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“Pretty clear, I’d say.” The countess recognized Begg’s rather inappropriate black humor.

“I think Hitler beat her up. Then one of his henchmen went back and shot her. Maybe some kind of ‘Murder in the Cathedral’ situation? I gather that’s how Mussolini learned he was responsible for his first murder. Overzealous followers. So who shot her? Röhm? He’s ruthless enough and he doesn’t much like women. Himmler? A cold fish, but too far away at the time. Same with Göring or Göbbels, if we assume they didn’t come to Munich incognito.”

“I think our people would have known about it,” said the countess.

“Ours, too, most likely,” confirmed Hoffmann, rubbing at his red jowls. “They have orders to keep track of who goes in and out of the Brown House.”

“So we have a dozen suspects and nothing which leads to any of them.” Sinclair lifted his eyebrows. “But two of you at least are convinced Hitler did it. What about you, Begg? What do you think?”

“I’m beginning to get an idea of who killed Geli Raubal, and I think I can guess why. But there is another element here.” Begg frowned deeply. “I think in the morning we’ll set off for Berchtesgaden, for Herr Amman’s little hideaway. You, presumably, have already interviewed Hitler, Inspector Hoffmann?”

“As soon as he arrived back from Nuremberg, of course. He seemed in a state of shock, but, as stated, his alibi was airtight. Of course, you will wish to prove he didn’t do it, Sir Seaton, and I admit the cards are stacked in your favor.”

“Not exactly, old boy. But I agree with you that as things stand, any case against Herr Hitler couldn’t be proven in a court of law.”

With a courteous good night to the policeman, Begg escorted his two friends outside. In the street his car was being guarded by a uniformed constable, who saluted as soon as he recognized Countess von Bek and opened the doors for them.

It was only a short drive to the hotel and most of it was spent in silence as the three investigators thought over what they had learned.

“I suppose there’s no chance of me coming down with you?” asked the countess. “Since Herr Hitler isn’t my client.”

“Exactly,” murmured Begg, concentrating on the unfamiliar streets. “And I think even you’d agree, Rose, that client confidentiality, at least at this stage, is sacrosanct.”

While Begg waited with the engine running, Sinclair saw the beautiful adventuress through the doors of her hotel. As they drove off, Sinclair said: “She wants our Mr. Hitler hanged, no doubt about it. She’s afraid you’ll get him off the hook. Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

“I merely noted,” said the detective with what seemed inappropriate cheerfulness, “that there was no evidence directly linking Hitler with the murder of his niece. Nothing to convince a jury. Don’t worry, Taffy. One way or another justice will out. I have a feeling we will meet at least one more old acquaintance before this business is over.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

INTERVIEW WITH A SAVIOR

Hess now took the Duesenberg’s backseat. They had been driving for some hours, making for the lodge at Berchtesgaden where Adolf Hitler had retreated, apparently in deep mourning for the loss of his niece. The surrounding scenery was both dramatic and beautiful, with high hills and pinewoods, giving the air a rich, invigorating quality.

“The Führer is very sensitive. His mind is of a higher order than most. He always comes here when things go wrong. Here he collects himself and makes something of his experience.” The hero worship in Hess’s tone was tangible and had become extremely familiar to the two Englishmen.

Sinclair’s expression, could Hess have seen it, would have revealed that he had already had far too much of this sort of talk. But Begg remained apparently affable. “Bit like Mr. Gandhi, I suppose,” he suggested.

“Perhaps.” Hess seemed uncomfortable with the comparison.

They turned another corner of the winding road. Ahead was a pleasant, rustic hunting chalet of the kind many Germans built for their summer season. As they drove up a tall,