42
PETER HELLDORFF PICKED UP the fourth envelope, a smaller one, meant to hold a standard posted letter. The envelope was not sealed. He shook it, and out spilled a single small sheet of paper.
Stationery, pink with white flowers, personalized A.M. Raubal, for Geli’s full name, Angela Maria Raubal. It contained handwriting, the start of a letter:
Wenn ich nach Wien komme—ich hoffe sehr bald—werden wir gemeinsam zum Semmering fahren un
Thomas Bauer read it aloud. “When I come to Vienna—I hope very soon—we’ll drive together to Semmering an—” He looked at Gerlich. “Cut off mid-sentence.”
“Cut off mid-word,” Fritz Gerlich noted.
He was right. The word and was missing the final d.
“We’d have to do a handwriting analysis to confirm it’s Geli,” said Helldorff. “But I assume that won’t be a problem.”
Bauer was more interested in the contents of the letter. “Who stops writing a letter mid-word? Someone who’s been startled. And she never got back to it.” He thought for a moment. “Seems like she’s looking forward to meeting this person. Semmering? That’s a resort area south of Vienna, right?”
“Sounds like a romantic getaway for two,” said Gerlich.
It sure did. Bauer moved from the table and paced the small bedroom.
“I’ll bet she was in the middle of writing that letter when Hitler accosted her.
Which means it was there at the crime scene, and Hess, or Bormann, or another of his aides removed it.
” He stopped and turned to the others. “Someone writing a letter like that is not contemplating the end of her life. She’s contemplating the beginning. ”
“It doesn’t necessarily prove that Hitler killed her,” said Helldorff.
“No, but it all but rules out suicide. Which gets us one step closer. This is good.” Bauer started nodding. “This is good.”
The room went silent. These were highly incriminating pieces of evidence. None of them, by itself, was conclusive. But the case against Hitler was getting stronger and stronger.
And they still had one envelope left.
Bauer walked over and picked it up. “Feeling lucky, Fritz?” he said.