‘I don’t understand,’ the girl says. ‘When you started telling me this story, you said no one thought it was important. This is about Hitler’s niece!’
This will be more difficult than he thought. ‘In those days,’ Fritz says, ‘Hitler was one of many small political leaders. We did not know what he would become.’
‘But clearly the sergeant understood this case is important. So is it? Or isn’t it?’
Fritz clenches his left hand. He doesn’t like Americans. They are so blunt and so demanding. ‘You said you would let me tell the whole story.’
‘But what is this about?’ she says. ‘It can’t be about Hitler.’
‘You said you would listen.’
‘But if he’d done such a thing, he would never have been elected to office.’
‘You are such an American,’ Fritz snaps. Then he makes himself take a deep breath, makes himself calm down. ‘This story is not about elections. It is about a crime. The most difficult crime I was ever assigned.’
‘More difficult than Demmelmayer.’
‘Infinitely.’ He runs a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I would like a beer. Would you like a beer?’
She glances at the tape recorder, frowning in the failing light. ‘I only brought one cassette. How long is this story?’
How long does it take a man to describe the end of his meaningful existence? One hour? Two? A day? A week? ‘Long,’ he says.
‘Then why don’t we finish up the investigation part today, and you can tell me the conclusions tomorrow.’
‘It is not that simple,’ he says. He needs something to do with his hands. He picks up the match box and turns it over and over between his fingers. Perhaps he has picked the wrong person to tell the story to. And it isn’t just her lack of history, her naive American beliefs in simple, clear justice. ‘You have never investigated crimes.’
He makes the question a statement, always, even now, pretending to know the answers in order to draw them out of his companion.
‘That’s right. I’ve never investigated anything except history.’ She grins. ‘I don’t know how the history of the police in the West even became my specialty. Too many episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, I guess.’
‘So you only study technique. You do not practice it.’
She reaches to her left and pushes a button on the tape recorder. The faint whirring hum that has accompanied their conversation – a hum he hadn’t been aware of until now – stops. ‘I don’t even study technique, really. I’m more interested in cases. I first read about Demmelmayer when I was a little girl. I have always wanted to meet you, to write my book on Demmelmayer. The definitive book. But I wanted it to read like a murder mystery. But the dissertation has to come first.’
‘So you see me as a real life Sherlock Holmes?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Colour touches her cheeks, adding to her healthy appearance. ‘Silly, huh?’
‘And if I turn out to be less than brilliant, you will still write this book?’
The surprise runs from her eyes to her hands. Her eyes widen, then her mouth opens and her hands nervously clutch her denim-clad knees. ‘You would like me to write about you? I thought I could only write about Demmelmayer, but you’re right. A biography would be even better.’
‘No,’ he says, the idea of recounting his life every afternoon until his death making his throat dry. ‘Stick to your cases. But feature this one as a counterpoint to Demmelmayer.’
‘They don’t even sound similar.’ The girl’s frown is back, a feature of her concentration. She would make a terrible criminal. He can read her even in the growing darkness. ‘At least in Demmelmayer, you had a body.’
‘At heart, Demmelmayer was a simple case. Too many suspects, but no nuances. I had to eliminate possible killers, track motives, use any evidence I could find. In reality, though, Demmelmayer was no more than a domestic homicide. The case became famous because Gustav Demmelmayer was famous.’
‘Adolf Hitler is famous,’ she says.
‘Now he is infamous, ’Fritz says. ‘Then, no one had heard of him outside of Germany. Certainly not Americans.’
He tries to say the word without contempt. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She has pushed a button on the tape recorder again. She tried to be circumspect but he saw the movement.
So she is intrigued again. Good. That makes his job easier. Although he must still explain the obvious to her, why he thinks this case a counterpoint to Demmelmayer.
He says, ‘The Raubal case is full of nuance, and everything about it is hidden. Everything. But it fits into your hypothesis. No one else would have finished this case. You will want it for your dissertation. Then you can decide later if you still want to write your book.’
He stands, knowing she won’t be able to see the hole in his chair in the darkness. ‘I would like a beer. Would you?’
‘Yes, one,’ she says. ‘And when I am done, I will have to go.’
‘We won’t finish tonight,’ he says.
‘I don’t mind.’ With the rush of words, he can almost feel her growing heart rate, the prickle under the skin, the excitement of the challenge. He remembers the feeling. He had felt it, underneath his anger, that morning in Prinzregentenplaz.