Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“That isn’t possible, ma’am.”

In the next five minutes, everyone became wiser. Rigby confessed to the practical joke that had misfired — literally. The Countess made a great show of being scandalised but couldn’t suppress her relief that there had not, after all, been an assassination attempt on the Führer in her school. It wasn’t for want of trying, Camilla rashly told them. Far from hero-worshipping Hitler, she had planned cold-bloodedly to rid the world of him. The vigil in the Osteria Bavaria had been her attempt to entrap him.

“Enemy of the Reich!” cried the countess. “She-devil! You are expelled from my school!”

“Then I shall go to the newspapers.”

“On second thoughts, I see it as my duty to reform you.”

Then Manfred opened his eyes and groaned. “Help me to stand, please. I must leave at once.”

“Out of the question,” the Countess told him. “I’m going to put you to bed.”

He said with desperation, “I report to the Führer at noon. It is the four-power conference with Chamberlain, Mussolini and Daladier. I’m on duty.”

“With a shot foot? Don’t be idiotic!”

He propped himself on an elbow, moved the leg, grimaced with pain and immediately passed out again, giving the countess the opportunity to make good her promise. With Rigby’s and Camilla’s help she lifted him on to the bed, then instructed them to look the other way while she stripped him of his uniform. The doctor who usually attended the school arrived to dress the wound. He injected Manfred with morphine. Nobody told the doctor who Manfred was: by a process of nods and shrugs he formed the impression that Manfred was on the staff of the school and had shot himself by accident while investigating a noise in the cellar.

“Rats,” said the doctor, with a knowing look.

The rest of the morning was torment for Rigby as she speculated what would happen to Manfred. Soon enough his absence would be noticed — absence without leave. What explanation could he give? He was going to be on crutches for weeks. Hitler, a man utterly devoid of humour, would take it as treason. Manfred would be lucky to escape with his life.

Her own fate, as the instigator of the stunt, paled into insignificance. So, it must be admitted, did Camilla’s, as the would-be assassin of the Führer.

That afternoon Rigby missed the German lesson, saying she had a toothache, and slipped upstairs to the sick-bay. She found Manfred semiconscious, too drugged to move, but capable of recognising her. He smiled. She stroked his forehead. How much made sense to him was difficult to judge.

“I’ve thought about this for hours and something drastic has to be done, my darling. I’m going to speak to your Führer. He expressed a wish to meet me, and now he will. I shall make a personal appeal to him. He’s got to be told that this was just a practical joke got up by some high-spirited girls who tricked you into taking part. You were injured heroically trying to put a stop to it. All I want from you is the pass you carry, or something to get me into Hitler’s flat. I must see him alone. It’s no use with all those aides around him. How will I gain entry? Is there a password?”

Manfred gazed at her blankly.

She went to the wardrobe and searched his uniform. In an inside pocket was a wallet containing various identification documents.

Munich buzzed with stories about the Conference. Hitler had pushed Europe to the brink of war over the Sudeten question. Germany was set to occupy the disputed territories on October 1st and it was now September 29th. Chamberlain had flown in that morning from London for his third meeting with Hitler in a fortnight. Daladier, the French premier, was already installed at the Four Seasons Hotel. And Hitler had gone by train to the German-Italian border to escort his ally, Mussolini, to Munich. The talks at the Führerbau had started soon after lunch and were likely to last until late.

About six-twenty p.m., a taxi drew up at the building in Prinz Regenten Platz where Hitler had his private apartment. Rigby, dressed in a black pillbox hat with a veil, a bottle-green jacket with velvet revers and a black skirt, got out and approached the guard. She gave the Nazi salute.

“I am here on the personal instructions of the Führer. I am to go up and wait for him.”

“Your identification, Fräulein?”

“Examine this. It is the pass of his Adjutant, Oberleutnant Reger.”

“Do you have some identification of your own?”

“This is sufficient. My presence here is highly confidential. Mention it to nobody. Nobody. Do you understand?”

Her voice carried authority. He saluted, stepped aside and swung back the iron gate of the lift.

At the door of number sixteen, she repeated the performance for the benefit of Hitler’s housekeeper. She got a long look before she was admitted to a modestly proportioned flat furnished with ornate dark wood furniture and insipid oil paintings. She sat in a chintz-covered armchair and listened to the clock for a time.

About seven p.m., the housekeeper returned and said she was going out to her sister’s. “Are you sure the Führer wished you to wait?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it is better, I think, if you sit in my apartment. There is a connecting door.”

So Rigby transferred. The adjoining flat was more agreeable; for one thing, it had a kitchen where she was able to make coffee for herself. After two hours she made a second cup and there came a time when she had made four. She had resolved not to leave without speaking to Hitler, but the possibility now arose that he had gone elsewhere to sleep, because it was past two a.m. Apparently the housekeeper wasn’t coming back either. In the next hour or so Rigby twice dozed until her head lolled uncomfortably. She got up to look for somewhere to stretch out.

She didn’t care to be found in the housekeeper’s bedroom. If there was a guest room she would use that. She tried a door opposite the bathroom and found it locked, but the key was in place. She turned it and reached for the light switch. How charming, she thought, and what a surprise! Pastel colours. White, modern furniture. All very feminine. A single bed with the sheets turned back as if for airing. A pale yellow night-dress tossed across the pillows. A pierrette’s carnival costume with black pompoms hanging from the white wardrobe. Dance programmes and invitation cards ranged along the mantelpiece. Rigby picked one up. The date of the dance was September, 1931.

1931?

She looked at the other cards. All were dated 1931 — seven years ago .

She crossed to the bed and picked up the nightdress. It smelt musty. Horrible. She’d heard of this morbid custom before. When some loved one died, their room was preserved exactly as they left it. On Queen Victoria’s orders, Prince Albert’s room at Windsor had been left intact for forty years after his death. Rigby had just walked into a shrine.

Feeling the gooseflesh rise, she turned to leave. Something else caught her eye, a photograph in a silver frame on the dressing-table. Out of some intuition she picked it up. A young girl was pictured beside Hitler. He had his hand on her shoulder. Rigby stared at the picture. The girl could have been herself. The face was her own. The photo-frame slipped from her fingers and hit the floor, shattering the glass.

She gave a cry, not merely from shock. Footsteps were coming fast along the corridor, the heavy tread of a man. She spun around to face the open door. Hitler stood there in his braces, an older, more strained Hitler than the photograph had shown.

For once he looked unguarded, vulnerable, not in command. He said in a whisper, “Geli?”

Rigby shook her head.

He stepped towards her, hands outstretched as if to discover whether she was flesh and blood. His eyes glistened moistly.