34
“HE WROTE A LETTER?” Thomas Bauer asked. “To Geli?”
“And you know this because… ?”
“Because the blackmailer contacted me,” said Stempfle. “He knew I was close to the Führer. I’m the one who paid to get the letter back.”
Bauer nodded. “That’s what gave you the idea to pull this scam with the pornographic sketches. Because you’d been the bag man before. This time, you were both blackmailer and bag man. Clever, Father.”
Stempfle didn’t answer, but Bauer was clearly right.
“So tell me about this letter,” said Bauer.
“The letter was… quite graphic.” Stempfle shook his head. “As intimate as you could possibly imagine. Lurid details.”
“Give me an idea of how intimate, how lurid.”
Stempfle smirked. “Are you familiar with the term undinism, Bauer?”
“No,” he answered. “But I’m going to guess it has something to do with getting aroused when someone takes a piss on you.”
Stempfle drew back, startled and impressed. “You do have good sources.”
“Okay, so here’s my next question,” said Bauer. “Where is this letter? Don’t tell me it was destroyed.”
“No, but it might as well have been, for your purposes.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it’s locked in a safe inside the Führer’s office at Nazi headquarters.”
Two hours later, Bauer entered the Barhaus Hilda, a dive of a place known for its pig’s knuckles, warm beer, and an outdoor patio overlooking the Isar River.
It no longer served dinner; the economic downturn had killed that market.
But the place still drew people looking to drown their sorrows.
Alcohol was one product that flourished during hard times.
Bauer walked across the sticky floor and found his kriminalassistent, Peter Helldorff, at a corner table with Fritz Gerlich.
“Peter filled me in on the details,” said Gerlich. “Sounds like bad news.”
“Peter?” Bauer sat down. “Who’s Peter?”
Helldorff raised his hand. “Me, Bauer. The guy you’ve been working with for the last six weeks.”
“You don’t even know your kriminalassistent’s first name?” asked Gerlich.
“I’m not sure I know his last name.” Bauer gestured to a passing waitress for a beer. “Why so glum, Fritz? Your dog run away or something?”
“Why so glum?” Gerlich threw up a hand. “We keep hitting roadblocks. We find out that Hitler drew obscene sketches, but we can’t obtain them.
We learn about a letter where he describes his sexual perversions in the most explicit manner, but we can’t get our hands on it.
Nobody will talk to us. And the closer we get, the more violent the Nazis get. So yes, I’m feeling glum.”
“That’s about to change,” said Bauer.
“It is? How? You have some masterful plan to uncover all these secrets?”
“Not masterful. Difficult, but not masterful.” Bauer slapped his hands down on the table. “Gentlemen, we’re going to break into the Brown House.”