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Maurice blew out a nervous sigh. “I heard he called Rudolf Hess. Which sounds right. Hess would be his first call. And Hess’s first call would have been to Martin Bormann. My guess is Julius Schreck, who replaced me as chauffeur, would have been there but he might have stayed outside in the car.”
“So if someone cleaned up the place before calling the police, they would be part of it.”
“Hess and Bormann? Yes.” Maurice glanced up at Bauer, wincing as he did so. “But they will never tell you a thing. None of them will. Not Himmler, not Goebbels, not Göring, either.”
“Tell me what else you heard. Tell me about the cover-up.”
He threw up his hands. “They—there was a suitcase they unpacked. The clothes were put back in her drawers.”
Bauer remembered seeing the empty leather portmanteau.
“And the vanity by her bed. I heard that a lot of things were knocked over. A mirror came off the wall. There was a bunch of broken glass. All the trash was put into a bag and given to Julius to drive away.”
“Where did Julius dump it?”
Maurice shrugged. He didn’t know.
“Why the suitcase? Is it true she was going to Vienna?”
“She wanted to.” Maurice’s head dropped. He rested his elbows on his thighs. “The man she…” With that, he began to cry. This rough, burly man burst into tears and let out a high-pitched sob.
Bauer glanced at Helldorff, who returned an I-have-no-idea expression.
“Look, I know this is hard, Emil,” said Bauer. “I know you cared about her a—”
“I loved her!” he wailed. “But he wouldn’t let us marry. We waited, like he asked. But he would never let us. So eventually I told her she should…” He waved a hand.
“You told her she should move on.”
“Right.” Maurice drew a deep breath, wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. “She met a man in Vienna. She wanted to marry him.”
“What’s this man’s name?” Bauer asked.
“I don’t know. He was an art teacher. I think he lived near Linz. That’s all I know.”
Bauer sat back in his seat. This was helpful information, but Maurice would never publicly testify to it. “Can anyone confirm any of this?” he asked.
“Nobody who would talk to you.”
“Then you haven’t given me anything I can use. Sorry, Emil. Our deal is off.”
“What?” Maurice shifted in his seat. “The deal was I tell you what I know. That’s what I know. It’s not my fault if none of the Führer’s closest advisers will talk to you.”
Bauer considered that for a moment. Maurice was right. The cover-up of Geli’s murder would be among close-knit loyalists. Even if some of the details leaked out via gossip to people on the fringe of the circle like Emil Maurice, nobody would ever admit to the crime.
Maybe he needed to back up one step. Start with a more fundamental fact.
“Well, perhaps the cover-up is sealed tight,” he said. “But what about Hitler’s relationship with Geli? That lasted for years, yes? There must be people outside Hitler’s inner circle who would know about that. Geli must have talked to people about it. She must have talked to you about it, Emil. Yes?”
Maurice steeled himself, eyes squeezed shut, gripping his greasy hair as if waging a battle against the memories.
“Yes,” he whispered. “But you wouldn’t believe the things she told me.”
28
THE CAR WENT SILENT. Thomas Bauer held still. As if on cue, a streetlamp flickered and burned out, casting the automobile in further shadow on the chilly evening.
Bauer had heard and seen a great many sordid things in his life, between the front lines of the war and police work. He had witnessed up close the depths of cruelty and depravity and suffering. He thought he’d heard everything. Until now.
