Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

She shrank from him.

Suddenly words gushed from her. “I’m not your Geli. I shouldn’t be here, I admit. I’m English. My name is Dorothy Rigby and I came to see you to explain about your Adjutant—”

Terrifyingly, he became the Führer again, shouting her down with his tirade. “You have no right in here! Nobody is allowed in here. You’ve smashed her picture, defiled her memory, mocked me, the Führer. What are you, a spy, a witch, a streetwalker? You’ll be punished. How did you get here? Who let you in?”

She said, “You asked to meet me. You spotted me in the Osteria Bavaria.” And it sounded appallingly lame.

He grabbed her arm. “Out of this room! Out! I spend fifteen hours settling the future of Germany, of Europe, dealing with old men and popinjays, and I come home to this. I shall call the Gestapo.”

Rigby shouted back, “If you do, my friend from the finishing-school — remember her with the blonde hair? — will go to the British Ambassador and tell him you importuned me. You — the Reich Chancellor — importuned a foreign schoolgirl in a restaurant. Pick up that telephone, Herr Hitler, and your reputation is scarred for ever.”

He let go of her and flapped his hand. “Ach — this is nonsense. Be off with you. I’m too tired to take this up.”

It was a crucial moment. Manfred’s fate was still paramount in Rigby’s plans. “I refuse to leave until you’ve listened to what I have to say.”

Hitler marched away towards his own apartment, but she followed him, talking fast, making sure that he heard her much-rehearsed, much doctored version of the practical joke she had played on Camilla, in which Manfred was blameless because he had answered a summons supposedly from his Führer, and been shot in the foot, heroically trying to prevent an assassination.

Hitler spun around and faced her. “How can you prove one word of this horse-shit?”

She felt the blood drain from her head. How could she prove the story. He was calling it horse-shit, but he wouldn’t have asked the question unless he gave it some credence.

With a flair that would serve her well in years to come, Rigby picked her handbag off the chintz armchair she had first sat in, took out her posture certificate and handed it to Hitler.

He stared at it for longer than he needed to read it. Finally he handed it back and said in a hard, tight voice, “Go back to my housekeeper’s quarters. Tonight you will remain there.”

Rigby obeyed. She heard the key turn in the lock behind her. She didn’t need telling that every exit would be locked. She pushed two armchairs together, climbed into them and curled up, praying she had done the right thing for Manfred.

“Last night you said you were English.”

She opened her eyes to Hitler, in uniform, leaning over the back of the armchair. It was daylight. In the background were the voices of others in the flat.

“Yes.”

“You speak good German also.”

“I like languages.”

“This morning I am to receive your Prime Minister on a private visit before he returns to England. You will assist my regular translator, Dr Schmidt. Tidy yourself.”

Rigby collected her wits. “I see. You want to pass me off as your interpreter.”

“Do as I say.”

She saw presently that the two apartments throbbed with activity. Aides, secretaries and domestic staff had been hastily summoned after word had come through from Neville Chamberlain that he wanted one more session with Hitler. Clearly, Rigby’s presence in the place wanted some explaining, so a job had been found for her.

When the British delegation arrived, Rigby was in the room, at Schmidt’s elbow. She knew nothing of the agreement signed the previous night, so it shocked her to glean from what Chamberlain was saying that Hitler had run rings around the English and the French. Czechoslovakia now had ten days to hand over the Sudetenland to Germany. In the cold light of morning Chamberlain was looking for something to save his face when he got back to England.

That face, which Rigby had never seen except in photographs, looked strained and anxious. The Prime Minister expressed the wish that the Czechs would not be “mad enough” to reject the agreement. He said he hoped it would not be necessary for Germany to bomb Prague; in fact, he had hopes of an international agreement to ban bomber aircraft.

Hitler listened impassively to the translation. Finally, when it was clear that no more progress was possible, Chamberlain took two sheets of paper from his pocket and asked if Hitler would be willing to sign a statement on the future of Anglo-German relations.

“What is it?” asked Hitler. He passed it to Rigby. “You can translate.”

She asked if she could have a moment to draft an accurate version in German. She took it to the writing-table, the famous “piece of paper” that Chamberlain was to proclaim as the evidence of “peace for our time”.

When Rigby’s translation was ready, Hitler gave it a glance. “Yes, I’ll sign.”

Chamberlain stepped forward to add his signature below Hitler’s. Rigby blotted each copy of the document. She handed Hitler his, and then turned her back on him. This was her opportunity. Dexterously she made a substitution and handed Chamberlain a note she had jotted on the reverse of her posture certificate: SOS. Essential I return with you to England with a man who has vital information.

To his credit, Chamberlain gave it a glance and placed it smoothly in his pocket. He shook hands with Hitler. Then he turned to Rigby and said, “And how charming to meet you once more, my dear. Perhaps the Führer will allow me to drive you home if your duties are over.”

“They are,” said Rigby.

The British had come in two cars, and Rigby travelled in the second. It made a detour to the finishing school. On the advice of one of the diplomatic staff she didn’t go in. It was possible that the Gestapo were inside. But her heart pounded when a figure presently emerged on crutches and limped towards the waiting car.

Only it wasn’t Manfred.

It was Camilla, disguised as a man. She sank beside Rigby, slammed the door and said to the driver, “Start up, for God’s sake! The Gestapo are on their way.” To Rigby she said, “Manfred’s safe.”

“What happened? Where is he?”

“Rigby — I’m sorry to tell you this. His wife collected him.”

“His wife? Manfred is married? ” The world caved in on Rigby.

“I know. It was a complete shock. There were two young children. Absolute sweeties. He doesn’t deserve them. She arrived in a car twenty minutes ago. One of Manfred’s colleagues had tipped her off that Hitler had ordered a raid on the school. I think they’ll make it to the border. I dressed up like this in case the place is being watched. To put them off, you see.”

Rigby was numb.

Even when the plane took off she felt no sense of relief at escaping. She would never trust a man again.

Fifty years on, that flight home is still a void in her memory. She does have some recollection of the landing at Croydon, when Chamberlain stepped off the plane to make his famous announcement to the press. In some of the photographs Rigby can be seen in the background, standing beside Camilla, who is wearing a trilby. She remembers the moment of horror when Chamberlain produced his famous piece of paper and waved it triumphantly. She recalls opening her handbag and checking that it still contained the agreement Hitler had signed.

Chamberlain was holding up a piece of paper with the words Presented by the Führer for Good Posture .

How was it, then, that shortly after, he appeared to read out the text of the agreement? As Rigby had observed, you could say one thing for Neville Chamberlain — his memory was phenomenal.