"A miracle would help," said Strasser, pouring schnapps for the two men.
Captain Rцhm helped himself to another large cognac.
Only Hess did not join them in a drink. He almost immediately made an excuse and disappeared upstairs, presumably to report to his old friend and leader.
Rцhm was the worse for drink. He leaned easily, excessively relaxed as the habitual drunkard usually is. In spite of his hideous appearance, his tightly buttoned and belted uniform, there was an almost sensitive set to his features, a haunted look to his eyes which suggested he knew and rather approved of the arguments against almost every statement he made. His rough charm, his loyalty, his bluntness allowed him to survive. Not long after he had returned from Bolivia, affectionate Spartan letters from Rцhm to a young cadet had been published in the yellow press. Yet somehow Rцhm had survived the scandal, and even today made no secret of his Greek tendencies.
"I gather Herr Hitler has taken his niece's suicide to heart." Begg strolled to the gun rack and casually examined the rifles. He was interrupted by a gusty, brandy-laden laugh at once sardonic and angry.
"Suicide! Absolutely, my dear Sir Seaton! Suicide! Certainly! And I'm the bloody Virgin of Lourdes." Still chuckling, the Brown-shirt leader, considered by many to be the most powerful man in Germany, turned to throw his cigar butt into the flames.
"Perhaps if we had a word with Herr Hitler himself?"
Again the Herculean snort. "Good luck, my friend. He's a wreck. Maybe you can get more sense out of him than we can. He's a classic
Austrian. All talk and trousers and useless in a crisis. Feckless as they come. Yet he's my leader, and I live with it. I am an infantile man, at heart, and a wicked one. I offer my loyalty to whichever leader best serves my interest. I have too many weaknesses to be more than an ordinary soldier taking orders."
"You've known him a long time?" Begg asked quietly.
"I threw in with Alf, as we knew him in the trenches, soon after the Stab in the Back of the Armistice. Just as we were on the verge of winning, victory was stolen from us by Jews and Socialists at home. I didn't need to explain anything to Alf. We had a lot in common. He was a great infiltrator. Used to get in with the Commies, find out what they were up to, then report back to me. They say he won the Iron Cross for bravery, as a runner in the trenches, but that's not his talent. My guess is that he was terrified the whole time. No choice. Run the lines or be shot as a coward. He's always managed to slip away from the violence. Bad precedent, of course, in a soldier. Learns the wrong lessons." Rцhm shrugged. "I doubt if he ever had to shoot anyone personally in his life. Good luck to you, my dear sir."
Strasser was sober and collected. He put down his glass half-finished. "Let me see if the Fьhrer is ready."
As he walked up the staircase, Sinclair murmured to Begg, "Classic case of manic depression, eh?"
From the landing above, Rudolph Hess peered down. "I have very good hearing, Mr. Sinclair. We reject the debased jargon of the Jew Freud. We have perfectly good German words and good German precedents to describe our leader's state of spirit. Goethe, himself, I believe coined several…"
"Our Anglo-Saxon phrase would be 'barkingbarmy,' Herr Hess." Sinclair craned to look at their customer. "Would that be better?"
Hess adopted a haughty manner. "Perhaps," he said. "Herr Strasser. Would you like to bring them now?"
With a somewhat theatrical movement of his hand, Gregor Strasser motioned for the two Englishmen to follow him up the stairs.
Hitler's room was at the far end of the landing. There was only faint flickering candlelight issuing from it. When, at Hess's knock, they entered, they found a dark, ill-smelling room in which guttered a few church candles of yellow wax, placed here and there on dressing table and nightstands. The Englishmen were immediately reminded of Father Stempfle's den. The mirror of the dressing table reflected a man's naked legs, scrawny feet. The knees were bare. The man had hastily pulled on a raincoat in lieu of a dressing gown.
Adolf Hitler sat at the end of his bed. Clearly he had just allowed himself to be coaxed out of bed. He sat hunched with his hands folded in front of him and did not look up as Begg and Sinclair were introduced. Then a thin whine, like a distant turbine, started in the man's throat. "No, no, no. I can't. I can't. I can't."
Strasser stepped forward. "Just a few minutes, Alf. They want to find out who killed Geli. This means you'll be able to punish the culprit and put an end to suspicion within the party. It will save your career."
"What do I care for my career now that my angel is dead?" The soft, Austrian accent was unexpected.
When the man looked up, a ghastly intelligence in his sleepless eyes, even Begg was shocked. Hitler had the familiar red blotches on his cheekbones, the drawn lines of anxiety, a face so mad and yet so utterly without redeeming character that one might have been looking at a damned soul in Limbo. It was all the two men could do not to turn away in disgust.
Now Hitler began to mumble in a monotone. "She loved life. She loved her Uncle Alf. We had so much in common. She would never have killed herself. Somebody shot her!"
"It is a possibility we're looking into, Herr Hitler. Do you have any suspicions?"
"Naturally, I am convinced who killed her, but how can we hope to bring them to justice? They are masters of this kind of conspiracy. Oh, Geli, Geli, my perfect angel." He began to weep then, with tears streaming from those mad eyes. He spoke with sudden clarity and force. "They'll get me next, you know. They killed her with my gun. It was to make it seem as if I had done it. And where are they now, these traitors and saboteurs? Returned to Berlin and Moscow. You'll never catch them. They come and go like poisoned gas. They couldn't kill me, so they killed poor Geli. You waste your time, Englishman. Already there have been serious attempts on my life. I am doomed. I carry too great a burden on my shoulders. I am a lone voice against chaos and Bolshevik Jewry."
"Quite a responsibility!" agreed Sir Seaton, backing toward the door. "We'll take up no more of your time, Herr Hitler."
As they walked down the stairs, strange, mewling noises continued to come from Hitler's room. Hess had remained with his master. Strasser shook his head, speaking softly. "You wouldn't believe it, gentlemen. Hitler's a different creature on a public platform."
They had returned to the fireplace, where Rцhm still lounged, and he agreed vigorously. "It's as if the crowd feeds its energy to him. He stands there sometimes for minutes before he speaks, drawing in that energy. He's a kind of vampire, I suppose." The SA leader drained his glass and sighed.
Strasser interrupted. "He's our best bet for chancellor. We all know that. He has something the crowd responds to. But once we are in power, we'll find him a more suitable position-head of propaganda, perhaps." He started as, softly, upstairs, a door closed.
Strasser dropped his voice still lower. "In a few days Hitler has an appointment with Chancellor Hindenburg. It looks as if, so long as we keep our noses clean, old Hindenburg will name Alf as his successor. But if Alf remains like-like what you saw upstairs-he won't make any other impression than the obvious one. So you don't have much time, I'm afraid, Sir Seaton."
"I'll do my best, Captain Rцhm. And, of course, I'll be grateful for any help." Sir Seaton reached to shake hands, but Rцhm was taking his cap and greatcoat down from the antlered peg.
"Give me a lift back to Munich. I might have a lead for you." Sinclair was astonished at how rapidly Rцhm had sobered.
Hess decided that he should remain at his leader's side, and Strasser had also decided to spend the night, so Rцhm joined Sir Seaton in the front while Taffy again found himself in the profoundly comfortable leather of the back. Against his will, he began to doze and did not hear the whole exchange between Rцhm and Begg.