McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales - Michael Chabon [148]
Taffy mumbled some polite apology and said he thought it was time he turned in, but Begg insisted he stay. “I think I’m going to need your help tonight, old man.”
“Tonight?”
“Afraid so.”
Sinclair rather reluctantly poured himself a fresh cup of Earl Grey.
“Was the corpse still in the apartment when you arrived on the scene?” Begg asked his old paramour.
“Hinkel of the Taggeblat called us. He’s our best man down here. So I caught the express from Berlin and was here in time to have a look at the body.”
“You’re certain she was murdered? How? Did some expert sniper shoot her through the window?”
Rose was certain. “Nothing so complicated. Someone’s made a clumsy attempt to make it look as if she’d shot herself through the heart. Hitler’s gun—easy accessibility. Dead canary nearby—she’d been carrying it around all day—no doubt adding to the impression that she was suicidal. But the angle of entry was wrong. Someone shot her, Seaton, while she was lying on the rug—probably during an amorous moment. Half-undressed. Evidently an intimate. And Hitler was certainly an intimate. . . .
“You’ve seen these pictures?” He handed her the envelope.
“No wonder the poor girl was confused.” Even the countess winced at what she saw. “They might have tried to push her toward suicide but she wouldn’t fall. Eventually someone shot her at close range, then put the gun in her hand so it seemed suicide. Only there were too many clues to the contrary.”
“Any chance of taking a look at the corpse?” Taffy’s dry, decisive tone was unexpected.
“Engaging your gears at last, are we, Taffy?” said Begg jumping to his feet. “Come on, Countess. Get us to the morgue, posthaste!”
Responding with almost gleeful alacrity, Countess von Bek allowed Sinclair to open the door for her. Dolly was still outside, so within moments the investigators were on their way to the Munich police headquarters.
The countess had already established her authority there. She led the way directly through the building to a door marked “Inspector Hoffmann.” The round, red-faced inspector assured them that he knew them all by reputation and had the greatest respect for their skills. He was grateful, he said, for their cooperation.
“However,” said the bluff Bavarian when they were all seated, “I ought to tell you that I’m convinced Hitler killed her during quite a nasty fight. Fortunately for your client, Sir Seaton, he has the best possible alibi—with dozens of witnesses to show he could not possibly have committed the murder. Hess? What do you think? Was it Hess who contacted you, Sir Seaton?”
They all agreed Hess was an unlikely suspect. Indeed, not one of the party hierarchy had an evident motive. All had perfect alibis. A hired killer? Begg put the notion to Hoffmann, who remained convinced that Hitler was the murderer. Another lover? Vaguely mysterious figures had been reported as coming and going, but Geli, of course, had not advertised them. “Coffee?” Hoffmann touched an electric bell.
After coffee, Hoffman led them down to the morgue, a clean, tiled, up-to-date department with refrigerated cabinets, dissecting tables, and the latest in analytical instruments. Taffy was impressed, unable to hold back his praise for the splendid facilities. “I can’t tell you how old-fashioned Scotland Yard looks in comparison. You can’t beat the Germans at this sort of thing.”
Herr Hoffman was visibly flattered.
“Practical science and sublime art,” murmured Taffy.
Inspector Hoffmann rather proudly crossed the mortuary. “Wait until you see this, my friend.” He went to a bank of switches, each with a number. He flipped a toggle and then, magically, one of the drawers began to open!