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“Your memory of last night? You don’t remember what you did last night?”
“Oh, it’s coming back to me.” Bauer looked at the chief. “I was at a ballet lesson.”
“Well, we know you didn’t act alone,” said the chief, having none of Bauer’s bullshit, obviously holding the upper hand. “Do you want to protect your friends? Because I’m giving you that chance. Admit what you did, and we’ll show lenience to the others.”
Müller was no dummy. Bauer had always known that much.
“I acted alone,” he said.
“Acted alone in doing what?”
“Whatever it is you think I did, sir.”
“Where is it, Bauer?” Müller rose from his chair and leaned forward, bracing his knuckles on his desk. “And don’t be coy.”
The only card Bauer held, he figured, was that the Nazis surely wanted back what he took, wanted it returned safely to Hitler’s possession and out of the public eye. They didn’t know where he’d stashed it. That was his leverage.
Bauer could think of nothing to be gained from saying a word. So he didn’t.
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. It’s right here.” The chief leaned down behind his desk and, with much bravado, held up Bauer’s bag—the same beaten leather bag Bauer used last night when he stole the contents of Hitler’s safe. The same one he’d left inside the oven at the flat on Ludwigstraße only hours ago.
For all his ability to keep a straight face, Bauer was sure that his expression gave him away. How had the Nazis tracked him? What had they done wrong?
“You’re under arrest, Inspector Bauer.” The chief nodded at his deputies, who placed Bauer in handcuffs and marched him out, each taking an arm.
They walked him down the stairs, intentionally taking him past the detectives’ room, a way to humiliate him before his colleagues.
They brought him down to the last of six cells, concrete cages meant to hold up to a dozen detainees.
But only one other person sat inside, hunched over on the bench bolted to the wall, wearing spectacles and a crooked bow tie.
“Hello, Fritz,” said Bauer, as they uncuffed him and pushed him inside the cell.
47
Munich Police Department
Directorate 22, the Bogenhausen District
“IT’S OVER, BAUER,” SAID Fritz Gerlich, once the guards had left them alone in the cell.
“No. Don’t say that. It’s never over. You still have a story. You read those letters. You can still write about it.”
“Even if I’m ever given the opportunity to print it, it will be dismissed as lies,” said Gerlich. “I no longer have the documents. Joseph Goebbels will turn any story I write into a rallying piece against the Jewish sympathizers. We have no proof.” He turned. “They followed you to the flat? Is that how they caught us?”
Bauer shrugged. “I was careful. I’ve done plenty of surveillance in my day to know whether someone was following me.”
“But I don’t have that experience. They probably followed me, Bauer.”
Bauer loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and leaned against the cell wall. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “They have the information. We have to come up with something else.”
“Did you tell them anything, Bauer?”
“Of course not. You?”
“Nothing. Maybe they don’t suspect Peter. Maybe he can still help us. Unless he’s the next one to be thrown in here.”
As if on cue, they heard the entrance to the holding cells clang open, then the sound of light footsteps. Soon enough, Peter Helldorff approached. He was alone, and uncuffed. “Are you guys all right?” he whispered.
