F ritz pushes himself out of the chair. His throat is dry. He hadn’t realised talking would be such an effort. He steps into the small kitchen, intent on getting himself more beer. But he cannot drink too much while he speaks. He must keep his mind clear. Instead, he has one of the American sodas the girl has brought.
She is watching him. He holds up the can, offering her some, but she shakes her head. He pours the soda into a thin glass without ice and watches the drink foam. That makes him think of beer, which makes him a different, uncontrollable kind of thirsty, and he has already rejected that. So he returns to his chair with his drink.
She is frowning. Her frowns are elaborate things, so unlike Frau Winter’s. Her round face puckers, her features shift. Frau Winter only moved a small wrinkle over the bridge of her nose.
‘Did you know what Frau Winter meant when she said that about family connections?’ the girl asked.
He set his glass down beside the full ashtray. Ashes have spilled on the blonde wood, staining it. He will have to clean again. ‘You were raised Protestant?’
She smiles. ‘My parents did not believe in religion.’
His hand pauses over the table. He had met Communists who claimed not to have religion, but never anyone else.
‘It’s allowed in America,’ she says, ‘to believe whatever you want.’
Her tone has a subtle shade of judgement. All Americans do when they speak of religion, as if Germans do not understand tolerance.
Perhaps they don’t. The history doesn’t show it. In fact, very few people he knew showed tolerance. Even now.
She leans forward. For a moment, he thinks she is going to touch him. He does not move.
‘So,’ she says. ‘What did she mean by family connections?’
‘To Catholics, suicide is an unpardonable act. The victims are placed in unconsecrated ground. Often a priest will not conduct the funeral. Angela Raubal’s family sent her body to a priest who knew her, who would probably be willing to, in the least, beg God’s mercy for her soul.’ Fritz is grateful to be talking again, grateful the awkward moment is over, grateful that she has given him a way to continue gracefully.
‘I think I read about that practice somewhere,’ she says, her smile back. ‘Religion makes people do strange things sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ he says with more sadness than he intends. ‘Yes, it does.’
The daylight was fading when Fritz emerged from the precinct. If he wanted to find the body, he would have to go to Vienna. Even if he left now, he would drive all night.
Fritz stopped beside his car and rubbed the tension in his neck. He would have to go now. The family would appear for the funeral. He needed to arrive first. He wanted to view the body privately, to examine it for any clues he could find.
He had got another detective to use the precinct’s telephone to contact the priest. The parish apparently had a telephone as well, but the priest was as averse to its use as Fritz was. The detective’s conversation was short and loud, but he did manage to confirm a day and time for the funeral. It would take place on Monday in the morning.
So few hours for Fritz to be alone with Geli, to see what secrets she would share before taking them with her to the grave. At least he had those few hours. Frau Winter’s mention of Father Pant meant that Fritz was not spending his evening with train schedules and porters, asking who had taken the body of Geli Raubal out of the country.
Fritz got into the car, and placed his overnight bag beside him on the front seat. He kept extra changes of clothes at the precinct, often because he was not able to go home at night, and he preferred to wear clean clothes even if he had not slept. Those were the clothes he packed for his trip to Vienna. Next to the bag, he placed the department’s camera. It was large, awkward and square. It took both hands to hold it. But he had become accustomed to it. It had been useful in several other investigations. He had taken it for this investigation without asking.
As he pulled away from the curb and flicked on the headlights, he felt more alone than he had felt since he joined the Kripo. To do this case properly, he should stay in Munich, interview the men who spirited the body away, find Hitler, see the letter Frau Winter had mentioned, speak to Frau Dachs, and discover the history of Geli’s relationships with the people around her. But he could do nothing without viewing the body. All he had so far were innuendoes of murder. If it became clear, after his trip to Vienna, that the girl’s death was an odd and politically embarrassing suicide, Fritz would speak to the Chief Inspector and asked to be released from the case.
Without even realising what he had done, he found himself on Prinzregentenplaz. He glanced at the buildings, shadowy in the growing dark, then pulled over in front of Geli’s apartment building. If he left now, he would arrive in Vienna before dawn. The trip over the mountains was treacherous in the daytime. At night, it would be more so, and it would slow him down. But it did not matter if he arrived in Vienna at 3 a.m. or 5 a.m. Either way, he would get his work done. He had a few moments, then, to see if Frau Winter had returned to the apartment. If she had, she could give him the letter before he left. He might also be able to see Frau Dachs. It was better than waiting until he returned.
A small crowd of curiosity seekers had gathered in front of the main door. They stood silently, almost worshipfully, as if expecting someone. He passed through the crowd and let himself in, surprised that the main entrance was not locked. The lights on the stairs were dim; the building’s owner had replaced gas lights with electricity but had tried to keep the same fixtures. The place looked ominous in the shadows.
The door to Geli’s apartment was closed. Fritz listened, but heard nothing. He was not surprised; the apartments here were built for silence. He had noted that morning the door was as thick as his arm.
He knocked. The sound was weak in the padded hallway, and he would have backed away at that moment if something in Frau Winter’s tale of the letter hadn’t nagged at him. Part of him was convinced that the letter did not exist.
He was about to knock again when the door flew inward. A small man, his hair dark and slicked back, his face puffy and white, stared intently at Fritz.
‘Go away,’ the man said.
Fritz nodded a greeting. ‘I am Detective Inspector –’
‘I don’t care if you are Hindenburg himself. Go away.’ The small man spoke with such force that spittle sprayed Fritz. He did not back away. Instead, he placed a hand on the door frame.
‘I am Detective Inspector Stecher. I am investigating the death –’
‘Of Geli,’ the little man finished. ‘There is nothing to investigate.’
He started to close the door, but Fritz reached above the little man’s head and held the door open. As he looked down, he suddenly realised whom he was standing before.
Adolf Hitler, head of the NSDAP, rumoured presidential candidate, and uncle to Geli Raubal. Fritz felt a shock run through him. Since he had last seen Hitler, the man had put on weight. His moustache was filled with food particles and his hair was dirty. His clothing was rumpled, and his eyes were swollen. It looked as if he had been crying.
Fritz had never seen Hitler so distraught. The man had always been a fireball of anger and efficiency. Fritz left his hand on the door, but he softened his tone. ‘I beg your pardon, Herr Hitler. The Kripo would like to close this case as quickly as possible. I –’
‘Case? Case? There is no case. There is nothing for you here. Geli is dead.’
‘I know,’ Fritz said. ‘But the Kripo must investigate all unnatural cases of death. I know this is difficult, but –’
‘The Bavarian Minister of Justice has already determined that Geli committed suicide.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fritz kept his tone even, although a great frustration was welling within him. ‘But there are certain protocols that must be followed, even if a ruling has been made. If you would allow me to come inside, I will explain the procedures, and get through them as quickly as possible.’
Hitler’s lower lip trembled. He let go of the door, and backed away. For a moment, Fritz thought he was going to be allowed inside. He too let go of the door.
Hitler shook his head and gazed down at the polished floor. He seemed very small, shrunken, as if the news had diminished him somehow. He was not the man Fritz had watched in the streets of Munich.
‘I am sorry, Detective Inspector,’ Hitler said. His voice had lost all the force he had used a moment ago. ‘I have only just returned. My niece is dead. I simply cannot face talking with you at this hour. Perhaps in the morning…’
‘I think it would be best for all of us to have this matter closed by tomorrow,’ Fritz said.
‘No,’ Hitler said. He looked up. His eyes were large and glistening. The hall was full of the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint odour of sweat. ‘No. We shall talk tomorrow, Inspector.’
And then he closed the door so swiftly that Fritz barely had time to move his hand off the frame.
Fritz stood before the door, staring at the carving in the wood. The apartment number had been etched in Gothic numerals. He could not hear any movement inside, and it almost felt as if Hitler were standing on the other side of the door, waiting for Fritz to move.
Fritz raised a hand to knock again, then decided against it. Best to go to Vienna, and see if he had a case at all.