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“Good man. Let’s go.”
When they walked through the imposing front doors, they were greeted by four men dressed in brown uniforms. “Heil Hitler!” they cried with the forty-five-degree stiff-arm salute.
“Why, is he sick?” Bauer said, a common joke that was only funny in German.
The brownshirts, with their red swastika armbands, black belts, and holsters, were not among those who found it humorous. They closed ranks, blocking passage to the staircase.
“Your name?” asked one of the brownshirts, tall and blond with bright blue eyes, as Aryan as Aryan came.
Bauer, in plain clothes like his assistant, showed his police card. “Detective Inspector Thomas Bauer. This is Assistant Inspector Peter Helldorff.”
“Bauer,” he said. “That… was not the name we were expecting.”
“No?” Bauer lifted his chin. “What name were you expecting?”
The brownshirt didn’t answer that question. He nodded to one of his underlings, who started up the stairs.
Bauer made to follow.
The lead brownshirt blocked his way. “This is not possible. We were not made aware that you would be coming.”
“You were ‘not made aware’? We’re not reserving a table at the Künstlerhaus. We’re kriminalpolizei, conducting a police investigation. Either you let us pass or you’ll be under arrest for interfering with it.”
“You are aware, Inspector, who lives here?”
“Are you aware that it makes no difference to me who lives here?”
“The Führer was very upset to learn of his niece’s suicide. He is on his way back to Munich now.”
Bauer looked the men over. “Out of the way, gentlemen. I’m not asking for permission. And I’m not going to repeat myself.”
The inspector started to move past the two remaining brownshirts. One of them put a hand on Bauer’s chest, a good hard stiff-arm. Bauer flipped his own arm under the man’s, spun him around, and forced him down to the marble floor of the lobby in one swift movement. The guard was face down and submissive within the beat of two seconds.
“You’re under arrest,” Bauer said. “Obstructing an investigation and assaulting a law enforcement officer.” He cuffed the man and left him on the floor as he rose to his feet. “What about you two? Feel like spending the next six hours in a kripo holding cell? It’ll give you plenty of time to salute each other.”
The lead brownshirt did not soften his posture, but allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “Inspector, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“You know, one day, you brownshirts may be running this country,” Bauer said. “But for now, you’ll submit to the authority of the kriminalpolizei like everyone else. So? This is your last chance to let us through.”
The men parted, giving room for the inspectors to pass.
Bauer nodded to Helldorff, and they headed up the stairs.
2
Prinzregentenplatz 16
BY THE TIME THOMAS Bauer reached the flat, he was out of breath, but not as much as the brownshirt who had run up the stairs ahead of them, and who was now standing by the door.
“You going to give me trouble, too, kid?” Bauer asked.
“No, Inspector.” He stood to the side.
He pushed past the brownshirt and was immediately surprised by the breadth of the flat. “Does this place take up the whole floor?”
The brownshirt, heading down the staircase, simply nodded.
“Must be nice,” Bauer mumbled, stepping into the parlor area, paneled in walnut. He noted a large phonograph positioned between two armchairs, and on the wall, a watercolor painting of a bridge in Vienna with A. Hitler painted in the bottom corner.
