Hitler's Angel Read Free Page A

clasped his hands behind his back and walked around the sofa, noting that small traces of blood – too tiny to be called drops; more like a fine mist – had landed on the carpet behind. He avoided those and stopped beside the dressing table. Keeping his hands behind his back, he peered at the piece of paper beneath the fountain pen.
    The pen had left a blot of ink on the bottom of the sheet. Above it someone had written in a flowing script: When I come to Vienna, hopefully very soon – we’ll drive together to Semmering an–
    Not a suicide note. He wasn’t even sure it was written by the dead woman. He wasn’t sure who the dead woman was – or if she was.
    ‘Sir?’ The sergeant he had seen earlier blocked the doorway, making the room seem dark. Fritz realised then that the only light came from one of the nightstands.
    ‘Tell me why we were called here.’
    The sergeant was a large man. His blond hair stood in tufts, as if removing his helmet had pulled up the strands. Hiseyes were small and buried in the flesh that threatened to overwhelm his face. ‘The housekeeper says a girl was shot. Such cases always go to the criminal police.’
    ‘You never saw the body?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘You were first on site?’
    ‘No, sir. Constable Wolfermann, whom you saw at the door below, he arrived first. When the housekeeper said someone had been shot, he sent for me. I called the Kripo.’
    ‘Did Constable Wolfermann see the body?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    Fritz let out a hiss of air. Behind his back, he clenched his fists. ‘So we have blood and a supposed body. With all the deaths and riots in Munich, you believed this to be important?’
    The sergeant licked his lips, swallowed, and then said, ‘The dead girl, sir. The dead girl, she is Herr Hitler’s niece.’

THREE
    ‘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