“What line of enquiry? No,” he held up a podgy palm. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just get in touch with the Standartenführer and get him off my back.”
Saxon called Glasser into his office and filled him in on the results of his trip. Glasser ran to the archives and returned carrying a thin file with the name Georg Bell on it.
They went through the file together. After the War, Bell found work in Munich as an electrical engineer. In 1931 he was appointed personal secretary to Ernst Röhm, Chief of Staff of the Brownshirts. The latest entry in the file was dated June 1931. An unsubstantiated report from a police informant, it stated that Bell was now head of the intelligence service of that organisation.
“He’s some sort of spy!” said Glasser.
Saxon grunted. “So it would seem, but there’s no mention of any direct contact with the Führer. Look into it. See what more you can find out about the man, and get me his current address.”
The telephone rang. Saxon picked it up without thinking.
“Where the hell have you been?” Kratschik’s voice had lost its oiliness. It was sharp enough to cut through steel.
“I was chasing a lead, sir,” Saxon replied.
“Tell me about that later. I have a warrant for you to search Freudl’s home.”
“We conducted that search already. We found nothing.”
“I want you to do it again. Be more careful this time.”
#
The old lady was incredulous when Saxon, Glasser and six uniformed Orpo policemen knocked on her door. Saxon showed her the warrant.
“Not again! I’m still cleaning up after your last search.” She held a mop in her hand.
Glasser said, “Stand aside, mother.”
“I’m not your mother.” She brandished her mop like a weapon.
Saxon asked to speak with Freudl, but the headmaster was at the school.
The uniforms dispersed around the upper floors; Glasser and Saxon took the ground floor. Within minutes Glasser discovered a pane of glass missing from a French window in a back parlour.
“Someone broke in last night,” said Frau Freudl.
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No. Nothing was taken.”
Five minutes after that one of the uniforms called for Glasser to come to a bedroom on the third floor. Glasser bounded up the stairs. Saxon followed at a more leisurely pace.
Saxon entered the bedroom to find Glasser and the Orpo man peering into a leather trunk full of clothing dating from the previous century. Three items of clothing were modern – two shirts and a woman’s undergarment – and they were covered in blood.
“These weren’t here three days ago,” said Glasser to Saxon.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain. I searched this room myself.”
Saxon took the three bloodied items downstairs and showed them to Frau Freudl. “Whose are these, Frau Freudl?”
“I’ve never seen them before. Where did you find them?”
“We found them in a trunk in the front bedroom on the left on the third floor. Whose room is that?”
“No one’s. It’s a big house. We don’t use the upper floors.”
Saxon took the bloodied clothing to the morgue. Medical Examiner Valachek passed the garments to his assistant with instructions to test the blood type on the garments to see if it matched that of any of the victims.
“It would be helpful if the tests took a couple of days,” said Saxon.
“Understood,” Valachek replied, handing over a copy of the second and third autopsy reports. Saxon found an empty desk and sat down to read them. They made depressing reading.
#
Glasser said, “That clothing was planted by someone.”
“Someone like Kratschik?”
Glasser chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t like the way this is going, Boss. He’s leading us by the nose, forcing us into a corner.”
Saxon gave his assistant a cigarette. “Let’s wait and see what Valachek comes up with. Maybe the blood on the clothing won’t match any of the victims.” He put his hat on and strode to the door. “In the meantime, concentrate on Georg Bell. Get me an address.”
“Where are you going, Boss?”
“To talk to an old friend.”
#
The office of the newspaper, The Straight Path, was deserted, the door swinging crazily from one hinge, the contents of the file cabinets strewn around the floor, the drawers of all the desks smashed and emptied. Saxon picked up a few pieces of paper, but found nothing of interest. He was on nodding terms with Herr Hoffmann, a tailor whose workshop was in the next office. He asked an office boy there what had happened.
“Brownshirts,” said the boy. “They came yesterday and took most of the staff away.”
“Where can I find someone who worked here?”
“Fräulein Vassan lives somewhere in Betzenweg.”
There were only two apartment blocks on Betzenweg, and it didn’t take him long to find Fräulein Vassan. He remembered her as a bright, cheerful girl, but now she appeared pale as a ghost with wild, terrified eyes.
Her hands shook as she closed the door.
She remembered Saxon from his occasional visits to the office. Under gentle prompting from Saxon she took him through the events of the day before. The Brownshirts had stormed the office. They had beaten Herr Gerlich and two other journalists and ransacked the office. Gerlich and the others were arrested and taken away.
“Do you know where they were taken?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Did they give a reason for the arrests?”
“No, but Herr Gerlich had been worried for several weeks that something like this might happen. He was working on a big story…”
“The Geli Raubal story?”
“You know about that? The Brownshirts removed boxes and boxes of papers. I’m sure they took everything he had on the case.”
She buried her head in her hands and wept. Her shoulders shook. Saxon handed her a handkerchief. She took it, wiped her face, and blew her nose. He fetched a glass of water from the kitchen.
She handed back the handkerchief. “Forgive me.”
He gave her the water. “You’ve had a severe shock. My questions are not helping. I’ll leave you.”
She looked up. “What will happen to Herr Gerlich and the others?”
The Brownshirts operated outside the law, and with Hitler in power there was little prospect of anything being done to rein them in, but he said, “They should be released fairly quickly. They have committed no crime.”
He put his hat on. She accompanied him to the door. “One last thing I need to ask you before I go, Fräulein: Do you know where I could contact Georg Bell? I believe Herr Gerlich spoke to him about the case.”
The wide-eyed look of terror returned. “I know nothing about him, sorry, Kommissar.”
She closed the door sharply, leaving Saxon with the overwhelming feeling of a job only half done, like a half-eaten meal.
Chapter 4
“Georg Bell has gone to ground,” said Glasser. “If he’s half the spy I think he is. We’ll never find him.”
“Put out the word that we want to talk to him about something that happened in 1931. If he gets a hint that we’re looking at the Geli Raubal case again we won’t need to find him. He’ll find us.”
“I don’t see that, Boss.”
“Trust me. He’s a spy, and spies are endlessly curious. He won’t be able to resist.”
Kratschik called on the telephone. “I trust you have Bart Freudl in custody.”
“No, sir, we have no evidence against the headmaster.”
“Your search uncovered blood-stained garments belonging to the three victims, I believe. What more evidence do you need?”
“We found some blood-stained garments, that’s true, sir. But we won’t know if they relate to the murders unti
l the Medical Examiner has completed his tests.”
Kratschik slammed the telephone down. Saxon went home for the weekend, wondering where Kratschik was getting his information from.
#
On Monday morning Saxon found the results of the laboratory tests on his desk. As expected, the blood taken from the three garments matched the blood groups of the three victims. This evidence was not conclusive, but, given the links between Freudl and two of the victims, it couldn’t be ignored.
Saxon looked at his telephone, which remained like a silent brooding hen on his desk, ready to lay an egg at any moment.
“Nothing from Kratschik this morning?” said Glasser.
“Thank the gods. Better bring Freudl in. We can’t delay any longer.”
Glasser left and returned with the headmaster in tow. Saxon heard the tirade of abuse as they entered the stationhouse and gave him a few moments to settle before starting the interview.
He went through Freudl’s alibis again for the nights of the three murders. His mother was his only corroboration for all three nights. Saxon presented the headmaster with the new evidence of the blood-stained clothing.
“That’s preposterous. You found no such evidence during your first search.”
“We must have missed it.”
“You can’t really believe that! We had a burglary the night before your second search. You saw the broken windowpane. Nothing was taken. It’s obvious that someone broke in to the house and planted that new evidence. Someone is trying to frame me for crimes that I didn’t commit.”
Saxon couldn’t disagree with Freudl’s analysis, but without solid alibis he would stand little chance in the courts of the Third Reich. Things were changing fast. Already, the police were no longer the sole guardians of the law as they were subordinate to the Schutzstaffel. And, under pressure from the Party, the courts could no longer be relied on for the impartial administration of justice.
He pressed Freudl to reveal any knowledge of Frau Happeck, the second victim. Freudl insisted that he had never met the woman. Saxon put Freudl in a holding cell and called Glasser into his office.
“Our friend is in a bind. With the evidence we have the courts will surely send him to the scaffold.” Saxon shuddered. The scaffold was no more than a figure of speech, and they both knew it. Since Hitler had come to power the Munich courts had sentenced several people to death by guillotine.
“What if we keep him here until the killer strikes again, Boss? That would strengthen his hand.”
“I think we need to take more direct action than that.”
“Like what?”
“You do realise whoever planted those three garments must be the killer, and whoever he is, he’s a worried man.”
“Kratschik.”
“Yes, Kratschik may be the killer or it may be his son. Find out where the Standartenführer lives, but do nothing until I give the word.”
Ruth called on the telephone at midday. “Samuel’s not well, Schatzl. I need you here.” Saxon could hear the infant crying in the background.
“Take him to the doctor if he’s ill. What can I do for him?”
“You’re his father. I need you with me. Frau Snydacker next door has been no help at all.”
“I’m not sure I can—” She cut the line.
Frau Snydacker? He racked his brain. Frau Snydacker was the neighbour who died last year! And Ruth never called him Schatzl. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Ruth was sending him a message. She was not alone. Someone had invaded their home. He called Glasser.
“I think there’s somebody with my wife.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the apartment at home, but I received a strange telephone call from her.” He opened his desk, pulled out his holster and strapped it on. He loaded his handgun with ammunition and put it in the holster. Glasser did the same, and they left the office together.
“I’ll go in alone,” said Saxon as they drew up outside his apartment building. “You wait here. If I need you I’ll blow my whistle.”
Ruth and baby Samuel were sleeping. He shook her awake.
“You had someone with you. What happened?”
“A stranger. A big man with a long jaw. He told me to call you on the telephone, to ask you to come home. I mentioned poor Frau Snydacker. I tried to warn you…”
“That worked well, but where is the stranger now?”
“He said he’d meet you in Marienplatz in time for the chimes at 11 o’clock. He said you should come alone.”
#
Marienplatz was teeming with tourists and locals. At exactly 11 o’clock the clock rang and all eyes turned to the Rathaus clock tower as the glockenspiel display began. Saxon cast his eyes over the people around him, but failed to identify anyone even remotely sinister-looking.
Then a hand gripped his arm. “You were looking for me, Kommissar.”
He spun around and found himself face to face with a smiling face with a long jaw. He was older than the picture on his file and his hairline had receded like an ocean before a tsunami, but Saxon recognised Georg Bell. “Herr Bell, I should arrest you for breaking into my home and frightening my wife.”
“Forgive me,” said Bell. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
“I need to ask you a few questions about 1931 in Prinzregentenplatz.”
“Anything I can do to help, Kommissar.”
“You are aware that both Frau Happeck and Maxine Weiss were killed in the last seven days?”
“Yes. I was greatly saddened by their deaths.”
“They were the last two of three identical murders. The first was a prostitute called Maria Kazinski. She worked in a brothel…”
“What is your question?”
“Is there any connection between the Geli suicide and Maria Kazinski?”
“None that I know of, and it wasn’t suicide.”
“You gave information about the Geli… affair to Michael Gerlich. You must know that Gerlich has been arrested, his records removed? I assume Gerlich spoke with Frau Happeck and Maxine Weiss?”
Bell nodded. “Yes.”
“So that’s why they died?”
“Very probably. Gerlich was about to blow the top off the whole case.”
“What can you tell me about his findings?’
“I can tell you that Geli was murdered and he had the evidence to prove it.”
“Gerlich could name the murderer?”
“Why do you think the Brownshirts arrested him and killed the only two people present in the apartment?”
“Were you involved in the killing?”
“Not directly.”
“You weren’t in the apartment when Geli Raubal died?”
“No, but I supplied the key that allowed the SS to gain access.”
“Give me a name. Give me something – anything.”
“I can’t. I wouldn’t last a week.” He looked around nervously. The chimes were nearing the end. “Goodbye, Kommissar. I wish you good fortune with your investigation. Just remember that not everything is as it appears.”
And Georg Bell disappeared into the crowd.
#
Saxon returned to the office with Georg Bell’s words ringing in his head. He invited his assistant into his office, closed the door, and ran through his meeting with Georg Bell.
When he’d finished, Glasser said, “He confirmed that Frau Happeck and Maxine were witnesses to the killing of Geli Raubal?”
“Perhaps not witnesses, but they were present in the apartment at the time. The only ones, he said.”
“And the assassin was SS?”
“Yes. We must assume the killing was ordered by the Führer himself.”
“That’s dynamite, Boss. It could bring the Nazi government down.”
“Undoubtedly. But without Gerlich and his records we have nothing.”
“What did he mean, ‘not everything is as it appears’?” said Glasser.
“I don’t know, b
ut I want to take another look at the Medical Examiner’s reports.” He opened the three reports and spread them out on his desk.
“What are we looking for, Boss?”
“Professor Valachek mentioned that all three victims had been struck on the head. Frau Happeck and the teacher, Maxine, had been killed by the initial blow, but Maria Kazinski was alive but unconscious until the end of the mutilations.” He read Professor Valachek’s breakdown of the gruesome mutilations and could find no differences.
Glasser said, “Listen to this, Boss.” He read from the first report: “The blade used to kill Maria Kazinski was short and narrow, like a dagger, 15 cm long.” He picked up a page from the second autopsy report: “The weapon that killed Frau Happeck was at least 30 cm long and had a broad blade, like a rapier.”
Saxon leafed through the third report and found the description of the weapon used. “This one was long and broad. The last two were identical, the first was a different weapon!”
In his excitement, Saxon patted his jacket pockets looking for a cigarette. Glasser opened a packet and they lit up together in a cloud of smoke.
“We’re looking for two killers,” said Glasser. “The second and third murders were political, the first killing was something else.”
“You’re right,” said Saxon, “but still, the three killings are connected. The last two were copies of the first. The SS intended us to lay the blame for all three murders on the killer of Maria Kazinski.”
“And the three blood-stained garments pointed the fingers squarely at the headmaster,” said Glasser. “I wonder why they chose him?”
“I identified him as a possible suspect, remember. The SS probably want to remove him from his post and put one of their own in there. But the discovery of those garments also proves that, whoever the two killers are, they are closely connected.”
“Like father and son?” said Glasser.
Saxon stubbed out his cigarette. “If we bring Kratschik junior in for questioning, the consequences don’t bear thinking about.”
Glasser said, “We could do nothing, Boss.”
“And let a brutal murderer go free? I don’t think so. And anyway, Kratschik is insisting that we solve the case. If we fail we’ll be back in uniform by morning, arresting carthorses for fouling the streets.”
“What if we charge Freudl?”