He bathed and changed clothes before leaving again, buying a cup of coffee from a late-night restaurant on his way to Prinzregentenplaz. The coffee revived him enough to make him alert, but not enough to wipe the gritty feeling from his eyes. Despite his best intentions, he would have to get some sleep. He would do no one any good if he could not think clearly.
He had made a mental list. He still had one eyewitness he hadn’t spoken to. After he spoke with the old woman, Frau Dachs, he would talk with Gregor Strasser, other members of the NSDAP, and Hitler himself.
First, Fritz went to Prinzregentenplaz. The old woman would have to be in so late at night. He would speak to her and get the letter. Then he would get some much needed rest.
Lights were on in the stone apartment building, but only one light burned on the second floor. He hoped it was Hitler’s.
Nothing had changed inside as Fritz climbed the stairs to the second floor. He almost expected to see reporters clamouring for a story, Brownshirts holding them away. But the entry and hall were eerily silent.
It took a long time for anyone to respond to his knock. He heard a vague rustling behind the door before it was pulled open and he made a mental note: the building was so silent at night that the smallest sounds, covered in the daytime by ambient noise, were made audible. The door opened slowly. Frau Reichert stood before him, holding a nightdress closed at her throat.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Frau Reichert,’ he said, ‘but I need to speak with your mother.’
Frau Reichert’s eyes were large on her face. She had deep shadows beneath them and her skin was pale. If anything, she looked even more haggard than she had on Saturday.
‘I am sorry, Detective Inspector,’ she said softly. ‘She does not want visitors.’
‘It’s important that I speak with her.’
‘She is an old woman. It is nearly midnight. She is already asleep.’
‘Wake her, please.’
Frau Reichert shook her head. ‘I cannot.’
‘Then let me.’
‘I am not to let anyone inside,’ she said. She glanced over her shoulder.
Fritz resisted the urge to push open the door. ‘Who is behind you?’
‘No one,’ Frau Reichert whispered.
‘You are alone here? What about Frau Winter?’
‘She has gone home.’
‘And what of Herr Hitler?’
‘He is not in.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘He is out of town.’
‘Has he gone back to Hamburg, then?’
She shook her head, then glanced over her shoulder again. ‘I do not know where he is.’
‘Frau Reichert, it is important that I speak to him.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But he is not here.’
‘Where is Herr Hitler, Frau Reichert?’
‘I do not know!’ she cried. ‘Please, leave us be. Please.’
She was about to close the door when Fritz put his hand on it.
‘What are you so afraid of?’ His voice was soft, cajoling. ‘The Kripo can help you.’
‘The Kripo helps no one,’ she said. ‘Please, Inspector. It is not good to keep coming here.’
‘Why not, Frau Reichert? Will something happen to me?’
She shook her head, her knuckles white as her grip on her nightdress tightened. ‘It is just not good. Enough has happened already.’
‘Frau Reichert,’ Fritz said, keeping his voice soft, ‘why didn’t Herr Hitler go to Geli’s funeral?’
‘He could not,’ she said. ‘He could not. Her death has destroyed him.’
‘Destroyed him? Or his career?’
She glanced over her shoulder again. ‘Please leave, Inspector. You can learn nothing more here.’
Except the identity of the other person behind the door. He pushed just enough to force the door past Frau Reichert’s sturdy body. She was alone in the dark entry hall.
‘Who were you looking at, Frau Reichert?’
‘No one,’ she said. ‘I just do not like to be alone here.’
‘But you said your mother is with you.’
‘She is asleep, and I would like to be too. Frau Winter will be here in the morning. She may know where Herr Hitler is. Please, Inspector, I cannot help you.’
The tears welled in her eyes. She looked very frail, standing alone in the entryway, the unwilling guardian of a thousand secrets.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Please tell your mother and Frau Winter that I will see them tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frau Reichert said, and gently, ever so gently, closed the door.
Fritz stood before it, head bowed, for a long time. The Chief Inspector had assigned him a difficult task and then made it impossible. Even if he did gather enough evidence on the murder, what then? The Minister of Justice had already ruled on it. The case was closed.
Finally, Fritz sighed and went down the stairs. He too would get sleep. He could do nothing else until morning.
He stops, wipes his face. He is sweating even though the room is cool. The next part he has to tell her makes him uncomfortable. He had not thought of it at first. But now, now that he has come to this part of his tale, he finds that he cannot speak. The soup, which he is grateful for, has suddenly become a barrier between them. She has done something domestic, something female. She has cared for him. And it is not until this moment that he realises she is of a gentler breed. She is young enough to be his granddaughter. She has a purity in her face.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘I think I will have more soup,’ he says, to fortify himself. He will have to tell her. He cannot stop here. The tale is begun. He must finish it. Not for her, but for himself.
He pushes himself out of the chair, grabs his bowl, and ladles out more. She has made enough to feed ten men. As if her meagre efforts will aid him. He can take care of himself. He always has.
‘If you don’t mind, ‘she says as he sits back down, ‘I would like to leave a bit early this afternoon. I would like to see if I can get Photostats of those clips.’
He nods. He does not know how much more he can say today. It has been difficult for him so far, and it will only get more difficult.
‘Would you like to leave now?’ he asks.
‘No.’ She puts a new cassette in the recorder. ‘I think we have another hour or two.’
‘Well, then, ‘he says, stirring the vegetables with his spoon. ‘Let’s make the most of it.’