26
Wirtshaus tavern
Au
THE TAVERN WAS LOCATED in the proletariat Au neighborhood. The clientele was working class, which ordinarily was the kind of tavern Thomas Bauer preferred—dark wood, dim lighting, no nonsense, strong beer, breezy conversation.
But Bauer wasn’t here for pleasure and he wasn’t here to debate local or even national politics. He wasn’t even especially thirsty.
He found a place at the bar and sat next to a man drinking alone, nursing a dark beer. The man was large and burly, with dark wavy hair and a trim mustache. He carried a generally menacing scowl, seemingly content to keep to himself.
Bauer ordered a beer, too. After it arrived, he raised his glass. “Heil Hitler,” he said to the man.
The man glared at him. “You don’t say that as a toast. You say it as a salute.”
“Yeah, but my arm’s tired.”
Bauer’s new friend shifted in his seat, eyes narrowed. “Do we know each other?”
“No,” said Bauer. “You just look like one of those Nazi fascist animals.”
“Say again, friend?” The man grabbed Bauer’s arm.
Bauer slapped down his police card on the bar.
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” the man snarled. “Kripo or not, I’ll give you a beating.”
“Keep your powder dry, Emil.”
Emil Maurice, former personal bodyguard and chauffeur to Hitler, loosened his grip on Bauer’s arm. “What is this?”
“I have questions for you, Emil. And you’re going to answer them. If I’m pleased with your attitude when it’s over, you won’t spend the night in a kripo holding cell.”
He sneered. “I’m not afraid of the kriminalpolizei.”
“No? Are you afraid of Himmler? How about the Führer?”
By now, Maurice was off-balance, uncertain of Bauer’s information or motives. “Nobody would question my loyalty to the Führer. I have served him honorably since I became a member of the SA and the NSDAP.”
“Right, right,” said Bauer. “You served time with him in Landsberg Prison, too, right? For your part in the Beer Hall Putsch? You and Hess and a few others?”
“Sieg heil,” he said.
“Remind me, Emil—why is it you stopped your chauffeuring duties? Was it because you’re a bad driver? A poor conversationalist?”
Maurice drained the last of his drink and slammed down the glass. “Go away, kripo.”
“Or,” Bauer nudged him, “could it be because he caught you in bed with Geli?”
Maurice spun to face Bauer, breathing heavily, eyes welling with venom. “What the hell do you want?”
“You loved her,” said Bauer. “And she loved you.”
“And? So?”
“So be a man,” said Bauer. “Help me figure out who killed her.”
He belted out a laugh. “Oh. Oh, is that all? Why didn’t you say so? Tell you what, friend.” He slapped his meaty hand on Bauer’s shoulder. “How about you put away that police card, and you and I settle this in the alley?”
Bauer rolled his neck. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this guy. “What the hell,” he said. “I could use the exercise.”
Bauer followed Emil Maurice through the exit door. Once in the alley, he shed his overcoat. Maurice had left his inside.
Once upon a time, before the defeat in the war and the formation of the new Weimar Republic, it was unusual to see a fight in an alley.
The police presence was heavy; people respected the rule of law.
But the Weimar government had brought a loosening of the police presence, an expansion of individual rights that came with a democracy.
Fine with Bauer, generally speaking, but people respected the kriminalpolizei less and less with each passing year.
Bauer sized up his foe. They were about the same age, but Emil Maurice had several inches on Bauer and a longer wingspan. Maurice had been in countless fights over the years. But only Bauer had been in a war.
“You’re the tough guy, Emil,” said Bauer. “Throw the first punch.”
Maurice did, a clumsy haymaker. Bauer ducked under it and drove his left fist into Maurice’s chin. That was more than enough to stun him. Bauer followed with a right hand to the nose; in his experience, you always went for the nose as early as possible.
Then the body. Bauer bull-rushed the chauffeur, driving him into a line of garbage cans. Maurice’s head banged against the brick wall of the alley.
Bauer jumped on top of him and held him down. “We can keep going, Emil. One way or the other, you’re going to talk to me. Or I spill your secret to the Führer.”
Maurice was woozy, shell-shocked. He’d underestimated his opponent. Bauer didn’t think he broke Maurice’s nose, but the jaw might be another story. “He already knows about Geli and me,” he said.
Maurice looked like he might vomit, so Bauer turned him over on his side.
“Not that secret,” he said. “I heard that when he caught you in bed with Geli, Hitler pulled out his riding whip and you had to jump out a window to avoid being lashed. But I mean the secret you really don’t want Hitler to know.
Come on, Emil, you know what I’m talking about. ”
Maurice spit blood. “No, I do not, kripo swine.”
“Have it your way. It’s probably not a big deal, anyway.” Bauer leaned in, whispering harshly into Maurice’s ear. “I’m sure the Führer won’t care that you’re part Jewish. See you around, Emil.”
Bauer got up, leaving his opponent lying among the garbage. He shook his left hand; his knuckles would be sore tomorrow. He was out of practice.
He reached the door to reenter the tavern and pulled on it.
“Wait,” Maurice called to him. “Just… wait.”