co-members.’
A gramophone record was playing softly, background music, very German befitting the nature of the meeting; Seb was pretty sure it was Wagner, but could not have identified which of his works it was.
The room was filling up: the wealthy and titled of Munich. Helene Bechstein, Hugo and Elsa Bruckmann, Erna Hanfstaengl. He spotted Walter Regensdorf, who nodded his glistening bald head in the direction of Raspe, but not to Seb; clearly a Kripo officer – even a defenestrated one – was far too lowly to be recognised by the great magnate. Nor was he alone, but accompanied by his drab but expensively dressed wife Maria and his severe secretary Frau Huber, who took seats either side of him. Suddenly, Seb found himself having yet more sympathy for the poor deceased English girl. It can’t have been much fun for Rosie Palmer lodging with the overbearing Regensdorf clan.
There was a fourth member of the party, too. The Mitford girl, Bobo. That was a surprise. How close was she to the Regensdorfs?
Seb wondered whether he might have a chance to talk to Irmgard Huber before the end of the evening. He would like to hear her own version of her difficult relationship with Miss Palmer; not that it was likely to amount to much. Certain people – men and women – could be scarily judgemental in their stern morals. That had always been the way in the old Germany and the new Third Reich only sharpened the pursed lips and disapproving looks. Hence the rising numbers of homosexual men in Dachau and the absence of rouge on young girls’ cheeks.
At last there was silence and a man Seb did not recognise took the lectern and introduced the talk. The subject was to be ‘Versailles: the Jews’ greatest crime’. Seb groaned inwardly, unable to believe that they were still going over this absurd ground, arguing that surrender and humiliation in the war was a Jewish conspiracy rather than the blindingly obvious truth that with America pouring men and weapons into the Western Front, Germany was hopelessly outgunned.
And then the speaker rose to the lectern to loud applause. It was Anton Drexler himself. The man who helped found the German Workers Party which Hitler took over and turned into the Nazi Party. The man whom some said had discovered Hitler.
He was a glum-looking man – thick face behind thick spectacles with a small untidy moustache. He wore an old suit that had seen better days and spoke in flat tones with a slurred working-class Munich accent. The next hour passed in a haze of invectives against Judaism, the perfidious French and the bloodthirsty Reds, and Seb had trouble staying awake.
The applause this time was more muted, probably because everyone else in the room was as bored as Seb was. Perhaps they had disapproved of the large glass of aqua vitae at the speaker’s side, which he continually imbibed. Seb found himself looking at his watch as the assembled members and guests rose from their chairs to mingle and drink.
‘Got to be somewhere, Wolff?’ Raspe said.
‘My girlfriend – fiancée – is in hospital. I’m worried about her.’
‘Then you must go to her without delay. And I want to apologise for Herr Drexler. He is not the most inspiring speaker. In fact he has been rather a hollow man since his role in the party waned. Next time I will seek out Germany’s finest expert on runes. Now that should be a great deal more interesting.’
‘Well thank you anyway, Colonel. It has been enlightening.’
‘Which sounds like a polite way of saying deathly dull.’
Seb smiled and shook Raspe’s hand. He hadn’t known what to expect when he accepted the invitation to come here, but it hadn’t been this. Where was the mysticism of ancient Germany, the mythology of the runes and the pagan gods? Despicable though Drexler’s views might be, the whole tenor of the evening was closer to a drunken chat in a beer hall than a journey into the occult. There was no clue here to the violent deaths of Rosie Palmer and Hildegard Heiden.
‘By the way, sir, did the Thule Society have representation at the Hesselberg day this weekend? I was there and thought I saw one of your flags.’
‘Well, not me, but perhaps others went. I couldn’t say.’
‘No matter.’ Seb thanked his host, said goodbye and moved towards the door. A face appeared before his eyes, out of nowhere: Maria Regensdorf.
‘Inspector Wolff, yes?’
He found himself bowing and clicking his heels. Old military habits die hard when a private soldier meets the officer class. ‘Frau Regensdorf.’
‘I thought it was you.’
‘I was just about to go.’
‘Yes, yes, go.’
‘You were going to say something?’
‘No. I’m sorry, I’m holding you up.’
‘Can I assist you in any way?’
She shook her head and moved away. Seb watched her go, confused. She had moved over to him deliberately as though she wanted to talk about something, but had changed her mind.
The elevator took him down to the ground floor and he made his way out through the lobby onto Maximilianstrasse. Darkness had fallen but a couple of street lights illuminated the road. He crossed the street towards the dilapidated Opel, but stumbled and juddered forward as though hit by an electric current.
The barrel of a gun was pressing hard against his spine. He turned and came face to brutish face with Lukas Matthäus and Rudi Fuchs. They both held Walther PPKs and they were both grinning.
Seb’s hand went inside his jacket for the butt of his own gun, but Fuchs, the smaller of the two secret police officers, was quicker, shoved the muzzle of his own pistol into Seb’s face and removed the pistol from his grasp with his left hand. ‘We’ll take that, I think.’
Matthäus smacked his own pistol into the side of Seb’s head. Hard enough to draw blood and stun him, but not hard enough to kill or render him unconscious.
‘Time for a little ride, Wolff.’