Fritz was exhausted when he arrived at his own apartment. The scarred door, with its twisted ‘No 3’, never looked so inviting. He shifted the duffel over his shoulder, and crouched to pick up the morning’s Münchner Post. He was not too tired to note the headline, A Mysterious Affair: Hitler’s Niece Commits Suicide, nor to realise its implications for him. He tucked the paper under his arm and let himself inside, no longer relieved to be home.
On the trip back he had replayed the conversation with Hess over and over again. Fritz hadn’t wanted Geli’s death to be murder. He had wanted a suicide, something he could confirm. Now, not only did he have to examine Hitler’s household, he had to examine the NSDAP, something which made him decidedly uneasy.
He pressed the button on the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. His apartment was small – a single room with a shared bath in the hall – but neat. The dishes from his breakfast on Saturday morning dried in the rack beside the small sink, the apartment’s only luxury. His cot rested beneath the window, the frayed army blanket that he had somehow managed to keep through all the tribulations after the war was folded carefully on top of the crisp white sheets. A small shelf of books covered the wall beside the wobbly wooden table, and the closet door was open, revealing his only vice, a passion for nice clothing. He had lost his faith in currency in the Great Inflation, but could not bring himself to part with his money. Instead, he invested it in gold when he could, and undeveloped land north of Munich. He would never put his faith in paper again.
He set his duffel inside the closet, then sat on the couch, sinking into the thick cushions. With the flick of a switch he turned on the lamp on the end-table he bought with his first Kripo paycheck. It had cigarette burns now, and a coffee stain that would not come out, but he was still proud of it. The end table was a symbol of his ability to survive, no matter what the world threw at him. He had to remember that, throughout this case.
Carefully, he unfolded the Post and read the article:
Regarding this mysterious affair, informed sources tell us that on Friday, September 18, Herr Hitler and his niece had yet another fierce quarrel. What was the cause? Geli, a vivacious twenty-three year-old music student, wanted to go to Vienna, where she intended to become engaged.…
Engaged? No one had mentioned that. And the only unattached young man at the funeral was Geli’s brother, Leo. How odd that a man who would be planning to marry the girl would not show up to honour her in death.
…Hitler was decidedly against this. That is why they were quarrelling repeatedly. After a fierce row, Hitler left his apartment on Prinzregentenplaz.
Frau Reichert had said they quarrelled, and Frau Winter had implied it. Frau Reichert had said that Geli wanted to go to Vienna, which was why they fought, but Frau Winter said Geli had discovered a letter from another woman in Hitler’s pocket, and the jealousy had driven Geli to suicide. A young woman about to marry another man did not kill herself with jealousy over the man she was leaving.
On Saturday, September 19, it became known that Geli had been found shot in the apartment with Hitler’s gun in her hand. The nose bone of the deceased was shattered and the corpse evidenced other serious injuries. From a letter to a girlfriend living in Vienna, it appeared that Geli intended to go to Vienna…
Fritz stared at the paragraph. He had had to go to Vienna himself to get that information, yet the Post had it right here. The Post was known for its anti-Nazi sympathies. They had to have had a source in NSDAP headquarters, the Brown House. They certainly didn’t get the information from the women, and the body left Munich too quickly. Or had it? He had never checked what train Hess took, nor its arrival time.
He made mental note of that, then continued reading.
The men at the Brown House then deliberated over what should be announced as the cause of the suicide. They agreed to give the reason for Geli’s death as ‘unsatisfied artistic achievement’. They also discussed the question of who, if something were to happen, should be Hitler’s successor. Gregor Strasser was named…
‘A successor?’ the girl says. ‘They chose a successor to Hitler? Is this true?’
Fritz raises his chin, much as Hess had done at the funeral. Old soldiers had the same reflexes. ‘Everything I tell you is true,’ he says.
‘But the papers, even now not everything they print is true.’
‘This was.’
‘A successor. So that’s why Hess told you about Strasser, because Strasser was the one with something to gain.’ She shakes her head, then breathes out, almost a sigh. ‘Imagine it. A world without Hitler.’
He gazes at her. The dreamy look on her face, so familiar –
He shakes himself, and forces himself to continue.
The Post did have a source in the Brown House. There would be no way they would have known this information other-wise. Damn the Chief Inspector. Fritz needed more men. He had needed more men on Saturday. He might have got to Max Amann and Franz Xavier Schwarz before they were able to make up a complete story. He might have been able to break the coalition.
But now he was working behind them, and they knew it. This article showed him that he could not rest. He had to resolve this case quickly. First, he would get Henrich Felke’s help. Then he would cover as much ground as he could. Someone had murdered Geli Raubal, and the murder was considered important enough by one of Germany’s political parties to instigate a cover-up. They smuggled the body out of the country and then made up a story to hide the facts of her death. The NSDAP was frightened – and with reason.
One of their members might have killed Geli Raubal.
He had to find out who had done so – and soon.