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Maurice spit blood. “No, I do not, kripo swine.”

“Have it your way. It’s probably not a big deal, anyway.” Bauer leaned in, whispering harshly into Maurice’s ear. “I’m sure the Führer won’t care that you’re part Jewish. See you around, Emil.”

Bauer got up, leaving his opponent lying among the garbage. He shook his left hand; his knuckles would be sore tomorrow. He was out of practice.

He reached the door to reenter the tavern and pulled on it.

“Wait,” Maurice called to him. “Just… wait.”

27

A BLOCK AWAY FROM the Wirtshaus tavern, young officer Peter Helldorff sat in the front seat of a beige Stutz M coupe, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He startled when the rear door opened and Bauer jumped in.

“Nice car. This is yours?”

Helldorff turned to face him. “Belongs to my parents. Where’s Maurice? I thought he was coming with you.”

“He is. He will.” Bauer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his dirty face, tried to clean off his overcoat, too.

“Did you get into a fight with him, Bauer?”

“We had a spirited conversation.” Bauer looked out through the rear window.

“But you’re sure he’s coming?”

“Oh, he’ll be here.” Bauer regarded Helldorff a moment. He looked all of eighteen years old, with his straw hair and skinny neck. He was just a pup. Not for the first time, Bauer wondered if he should allow the kriminalassistent to be a part of this.

The rear door on the car’s opposite side opened, and Emil Maurice angled himself into the back seat next to Bauer. His lower jaw was already beginning to color into a bruised purple. His lip was split and swollen. “Who’s the driver?” he snarled.

“My associate.”

“No.” Maurice shook his head. “I will talk only to you. I do not agree to this.”

Bauer slapped his knee. “Well, damn, Emil, it’s too bad you don’t get to set the terms.”

“If anybody knows that I talked to you, I am as good as dead.”

“This is all confidential. We don’t reveal sources. Nobody will know.”

Maurice didn’t seem convinced. He looked out the side window, gently touching his wounded jaw.

“Did Adolf Hitler kill Geli Raubal?” Bauer asked. He didn’t want to waste any time. He didn’t know how long he could keep this man in the car.

Maurice quietly shook his head. “What do you think?”

“I think he did. But I can’t prove it.”

“Neither can I.” Maurice turned to him. “I wasn’t there.”

“Who was?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. How would I?”

“No, I mean—who would you expect to be there?”

Maurice thought about it, then shrugged. “That time of night? Only the servants. Anni and Georg. But they won’t talk to you. They know what would happen to them if they did.”

That was true enough. “Then tell me what you heard, Emil. There’s no chance the circle around Hitler hasn’t gossiped about this.”