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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.”

35

The Brown House

Brienner Straße 45

STEP ONE. THOMAS BAUER drove the beaten-down truck as it coughed and hissed with every rotation of the tires. The sides were dented in multiple places; there was a tear in the top; the windshield was missing altogether. The side panel bore the words ZUVERLÄSSIGE ELEKTROINSTALLATION UND REPARATUR—Reliable Electrical Installation and Repair. The business no longer existed, which is why the truck had been donated to Fritz Gerlich’s charity. Bauer would have preferred something related to heating, not electrical, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It was all they had, so it would have to do.

He stopped the truck just short of the Königsplatz. To his right was the three-story Brown House, which towered over Brienner Straße. The property was draped with Nazi flags, surrounded by a metal gate, and secured by guards who walked the perimeter in their heavy fur-lined coats, clutching rifles.

Clipboard in hand, Bauer left the van, and took the short walkway to the main entrance.

The front door opened. Two brownshirts emerged, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the taller one holding a leather portfolio, the shorter one with his hand on his sidearm. They were dressed in standard uniform—brown shirt and black tie, dark trousers, knee-high boots, a billed cap with a strap around their chins, swastika armbands.

“You guys called about a heating problem?” Bauer glanced at his clipboard.

The guards looked at each other. The taller one with the portfolio opened it. “We’ve had a problem with the heat for weeks.”

Bauer knew that, of course, courtesy of Emil Maurice, who said everyone had been complaining about the temperature inside the building for the last month.

“But we don’t have a record of any appointment with…” Squinting at the name on the side of the truck. “… Reliable.”

“Yeah, we’re way behind schedule,” said Bauer. “And we do it all nowadays. You have to change with the times, right? I’m your guy for steam heat.” Bauer flipped the clipboard around so they could see the work order. “And they sent me here next.”

“We need a record of your appointment. Without a record, you can’t enter.”

“Okay, well. Maybe you want to call your supervisor?”

“He’s gone. You’re here after work hours.”

That, too, was by design, thanks to more intel from Emil Maurice. The shift changed at six in the evening.

“So you want me to leave? Fine by me.” Bauer shrugged. “We have a long list of customers behind you. It’s like everyone in Munich lost their heat all at once. We can always reschedule.”

“Yes.” The tall brownshirt nodded. “Could you come back tomorrow morning?”