33
Maximilian Hotel
THOMAS BAUER CURSED UNDER his breath. He was too late. Barely too late. He’d just missed catching Bernhard Stempfle in the act of transferring the purloined pornography.
Bauer had to figure out a way to salvage this situation.
“I heard about the blackmail, disguised as a collector’s sale,” said Bauer. “And that you were the one playing both parts.”
“Where would you get an idea like that?”
“I have my sources, Father. Let’s leave it at that.” Bauer wouldn’t burn Emil Maurice.
Bauer looked at the sketch lying on the bed—not at the drawing but at the lack of attribution. “He didn’t sign this.”
“Who didn’t sign it?” Stempfle put up a brave front. “I have no idea—”
“Oh, this wasn’t drawn by Hitler?” Bauer asked innocently.
“The Führer? Why, of course not!” Stempfle forced out a laugh, an award-worthy performance.
“Oh, splendid, then I’ll just take this to him and tell him that I found it in your hotel room.” Bauer rolled up the sketch and shook it. “Bye, Bernie.”
“No—wait.” Stempfle stepped in front of him. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“I want the truth. Right now, or I take this to Hitler.” Stempfle might have been scum, but he wasn’t especially good at hiding his guilt.
“There was no blackmail, was there, Father? You stole them from his flat on Prinzregentenplatz. You pocketed the money.” Bauer could see the man crumbling.
He pressed on. “I’m going to give you one chance to extricate yourself from this situation, Father.
One chance and only one. If you lie to me, I put this sketch into Hitler’s hand personally. So what do you say?”
Stempfle dropped, defeated, onto the bed, and buried his face in his hands.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Bauer. “Where are the other four drawings?”
“He wanted to keep them, he said.”
“None of them are signed?” Bauer gritted his teeth in frustration. True, the girl’s face did very much resemble Geli. But without the familiar attribution of A. Hitler, this drawing proved little.
“He signed the others,” said Stempfle. “The other four.”
Bauer sighed. That helped, to be sure. But he needed something more. He needed to push harder.
“He would just claim his name was forged on these sketches. Which means you’re no help to me, Father. And you know what that means. So I would suggest you improve your memory quickly.”
Stempfle went quiet. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling, his feet drumming nervously on the floor. Finally, he released a sigh and turned to Bauer.
“To forge a name on a drawing might be simple,” he said. “But not an entire letter.”