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A SEATON BEGG MYSTERY

By MICHAEL MOORCOCK

AUTHOR OF

THE MASKED BUCKAROO, THE WHITE WOLF’S LEGEND, THE AFFAIR OF THE SEVEN VIRGINS, LOST SORCERESS OF THE SILENT CITADEL, KANE OF OLD MARS, THE MOON HAWK, CALLING JERRY CORNELL!, THE CARIBBEAN CRISIS, THE METATEMPORAL DETECTIVE, AGAIN, SEATON BEGG! THE ADVENTURE OF THE TEXAN’S HONOUR, BUCHAN OF WHITEHALL, THE “SIR MILK AND BLOOD” CASE, THE CASE OF THE PRINTER’S DEVIL, THE CASE OF THE CHINESE AGENT, THE WAR LORD OF THE AIR, THROUGH THE SHAVING MIRROR, THE TAROT MURDER CASE, THE CASE OF THE DREAMTHIEF’S DAUGHTER, AND MANY OTHER BEST-SELLING “THRILLERS” OF CRIME AND THE SUPERNATURAL.

CHAPTER ONE

MESSAGE FROM MUNICH

It was, or would be, the misty autumn of 1931. A suite of comfort-able bachelor apartments in the highest tower of London’s exclusive Sporting Club Square. Sir Seaton Begg, former MI5 special operator now metatemporal investigator, reached across the fire-grate, singeing the sleeve of his smoking jacket. As he examined the silk, his aquiline, unconventionally handsome features were illuminated by the fire.

“What d’you make of that, Taffy?”

John “Taffy” Sinclair, Begg’s best and oldest friend, and the leading Home Office pathologist, accepted the rectangle of yellow paper. The balding giant had the mild but sturdy rectitude of an East End bishop. Balancing a cup of Darjeeling in one hand, he sank back into the depths of his armchair to read. Moments later, with an impatient expression, he set the telegram aside.

“The National Socialists?” Taffy frowned. “Sort of German Mussolini-ites? Aren’t they even worse than the commies for going around beating up honest citizens? And, of course, there’s that lunatic anti-Jewish muck.”

Begg smiled a familiar, almost sly, smile. “I gather they will restore ‘German pride’ and so forth, meaning, no doubt, the military. A very attractive message to the heavy industrialists, naturally, who find more profit in swords than ploughshares.” He lifted delicate bone china to his full, masculine lips. “The armorers and their jackals.”

Like Sinclair, Begg supported world disarmament under the League of Nations and was disappointed when Woodrow Wilson had been forced to placate the parochial exigencies of his Congress by quitting the League.

Begg continued with some emphasis. “Look here, Taffy, read that thing again and let me know any other names you recognize, apart from their Little Corporal destined to become their German Napoleon.”

“You mean that awful oik who looks like Charlie Chaplin? Musso’s effeminate pal Mr. Hitler? The Nazi general secretary or whatever he styles himself. Nothing new, is it?”

“I’d agree he seems to be preaching a familiar line of l’intoxication special.” Sinclair reached a taper into the fire and relit his pipe. “These chaps have been getting more dangerous since the successes of Primo Riviera and Mussolini, of course.” He puffed heroically on his briar.

“I agree, old man.” Begg glanced into the fire. For an instant his eyes burned an angry red. “Come on, Taffy. Be a pal and glance at that wire again.”

Reluctantly, Sinclair adjusted his spectacles. “Well, Hess is a pretty common German name. But don’t you know a Baron von Hess? Some sort of relative of your cousin, Count von Bek?”

“Von Bek?” Begg laughed at this mention of his old sparring partner, known to the British public as Monsieur Zodiac, the Albino, Count of Crime. “I doubt if my cousin would deign to involve himself in this. It’s not what you call an epicurean crime, eh? What about this Fräulein Raubal?”

“Her first name, Geli, is short for Angela, I believe. Raubal’s a fairly common name in southern Germany and Austria. Who is she, do you know?”

“Herr Hitler’s mistress, my dear chap.” Begg smiled self-indulgently, at once mocking and forgiving his own relish for scandal. “They are also, one hears, close relatives.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Afraid I don’t follow the German gossip columns.”

“You should, old boy.” The lean detective sprang from his chair. He tapped out his own pipe against the fireplace. “You