coward. I run the most degenerate saloon in Europe. I have become rich pandering to the basest of human frailties. Do I think it is right, what Hitler is doing?
“I don’t think I want to do that.”
“You have heard her sing once, met her for thirty seconds, you do not even know where she lives. And already you cannot tear yourself away from her.”
“Very funny.”
‘But true.”
“I don’t want anybody telling me what I can and can’t do.” Conrad shrugged. “Very altruistic. Unfortunately, not very
practical in Germany these days.”
“What’s her address, Conrad?”
Weil heaved a sigh. “She lives at 236 Albertstrasse and she starts tonight at the Kit Kat. Two shows, nine and eleven.”
“Thanks,” Keegan said and, polishing off the brandy in the snifter, stood up.
“You are a man who has always avoided trouble, Francis. At least since I have known you. Why start now?”
“Maybe you just haven’t known me long enough, my friend.”
When he got back to the hotel, Keegan went to the flower shop and sent Jenny Gould two dozen roses. No card.
Willie Vierhaus hurried up the steps of the Brown House and down the long marble hallway to the Fuhrer’s office. Every Tuesday morning at precisely 11:45 A.M., Vierhaus reported to Hitler to provide him with party gossip and other news of interest. The meeting always lasted twelve to fifteen minutes, until Hitler went to lunch.
When he entered the anteroom, Hitler’s secretary held her finger to her lips, her brow furrowed and troubled. Hitler’s voice, high-pitched and furious, echoed through the paneled doors.
“I don’t want to hear that, you understand? Not one more word. That’s hogwash, hogwash! You are a stupid man, Plausen. I thought you were a smart man but you are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Get out. You are relieved of your duties. Pack up your things and get out.”
“Yes,
“Out!”
The door flew open and Plausen, a tiny mouse of a man who worked in the procurement office, rushed past, his face as white as chalk. From inside his office, Hitler saw Vierhaus waiting and waved him in.
Vierhaus entered and raised his arm in a salute.
“So, Willie, what is the news? Brighten my day. So far it has been dismal. A morning dealing with idiots like He waved vaguely toward the door.
“I am sorry,
“Tell me some juicy news, eh.” He smiled fleetingly in expectation.
“Well, sir, you know General Romsdorf?”
“Third Division. Of course, of course.”
“His wife Fredie is having an affair with a dancer in the Berlin Ballet Company.”
“A ballet dancer!” Hitler cried out, clasping his hands together and pressing them to his lips.
‘Ja. Not even a featured dancer. He is on the chorus.”
Hitler stifled a giggle. Then his face grew serious.
“That could present a problem. Romsdorf has a very important post.”
“Yes,
“Not to mention that Romsdorf is extremely proud of his manliness.” Hitler stifled another giggle.
“Yes,
“In fact,” and he giggled out loud, “he fancies himself somewhat of a ladies’ man.”
Vierhaus felt comfortable enough to laugh along with Hitler.
“Poor old Romsdorf,” said Hitler. “I pity the poor dancer. When our general finds out, the young man will be off to Dachau. Any other news?”
“A rather dull week, I’m afraid. There are the usual rumors about Rohm. He is becoming more of an embarrassment. Outrageous stories about his preference for young boys. He seems to be more brazen about it than ever. And I hear he is drinking more heavily than usual.”
“He has always been a drunk and a queer,” snapped Hitler. Ernst Rohm was more than an embarrassment, he
