Goebbels: “. . . must convince everyone it was a Communist plot.”
Hitler: “That is your problem, Joseph.”
“Goring: “. . . worry, I know the perfect scapegoat . . . a half-wit who lives . .
Himmler: “. . . five days and I will convince him he is the head of the Communist party for the entire continent,” followed by a chorus of laughter.
More muffled talk and then he heard Goring finish a sentence: “. . . to arrange the fire.”
The fire?
There was more muffled talk. He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony to hear better and heard a snatch of something Goring was saying: “. . . a tunnel from and he faded out again. Moments later.
Himmler: “A rat bomb perhaps
A rat bomb? Ingersoll wondered. So did Hitler.
“A rat bomb?”
“Simply starve a rat for a day or two. Prepare the fire in the heating ducts in the basement, set a trap so it will ignite the fire when the trap is sprung. Then we let the rat loose in the duct. A hungry rat can smell food for miles. When he takes his meal, poof. The building is old, it will go up like a dry Christmas tree.”
What building, Ingersoll wondered. And why?
Someone walked out on the terrace below. Ingersoll snuffed out the cigarette in a drift of snow beside the door and stepped back inside.
Why? he thought. And what was it Goebbels had said, blame it on the Communists?
He sat at the writing desk in the corner of the room trying to put his mind back on the film. There were several minor things he wanted to change. But he could not shake the events of the day and Hitler’s outrageous proposal to him.
His decision was sudden and irrevocable.
He got up suddenly and cracked the door to his room a couple of inches. He heard the sitting room doors on the first floor open, the muffled voices of men saying their good nights, a ripple of laughter. He left the door ajar and went back to the table.
At the foot of the stairs, Hitler turned to Vierhaus and whispered, “Well, what do you think, Willie? Will our Schauspieler accept the challenge?”
“I think there is no question,” Vierhaus answered confidently.
“Well, after tonight, I don’t think his courage could ever be faulted.”
“In fact,” Vierhaus answered, “after his stunt tonight I would say he is a man who enjoys taking risks. Perhaps without thought of the consequences.”
“How do you come to that conclusion?”
“He risked his life scaling your icy wall and he was not at all concerned with what your reaction might be. He simply didn’t care.”
“Hmm. Are you implying there may be some hidden surprises with this fellow?” Hitler pressed on. “That he may have, what do you call them, fatal flaws?”
“Not at all. I think he’s the perfect man for the job.”
Vierhaus was shading the truth a bit. He knew all human beings harbor hidden surprises. Vierhaus was a trained psychologist, a conditioned skeptic who impulsively looked beyond the surface. He knew that within that cold cell of the mind there were obsessions, compulsions, dark impulses, secrets, even imaginary companions, and the line between the neurotic and the psychotic was thin indeed. The neurotic submitted to those passions. The psychotic was a victim of them.
Thus far he had only intelligence reports on Ingersoll on which to base his judgment. Simple facts—Himmler’s people were not interested in interpretation, they were collectors of data—and the data had not permitted a reliable analysis of the man. Now, after a day and night in which to observe Ingersoll, some questions had crept into his mind.
Sitting in the darkened theater, Vierhaus had focused on the actor. His entrance through the French doors had been a startling piece of showmanship—but did it indicate something else?
Was Ingersoll an eccentric artist? Or was there some dark secret lurking inside his head that could at some crucial moment explode like a volcano and endanger the entire mission?
In short, was this man eccentric, neurotic or psychotic?
Or was he all three?
Vierhaus simply did not know but he had his own megalomania and was confident that if the actor accepted Hitler’s proposal, he could control and master the man. It was a risky assumption but one he had to take. He had convinced the Führer that Ingersoll was perfect for the job, it was too late to back away now.
Five minutes passed before Ingersoll heard the footsteps mounting the stairs and coming dowry the hallway. He leaned over his notes. He heard the footsteps stop and a moment later a tap on the door. He turned, acting startled. Hitler was peering in the doorway.
“Excuse me, Colonel Wolfe, your door was open.”
Ingersoll scrambled to get to his feet but Hitler waved him back down.
“Stay down, please. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Please come in,” Ingersoll said. “I was just jotting down some notes on the film. Little things, you know. A snip here, a snip there.”
Hitler pushed the door open but did not enter the room. He stood framed in the entrance with his hands behind his back.
“Always the perfectionist, eh?”
“I suppose I am. It drives the technicians crazy.”
“Then you should get better technicians.”
“I keep hoping we have the best.”
“Well, I did not mean to disturb you Thank you again for the film. As you can tell, everyone was thrilled by it. I will watch it many times more, I am sure. And thank you for coming to my home.”
“It is the highlight of my life, mein Fü1rer. It is I who thank you.” He paused for a moment and then said, “I would like to repay the kindness . . . in a small way of course, I’m afraid I can’t match the significance of the dagger.”
“Usually a German shepherd puppy goes with the commission. To be a companion during the training period. But in your case, it seemed inappropriate.”
“One of my vices is fine wines,” Ingersoll said. “I have about two hundred bottles of vintage French reds and whites at my country house. I would like you to have them, Führer.”
Hitler was genuinely surprised at the offer. Then the significance of the gift slowly sank in. His expression turned quizzical, then curious, then his eyes widened and he smiled broadly.
“That is a very generous gift, Colonel.”
He paused, his eyebrows rounded in to question marks.
“When Hans Wolfe dies,” said Ingersoll, “the wine will be delivered to you.”
Hitler clenched his fists to his chest. H is expression was one of pure joy.
“So you agree then?”
“Yes,” Ingersoll said, rising to his feet, “I would be honored to become Siebenundzwanzig.”
“I am sure that was a difficult decision for you.”
“Yes. And there is something else that is difficult.”
“What might that be?” Hitler asked.
“There are two problems we must deal with,” Ingersoll said and calmly explained what they were.
Hitler did not flinch. His expression did not change.
“You shall learn,” he said to the actor, “those are the kinds of problems we deal with extremely well.”
Their eyes met and slowly, very slowly, Johann Ingersoll raised his hand in the Nazi salute.
Adolf Hitler saluted back and smiled.
The five-day-old newspaper lay on top of a scattered pile of current papers on an oak table in the living room. The inside pages had been pulled out so the carryover lay beside the front page opener.
FILM IDOL INGERSOLL DEAD IN CAR CRASH
Valet Also Dies in 3,000-foot Alpine Plunge