McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales - Michael Chabon [151]
“Ah,” declared Sir Seaton Begg, climbing from his car, “I take it I have the pleasure of addressing Reichstag Leader Strasser?” He put out his hand and it was firmly shaken.
Gregor Strasser’s face was clouded, but he knew his manners. He spoke in a soft, well-educated voice. “We are so glad you have come to help us, Sir Seaton, though I am not sure Herr Hitler is in any real condition to speak to you.” He was almost disapproving. “Hitler has gone into one of his hysterical states again. Always been one to hide under the blankets during a crisis. Hasn’t been out of bed since he got here. Won’t talk to me. Will hardly talk to Röhm.”
“Captain Röhm is here also.” Begg was clearly pleased. “Excellent. You, I presume, don’t believe that Herr Hitler’s guilty?”
“I speak, of course, from loyalty as well as conviction. But Herr Hitler loved his niece. He was, of course, very possessive. Even when my brother Otto expressed willingness to take her to a dance, Hitler furiously forbade it. I felt sorry for her. A bit of a bird in a gilded cage, you know. But while Hitler might speak rather fiercely in public, he rarely exposed Geli to that side of himself. It was Himmler who hated her. Even Alf knew that! But I really think she must have killed herself.”
“The police evidence suggests she was killed, as you probably know.” Now all three men had paused on the veranda outside the front door.
“Surely you don’t believe—?” The big politician purpled.
Begg put a reassuring hand on Strasser’s arm. “Fear not, old sport. I think we are going to be able to tell you something about the real killer soon. But I really must speak to your Führer, you know.”
The house was decorated like a typical hunting lodge, though without the usual trophies of animal heads and skins. Hitler hated such signs of violence against animals, and his host pandered to him. Otherwise, with its hat stands and gun racks of antlers and its heavy rugs and old, comfortable furniture, it felt familiar and secure. Off the main reception room a broad staircase rose up into the darkness of a landing where, no doubt, the bedrooms were. A big fire burned in the grate. The surround was carved with bears, stags, and other game. Leaning against it was a short, stocky individual with a hideous scar marring half his rather pudgy face. He was dressed in what, apart from its brown color, resembled the regular uniform of a Wehrmacht officer, with Nazi emblems on collar, cuffs, and sleeves. Knocking back a ballon of brandy, he came forward, greeting them in a surprisingly hearty rich Bavarian accent. In private, none of these men used the Hitler salute. “Grüss Gott, Sir Seaton. Just as we’re at the point of real power someone’s trying to sabotage the party’s chances. What can you do for us?”
“A miracle would help,” said Strasser, pouring schnapps for the two men.
Captain Röhm helped himself to another large cognac.
Only Hess did not join them in a drink. He almost immediately made an excuse and disappeared upstairs, presumably to report to his old friend and leader.
Röhm was the worse for drink. He leaned easily, excessively relaxed as the habitual drunkard usually is. In spite of his hideous appearance, his tightly buttoned and belted uniform, there was an almost sensitive set to his features, a haunted look to his eyes which suggested he knew and rather approved of the arguments against almost every statement he made. His rough charm, his loyalty, his bluntness allowed him to survive. Not long after he had returned from Bolivia, affectionate Spartan letters from Röhm to a young cadet had been published in the yellow press. Yet somehow Röhm had survived the scandal, and even today made no secret of his Greek tendencies.
“I gather Herr Hitler has taken his niece’s suicide to heart.” Begg strolled to the gun rack and casually examined the rifles. He was interrupted by a gusty, brandy-laden laugh at once sardonic and angry.