The Case of the Nazi Canary

CHAPTER FIVE

An hour or so later, Taffy Sinclair was shining the hand-torch down onto their map, trying to work out what Hanfstaengl had shown them. All around them in the woods were the camps of people who had been ruined by Germany's recent economic troubles. While Munich herself seemed wealthy enough, the homeless had been pushed to the outlying suburbs and woodlands, to fend for themselves as best they could. The detectives saw fires burning and shadows flitting around them, but the forest people were too wary to reveal themselves and would not respond when Begg or Sinclair called out to them.

"I suppose it's fair enough that a follower of Saint Heironymous the Hermit makes himself hard to find," declared Sinclair, "but I think this place was less populated and with fewer caves when- aha!" His torchlight had fallen on the penciled mark. "Just up this road and stop. Should be a cottage here."

The car's brilliant headlamps made day of night, picking up the building ahead as if lit for the cinema, with great, elongated black shadows spreading away through the moonlit forest. An ancient, thatched, much-buttressed cottage was revealed. The place had two main chimneys, three downstairs windows and three up, including the dormer, which had its own chimney. The whole place leaned and declined in a dozen different directions, so that even the straw resembled a series of dirty, ill-fitting wigs.

"This has got to be it." Noting shadows moving in the nearby trees, Sir Seaton climbed from the car and walked across the weed-grown path to the old door of Gothic oak and black iron, hammering on it heavily and calling out in his most authoritative tone: "Open up! Metatemporal detectives! Come along, Father Stempfle, sir! Let us in."

A grinding of locks and rattling chains confirmed Sir Seaton's inspired guess. A face that looked as if it had been folded, stretched, and refolded many times regarded them in the light of the lamp it held over the chink in the door, still latched by a massive row of steel links.

"Open up, sir."

Seeing their faces seemed to weaken the old man's resolve, for another bolt turned and the door creaked slowly open.

Begg followed Stempfle into the hermit's horrible candlelit den, which stank of mold, old food, woodsmoke, and dust. Everywhere were piles of books, manuscripts, scrolls. There was no doubt the man was a scholar, but whether he followed God or the Devil was hard to determine. In a small grate, a sparse, damp fire emitted a little heat.

"You're a close friend of Adolf Hitler, I gather, Father?" Begg hardly gave the unshaven old man in the filthy cassock a chance to catch his breath.

Father Stempfle stuttered. "I wouldn't say that. I have very little to do with him, these days."

"You helped him write his book-Mein Kampf, is it?"

Now Begg's long hours of reading and study were coming to his aid as usual. Sinclair remembered how impressed he so often was with his friend's ability to put together a jigsaw with pieces from so many apparently disparate sources.

Father Stempfle began to turn scarlet. He fumed. In his mephitic cassock and sandals, he stamped about his paper-strewn study until it seemed the unevenly stacked piles of books would fall and bury them all alive. "Helped him, my good sir? Helped that illiterate little trench terrier, that scum of Vienna's pervert's quarter? Helped him? I wrote most of it. The manuscript was unreadable until his publisher asked me to work on it. Ask Max Amman. He'll confirm everything. He and Hitler fell out over it. Or perhaps he has now been persuaded to lie by Rцhm and his apes. My arguments are the purest and the best. You can tell them because I offer a much more sophisticated analysis of the Jewish problem. Hitler's contribution was a whine of self-pity. For years Amman didn't publicize the book widely enough. Now, of course, it's selling very well. And do I get a pfennig in royalties?" The squalid old monk shuffled to a stop, his face breaking into something which might have been a grin. "Of course, it'll sell even better once they know about the murder…"

Begg had no stomach for this. He drew a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "You think Hitler killed her?"

"Nobody seems to think he's up to it," murmured Sinclair. "Not a strong man, physically at least. A pacifist, we were learning today…"

Stempfle crushed old parchment in his hands as he moved toward the fire. Something had made him feel the cold. "He says he hates violence. But you should see how cruelly he treats that dog of his. Wulf? He calls it such a name so that he can demonstrate his own masculinity the better. I think he is capable of any violence."

Sinclair stepped forward. "What about those pictures-those letters-the blackmail attempt?"

"Oh, he's calling it blackmail now, is he? I simply wanted fair reimbursement for the work I'd done…" Stempfle glowered into the fire, which seemed to flicker in sympathy.

"If you still have some of that stuff, I could see that it got into the appropriate hands. Would it not strengthen the case against Hitler?"

Stempfle snorted. The sound was almost gleeful. "It would top and tail him nicely, true…"

"That material is here?"

Stempfle grew cunning. "The originals are elsewhere, in safekeeping. Still, I don't mind showing you the copies."

"I am prepared to pay one hundred pounds for the privilege," declared Sir Seaton.

At this the old man moved with slightly greater alacrity, ascending a ladder, moving a picture, rattling a combination, then going through the whole process backward again. When he came down, he had an envelope in his hands. Begg paid him in the four crisp twenty-five-pound notes he held ready, and Sinclair accepted the envelope, casually drawing out the first photograph and then blanching at what he saw. He returned the photograph to the envelope and covered his mouth. "Great Jehovah, Begg! I had no idea! Why would any woman involve herself in this? Or any man demand it?" Now he knew why Angela Raubal could not help being a disturbed young woman and why Hanfstaengl had left the bar so swiftly.

Stempfle's crooked body shook with glee. "Not how Adolf might wish to be remembered, eh? They would make excellent illustrations for certain works of the Marquis de Sade, no? I think I've been very modest in my request for my share of the royalties. Since I suspect you are already representing him, you can tell him that the originals of these are much more expensive!"

"I've yet to become a blackmailer's runner, Father Stempfle," Begg protested mildly. "Good night to you."

He ducked beneath the warped lintel and began to make for his car, Sinclair slightly ahead of him. Only then did the two men realize that someone was beside their car, trying to force the lock. With a roar of rage Sinclair seized and grappled with the ill-smelling thieves. But there were at least a dozen of them. Others slipped out of the shadows, clubs and fists flailing as they came to their companions' assistance.

Begg was skilled in most forms of unarmed combat.

"Hold them for me for a moment, old man!" He carefully removed his hat and then weighed in.

Several of the assailants soon lay on the ground. The others began to regroup, still a threat.

Then, suddenly, Begg heard a sharp thud against the tree nearest his head and the distinctive crack of a high-powered Mauser rifle. Almost immediately, as if familiar with the sound, the vagrants melted back into the trees. Sinclair paused, ready to pursue them, but with a smile Begg retrieved his hat and hurried his friend into the car. "No one else intends us any harm, Taffy. But it might be wise to keep moving."

Within the wholesome comfort of the great automobile, Sinclair was still more upset by the photographs than afraid of the gunshot. He continued to vent his disgust. "How could he make her-? I mean-?"

"Not a position any sane creature would volunteer for," Begg agreed. He began to reverse the car back down the short drive. "I think it's time we paid a call on the local cop shop, don't you?"