"No way he could have come back, committed the crime, then returned to Nuremberg?" asked Sinclair.
"Too many people know him in Nuremberg. He is very popular there. They would have noticed something. Of course, he could have used another car altogether, and a disguise. I think you'll agree the bruises might have been delivered earlier than the gunshot?"
All three nodded.
"So," continued Hoffmann, "she knew too much. There was a fight. The gun. A shot. I don't say it was premeditated. Then he gets into the car and heads for Nuremberg, guessing nobody would want to disturb her until the next morning. He locked her door with his own key. No doubt he had had it made long before."
Begg smiled almost apologetically, adding: "And then she appears on the balcony. No doubt she has at last got Hitler's message.
Stemming the blood from her wounded heart she calls: 'So you won't let me go to Vienna?'"
"Pretty clear, I'd say." The countess recognized Begg's rather inappropriate black humor.
"I think Hitler beat her up. Then one of his henchmen went back and shot her. Maybe some kind of 'Murder in the Cathedral' situation? I gather that's how Mussolini learned he was responsible for his first murder. Overzealous followers. So who shot her? Rцhm? He's ruthless enough and he doesn't much like women. Himmler? A cold fish, but too far away at the time. Same with Goring or Gцbbels, if we assume they didn't come to Munich incognito."
"I think our people would have known about it," said the countess.
"Ours, too, most likely," confirmed Hoffmann, rubbing at his red jowls. "They have orders to keep track of who goes in and out of the Brown House."
"So we have a dozen suspects and nothing which leads to any of them." Sinclair lifted his eyebrows. "But two of you at least are convinced Hitler did it. What about you, Begg? What do you think?"
"I'm beginning to get an idea of who killed Geli Raubal, and I think I can guess why. But there is another element here." Begg frowned deeply. "I think in the morning we'll set off for Berchtes-gaden, for Herr Amman's little hideaway. You, presumably, have already interviewed Hitler, Inspector Hoffmann?"
"As soon as he arrived back from Nuremberg, of course. He seemed in a state of shock, but, as stated, his alibi was airtight. Of course, you will wish to prove he didn't do it, Sir Seaton, and I admit the cards are stacked in your favor."
"Not exactly, old boy. But I agree with you that as things stand, any case against Herr Hitler couldn't be proven in a court of law."
With a courteous good night to the policeman, Begg escorted his two friends outside. In the street his car was being guarded by a uniformed constable, who saluted as soon as he recognized Countess von Bek and opened the doors for them.
It was only a short drive to the hotel and most of it was spent in silence as the three investigators thought over what they had learned.
"I suppose there's no chance of me coming down with you?" asked the countess. "Since Herr Hitler isn't my client."
"Exactly," murmured Begg, concentrating on the unfamiliar streets. "And I think even you'd agree, Rose, that client confidential-ity, at least at this stage, is sacrosanct."
While Begg waited with the engine running, Sinclair saw the beautiful adventuress through the doors of her hotel. As they drove off, Sinclair said: "She wants our Mr. Hitler hanged, no doubt about it. She's afraid you'll get him off the hook. Are you sure he didn't do it?"
"I merely noted," said the detective with what seemed inappropriate cheerfulness, "that there was no evidence directly linking Hitler with the murder of his niece. Nothing to convince a jury. Don't worry, Taffy. One way or another justice will out. I have a feeling we will meet at least one more old acquaintance before this business is over."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hess now took the Duesenberg's backseat. They had been driving for some hours, making for the lodge at Berchtesgaden where Adolf Hitler had retreated, apparently in deep mourning for the loss of his niece. The surrounding scenery was both dramatic and beautiful, with high hills and pinewoods, giving the air a rich, invigorating quality.
"The Fьhrer is very sensitive. His mind is of a higher order than most. He always comes here when things go wrong. Here he collects himself and makes something of his experience." The hero worship in Hess's tone was tangible and had become extremely familiar to the two Englishmen.
Sinclair's expression, could Hess have seen it, would have revealed that he had already had far too much of this sort of talk. But Begg remained apparently affable. "Bit like Mr. Gandhi, I suppose," he suggested.
"Perhaps." Hess seemed uncomfortable with the comparison.
They turned another corner of the winding road. Ahead was a pleasant, rustic hunting chalet of the kind many Germans built for their summer season. As they drove up a tall, thickset, grim-faced man with a head so thoroughly bald it might have been shaven hurried from the door to greet them. They were, of course, already expected.
"Ah," declared Sir Seaton Begg, climbing from his car, "I take it I have the pleasure of addressing Reichstag Leader Strasser?" He put out his hand and it was firmly shaken.
Gregor Strasser's face was clouded, but he knew his manners. He spoke in a soft, well-educated voice. "We are so glad you have come to help us, Sir Seaton, though I am not sure Herr Hitler is in any real condition to speak to you." He was almost disapproving. "Hitler has gone into one of his hysterical states again. Always been one to hide under the blankets during a crisis. Hasn't been out of bed since he got here. Won't talk to me. Will hardly talk to Rцhm."
"Captain Rцhm is here also." Begg was clearly pleased. "Excellent. You, I presume, don't believe that Herr Hitler's guilty?"
"I speak, of course, from loyalty as well as conviction. But Herr Hitler loved his niece. He was, of course, very possessive. Even when my brother Otto expressed willingness to take her to a dance, Hitler furiously forbade it. I felt sorry for her. A bit of a bird in a gilded cage, you know. But while Hitler might speak rather fiercely in public, he rarely exposed Geli to that side of himself. It was Himmler who hated her. Even Alf knew that! But I really think she must have killed herself."
"The police evidence suggests she was killed, as you probably know." Now all three men had paused on the veranda outside the front door.
"Surely you don't believe-?" The big politician purpled.
Begg put a reassuring hand on Strasser's arm. "Fear not, old sport. I think we are going to be able to tell you something about the real killer soon. But I really must speak to your Fьhrer, you know."
The house was decorated like a typical hunting lodge, though without the usual trophies of animal heads and skins. Hitler hated such signs of violence against animals, and his host pandered to him. Otherwise, with its hat stands and gun racks of antlers and its heavy rugs and old, comfortable furniture, it felt familiar and secure. Off the main reception room a broad staircase rose up into the darkness of a landing where, no doubt, the bedrooms were. A big fire burned in the grate. The surround was carved with bears, stags, and other game. Leaning against it was a short, stocky individual with a hideous scar marring half his rather pudgy face. He was dressed in what, apart from its brown color, resembled the regular uniform of a Wehrmacht officer, with Nazi emblems on collar, cuffs, and sleeves. Knocking back a ballon of brandy, he came forward, greeting them in a surprisingly hearty rich Bavarian accent. In private, none of these men used the Hitler salute. "Grьss Gott, Sir Seaton. Just as we're at the point of real power someone's trying to sabotage the party's chances. What can you do for us?"