"She had only one lover, you know that?" announced Rцhm. "I think he might have been assigned to guard her. My chaps were keeping a watch. She had a lot of guards, but this one was special. I think she was infatuated with him. A tall SS captain, by all accounts. Blond. Always wore dark glasses. He's disappeared out of the picture since the shooting. They say he was Himmler's spy, but he didn't seem to be following anyone's orders much. Himmler hated old Geli, you know. I had a soft spot for her. Bit of a whore, like myself. Maybe she died because she knew too much. Maybe that's what'll happen to me, too." Again that monstrous, grunting laugh, far too big for the size of the soft, battle-scarred face.
Captain Rцhm was staying at the Brown House that night. His own flat, he reported with a laugh, was full. It was dusk as they dropped him off. "Where to, now, Seaton? Bed?" Sinclair asked hopefully.
"I'm afraid not, Taffy. There's just time to catch the last few musical numbers and get a decent glass of Russian tea at the Carlton Tea Rooms! You remember I was studying the entertainment pages on the way over. This will help take the taste of that schnapps out of your mouth, eh?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Taffy Sinclair enjoyed the strange mixture of black Russia tea and a plate of small weisswьrst, he relaxed to the strains of Ketalby's "In a Persian Market," played by the group of musicians on the stand. It was their last performance of the evening. All the players were seated save for their leader, a tall man with close-cropped hair and wearing impeccable evening dress. He stood in the shadows of the curtain and played the violin with extraordinary beauty and skill. When Begg tipped the waiter heavily and put a folded note on the plate, Sinclair thought his friend was asking for one of his favorite sentimental tunes, such as "The Gypsy" or "The Merry Widow Waltz," but neither of these was played before the musicians brought their performance to an end.
Sinclair was surprised when the tall violinist, having replaced his instrument in its case, strolled over to their table. Then, when the albino removed his dark glasses, Sinclair realized with a shock that he sat across the table from Sir Seaton Begg's cousin and archenemy, the notorious Count Zodiac, wanted for countless daring crimes throughout the Empire. More than once the two had crossed swords on the
Continent and only a few months earlier Count Zodiac had been thwarted by Begg in his daring attempt to rob the New York-bound aerial express. In London, where Zodiac commanded an almost fanatical loyalty from the crooks of Smith's Kitchen, the most notorious den of thieves in Christendom, they had fought many times. A year earlier Zodiac had succeeded in stealing the British Crown Jewels, only to have them snatched back by Begg as he tried to make his underwater escape from the city.
The red-eyed albino had a charming, crooked smile. "So, gentlemen, you have discovered how I earn my living, these days…"
Begg grinned almost boyishly at this. "Good evening, Count Zodiac. Perhaps I am too familiar with your aliases. The Tarot Tea Orchestra rather betrayed you? But I hear you work for Heinrich Himmler now…"
For a split second Zodiac's expression changed to one of anger. Then again he was all urbane affability. "Is Himmler claiming that? Scum like him can't employ me, Sir Seaton." He sat back in his chair, lighting a pungent, black cigarette. "However, you might find that Himmler and the others have all been playing my game…" He chuckled with deep pleasure.
Sinclair, who had been up for too long and drunk too much schnapps, lost his usual discretion then. He leaned across the table. "Look here, Count von Bek, did you kill Geli Raubal? You seem to be the only one who had the opportunity, if not the motive! You are the mysterious SS man, eh?"
"Captain Zeiss," said Begg.
Zodiac drew a deep, ennui-ridden sigh. Ignoring Sinclair, he addressed Begg directly, reaching across the table and handing him a pasteboard card. "I was at this address until yesterday. You might find it interesting. Even useful." He turned, bowing, to Sinclair. "We all work in the ways which best suit our temperaments, I think, Mr. Sinclair? Who is to say in our good or our evil intentions we unknowingly serve the causes of law or chaos?"
With that, the albino turned on his heel, picked up his violin case, and disappeared into the night.
Sinclair, stunned for a moment, leapt to his feet and pursued the albino, but he soon returned, shaking his head: lost him. Begg continued to sip his tea, studying the card. "We don't need to follow him. Taffy. He has left us his most recent address."
Begg frowned down at the card in his hand. "Do you feel like making a visit to the Hotel Rembrandt? It's just around the corner. We can walk."
"Oh, good heavens, Begg! This is unbelievable!" Taffy Sinclair was staring aghast at a handful of papers and photographs. He had just opened the writing bureau in Room 25. Count Zodiac's room at the Hotel Rembrandt looked as if it had been hastily vacated.
Sir Seaton Begg was inspecting the wardrobe. He picked up and put back a black Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight. "There's our red herring. Zodiac was no doubt trying to sow further suspicion amongst the Nazis. And look at this!" On hangers hung a complete SS captain's uniform. The metatemporal detective offered it to his friend. "And look here, Taffy. Bloodstains. They fit perfectly with the suspected shooting."
"And these-these-letters from Himmler to Captain Zeiss, asking him to seduce that poor girl, compromise her, then kill her, so that Himmler could continue his blackmailing of Hitler through a third party. There's a note here that even suggests Himmler was responsible for the initial blackmail a couple of years ago! The most damning evidence! So your cousin, von Bek, is a common murderer, after all! And in Captain Himmler's employ?"
"It certainly appears so." Begg looked around for a bag. "Come on, Taffy. We'd better take these togs to Hitler."
"Surely we should get them to Inspector Hoffmann as soon as possible? Zodiac must be captured!"
"I remind you again, Taffy, that Herr Hitler is our paying client and it is our duty to show him the evidence before it is presented to the police."
"But Great Jehovah, Begg, this overrides any client loyalty!"
"I'm afraid not, Taffy I remember the way to Berchtesgaden. You'd better come with me, old man, whatever your scruples. I need a witness and someone at my shoulder if the client decides to kill the messenger."
Only this persuaded the pathologist to accompany his friend, but he did so in brooding silence. Begg seemed completely insouciant, whistling fragments from musical comedies as the great car bore them relentlessly up toward Hitler's retreat.
Only because Rudolf Hess was convinced they had good news for Hitler were the Englishmen allowed into the fusty stench of the Nazi leader's lair. Again he greeted them in nothing but his mackintosh, his eyes as mad as ever. He moved between gross self-pity and rage against his niece's killers, sometimes in seconds. But when he at last looked at the evidence Begg and Sinclair had brought with them, he was stunned into a cold, sudden pseudo-sanity.
"Himmler! He was behind the assassination attempts. Failing to kill any of us, he made his victim an innocent young girl! He always hated her. He has grown closer and closer to me, building up the SS on my behalf, he says. They warned me he had Jewish blood, but I laughed at them. And all the time he plotted against me in this subtle way, getting at me through Geli, using one of his own men to- ugh!" He stood up suddenly, bowing with both hands at his sides, and brought his bare heels together. "I am most grateful to you gentlemen. You have done everything Hess promised. Naturally you will receive your fee. Herr Hess will take you to the Brown House at once."