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“His name is Bauer,” said Hess, back in the cottage’s kitchen. “Thomas Bauer. A high-ranking inspector, a kriminalkommissar.”
Joseph Goebbels lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. “What do we know about him?”
Hess reviewed the paper he’d received from the boys at the Brown House. “Born in Munich. Signed up for the war when he turned eighteen. Served with the 11th Infantry Division on the western front. Promoted to deputy battalion commander. Received the Iron Cross First and Second Class for bravery and the Military Merit Order—”
“All right, so he served faithfully. What else?”
“He has a wife and two children. The wife is a Jew.”
“That may be useful.” Goebbels pointed his cigarette at Hess. “Go on.”
“We were told the senior inspector would be a man named Brecht. Brecht, we were assured, would be pliable, manageable. But it so happened that this Bauer, a more senior inspector, was working that day and took this assignment.”
“And we know all this from the police chief?”
“Yes,” said Hess. “Heinrich Müller.”
“The Munich police have not been a friend to the National Socialists. My understanding is that this Müller, in particular, has been hostile. Why is he suddenly now willing to help?”
“Because he’s a pragmatic man.” Martin Bormann, Hess’s pudgy and dark-eyed assistant, entered the room. “And an ambitious one. He is not stupid. He knows that the National Socialists will soon take power. He wants to be on the right side of that outcome.”
“Now, that,” said Goebbels, pointing at Bormann, “is a man I can work with. Speaking of men we can work with, Martin, what can you tell us about Gürtner?”
Franz Gürtner, he meant, the Bavarian minister of justice, a fervent nationalist with long and solid ties to Hitler and NSDAP.
“I’ve just come from speaking with him,” said Bormann. “He is quite sympathetic to our predicament. He will not be our problem. Nor will Chief Müller. No, our only obstacle will be Bauer.”
“And the press.” Goebbels stubbed out his cigarette. “We must work on our message.” He got to his feet gingerly, given his club foot, and arched his back. “Surely a frivolous young girl cannot be expected to behave in a rational manner. Perhaps, for example, she was on medication. Or she suffered from depression of some sort.”
“She wasn’t on medication,” said Hess. “And did she seem depressed to you?”
“Rule nothing out, Rudolf. Perhaps she was nervous about an upcoming musical recital.”
“Nobody would believe that,” said Hess. “You were there, Joseph. You saw Geli’s performance. She was magnificent. Who would believe that she suffered from nerves?”
Goebbels let out a long sigh and slapped a hand down on Hess’s shoulder. “Oh, my good Rudolf, you still think that truth matters. I have so much to teach you.”
8
September 20, 1931
Bauer residence
Oberföhring
Munich
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR THOMAS BAUER lay awake, eyes wide open, listening to the sweet, raspy breathing of his wife, Amalie, her auburn hair swept across the pillow.
The Bauers lived in a small flat in Oberföhring, a quaint neighborhood of mostly rental apartment buildings, the most a police officer and a schoolteacher could afford.
Though Bauer tried to raise himself from bed as gingerly as possible, her eyes popped open. “Are you okay?” she mumbled.
He didn’t want to wake her. But she had a mother’s ear; the tiniest stirring roused her from sleep.
“I’m fine.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I told you I needed an early start.”
“What time is it?” She started to raise her head.
