by Richard Lord
They all laughed and guzzled wine, though Stebbel’s laugh was half embarrassment. And then he tried to switch the conversation to another topic entirely: the way the press would treat their triumph of that evening. And as both Dörfner and Prenger were more sozzled than he was, he managed to get them to that topic and keep them away from any personal matters until they left the pub not too long afterwards.
Chapter 41
Inspector Rautz was right about Stebbel and Dörfner being called into District Commander Schollenberg’s office the next afternoon. Schollenberg congratulated them heartily and told them they could expect a little bonus in their next pay envelopes. He was seeing to that himself.
Schollenberg then noted that the Commissioner was too busy right at that point to see the two heroes, but he did send along his congratulations and was hoping he could shake their hands personally early the next week.
The Commissioner was also having a Certificate of Highest Commendation prepared for the two, and was trying to have a stamp and a signature from the Interior Ministry next to his own at the bottom of the certificate.
Later that afternoon, two large boxes were delivered to the inspectors’ shared office, each one carried by two younger policemen. Affixed to the top of the boxes was an envelope with the inspectors’ names carefully inscribed.
Inside the envelopes were letters signed by Geheimrat Karsten von Klettenburg.
He thanked both men for their courage and hard work in finding and bringing to justice the man who had murdered his dear wife, along with the four other innocent victims. He said he would never be able to express the sense of release this fiend’s demise had brought him, but the two inspectors could rest assured that he would be in their debt for as long as he was able to draw breath.
The accompanying cases were a small measure of his gratitude for the peace they had brought him. It was a sample of some of the best products by one of his French business associates. He hoped they would appreciate this gift and also his undying thanks.
Dörfner pulled out a large pair of scissors and ripped open the top of his own well-sealed case. He then did the same for Stebbel’s case, though more carefully and deftly this time.
Both men folded back the top flaps and peered within. “Wine. It looks like wine,” said Dörfner.
Stebbel pulled out a bottle, while Dörfner pulled out two and examined them to see if there were any differences. “Huh – it is wine.”
“Yes; remember that the Geheimrat was off in Bordeaux on business when Frau von Klettenburg was murdered. I guess this is one of his businesses.”
“Looks good,” Dörfner admitted. Most of Dörfner’s own experience with wine was the fresh product served at the Heuriger taverns, so he deferred to Stebbel’s judgment on this.
“You think it’s good stuff?”
Stebbel had just pulled out another two bottles and seen that they were all the same. “Yes. Yes, I think this is quite a nice wine,” he said as he read the label: Lafite Rothschild.
* * *
It didn’t take the Viennese press long to join the parade of praise for the successful conclusion of the Strangler saga – probably not much longer than it takes to rip one half-filled sheet of paper from a typewriter and scroll in another. The same papers that had spent weeks denouncing the Viennese police as incompetents, laggards, almost complicit in the last three murders made a sharp 180-degree turn. Now they were heaping adulation on the brave, stalwart and resourceful policemen who managed to bring the Strangler’s killing spree to an abrupt end.
Much of that praise was directed towards Commander Schollenberg and Senior Inspector Rautz for their “steadfast leadership in tracking down the killer and then dispensing instant justice” there on the Ebersdorfer Bridge. Not coincidentally, Schollenberg and Rautz were the only two police officials who had spoken directly to the press. But a number of newspaper reports also mentioned Inspectors Dörfner and Stebbel and the important roles they had played in the pursuit and killing of the Strangler.
The palace had discreetly requested that the press make no mention of the fact that the fiend was a pensioned former member of the Imperial Guard. A few editors acceded to this request for the first editions, but most of the tabloids duly disregarded the request. Brunner’s ties to the palace, however tenuous, gave the story a slight whiff of scandal, and scandal was what sold papers.
However, none of the city’s journals were able to obtain a single photo of the killer. The Imperial Guard refused all such requests, while the police said their photos were all taken right after the shootout and were thus too grisly. (Many a Vienna journalist clenched their fists in frustration when they heard how grisly the photos were and were then told they could not get their hands on them.)
Frau Keuler had retreated to her hometown after the shootout and was beyond contact. But her location made no difference: she would have sooner shared nude photos of herself with the press than any photos of her late brother. So the only images of the killer the public got were the written accounts that described him as nasty, brutish and tall. And almost mythically strong, if you were to believe the panting reports of the yellow press.
Arnold Brunner’s body was released to his sister after a week of intense forensic investigation. The University of Vienna had requested the removal of his brain for further study. The plan was to work with pathologists in the police department to determine if there was something in that organ which disposed the man to such horrible crimes. However, Frau Keuler appeared nauseous when a professor from the university simply began to explain their intentions and adamantly refused to allow her younger brother’s cadaver to serve the interests of science.
The remains were brought back to their small town, where Brunner was given a private burial, closed to the public and the press. There was no wake before the burial and no priest at the graveside. No one from the palace, the Imperial Guard, or the Vienna police force attended the funeral.
* * *
Two days after the Vienna police had closed the chapter on the Spittelberg Strangler, Stebbel and Dörfner returned to headquarters from a long lunch. A long lunch was just one of the privileges the two loupes had earned from their successful pursuit of the strangler. They were also permitted to come in a bit later in the mornings, and mid-afternoon reconnaissance missions to a favorite café were not frowned upon.
As they returned that day, Henninger, the reception officer, called them over. “Inspectors – that gentleman is here to see you again.” They turned to see Hitler sitting stiffly on the visitor’s bench, in almost the same spot he occupied on his very first visit. He did not look very happy.
The inspectors were, of course, surprised by this visit. Dörfner leaned over and half-whispered, “What’s this all about?”
Stebbel shrugged. “Let’s ask him.” Dörfner reluctantly agreed.
The two inspectors walked over to the bench. Hitler, who had been staring straight ahead for some time, turned and attempted a smile when he saw the two. He stood and dipped his head slightly in greetings.
“Inspectors, I apologize for coming in once again unannounced, but I did have one small matter of some urgency I need to discuss with you.
Stebbel was receptive. “Of course, Herr Hitler. What is it?”
Hitler took a deep breath before answering. “The reward. The reward for information leading to the capture of that vicious murderer. I believe that I am now entitled to some of that reward.
“But I was just at the department responsible for this, and they told me that I have no valid claim. I was told it was the report of an anonymous informant that led to the killer. The officer there said only that anonymous person can claim the reward.”
The two inspectors exchanged confounded looks, and Dörfner then tried to explain.
“Actually, Herr Hitler, it is true that an anonymous caller – ” He didn’t even finish his sentence before a hostile look filled the visitor’s face.
Stebbel quickly intervened. “To be fai
r, I think that Herr Hitler also has a legitimate claim here.” He tilted his head towards Dörfner. “If it weren’t for his excellent sketches, we would not have been able to make significant progress in the apprehension of Herr Brunner. Isn’t that true?”
Hitler gave Stebbel a nod of gratitude for this interjection, then turned to Dörfner and flashed a smile steeped in smugness. Dörfner floundered in getting out another reply.
“Yes, but I think …”
“You’re quite right, Herr Colleague, but I do think there is a way for us to get some reward money for our friend, Herr Hitler.” He then turned back to Hitler and, with the sincerest look he could muster, added, “But you realize, sir, that you must share that reward with the anonymous hero who provided us with the essential information. And your share will be significantly smaller than his.”
Hitler mulled this over for several moments, then conceded the point. “I guess from a certain perspective, one could argue that’s fair.” He considered the whole thing for a few more moments. “But how much money are we talking about, gentlemen?” Stebbel thought for a moment. “Perhaps … two hundred kroners.” Dörfner made a choking sound. “No more than that I’m afraid.”
Hitler seemed to be making some quick calculations. Then he nodded. “Yes. Two hundred kroners. That would be … adequate. And when might I expect to receive this amount?”
“Well, we must go through some official channels and … In a few days perhaps. Maybe … Thursday.”
Hitler smiled. “What time on Thursday?”
“Oh, the afternoon would be best. Shall we say … three o’clock?”
“Three o’clock. I will be here, gentleman. You can rely on that.”
The three men stood and Hitler extended his hand to shake on the deal. Both inspectors shook his hand, and noted that it was the reassured handshake of someone who felt he had just won a fight for justice. They then escorted Hitler to the front desk, where another young officer was called over to escort him to the paternoster.
As they watched those two saunter off, Dörfner spilled out a light laugh. “I guess we’ll have to arrange to be called off on official business Thursday at three o’clock.” Stebbel turned to him with an admonishing look.
“Not at all, Herr Colleague. I really believe we owe Hitler something for his assistance. And he could certainly use the money. Let me speak with Schollenberg.”
“You think the District Commander is going to part willingly with any of the department’s treasure?”
“Not willingly, but I’ll make a good argument why he should be able to take 200 kroner from that reward pot and give it to our friend. He should see the wisdom of my reasoning.”
“Maybe you should just threaten to lock him in a room together with Herr Hitler for an hour or two. That should do it.”
Stebbel smiled broadly and nodded. The two inspectors then returned to their office to look through the afternoon’s mail, much of it something in the nature of fan mail.
At 3:30 on Thursday afternoon, there was a rap on the inspectors’ office door. Stebbel answered it and was told that they had a visitor who wished to see them. They had a good idea who it was.
Looking down the corridor, Stebbel saw that Hitler was already there. He invited him in. All he could imagine was that Hitler had encountered more problems picking up his reward money.
But just the opposite was the case. As Hitler entered the office, he was wearing a smile so big, it could barely fit on his face. When he held up a bloated brown envelope, they knew exactly why he was smiling.
Hitler then assailed the two inspectors with enthusiastic handshakes and thanked both for their help in securing him the reward.
“And now, gentlemen, I have something for you. A gift. For each of you.” He reached into the leather case lodged under his arm that whole time and pulled out two large sheets of paper. He looked at each sheet warmly, almost as if he hated to part with it. Then he handed one to Dörfner, one to Stebbel.
“Gentlemen, as a memento of our fruitful work together. I hope this will help you to remember me.”
The two officers inspected the gifts: two sketches, one of Dörfner, one of Stebbel. The loupes carefully inspected the drawings. Not very good either, but both men nodded appreciatively.
“Well, thank you, Herr Hitler. This is so thoughtful. And so … impressive in its artistry.”
All three stood and shook hands again.
“We wish you all the best. Perhaps we’ll be able to work together again on some project.”
“Perhaps. But I am going to make a short trip to Munich in the near future. There’s some business I must attend to there.”
“I understand. Anyway, again, all the best. We wish you continued success with your artwork.”
This seemed to flip a switch deep within Hitler. “You really like it, do you? You think I’m that good? A true artist?”
“Yes, of course, of course.” Stebbel held up his sketch and then pointed to Dörfner’s. “And your sketch of Arnold Brunner helped us to track down that fiend.” He paused just a moment. “You are truly a talented individual.”
Hitler again smiled broadly, thanked both of the inspectors once again for everything, and made his departure. A young officer stood waiting near the office door to escort him to the paternoster. Stebbel and Dörfner traded looks of admiration as they glanced at the two sketches.
“OK, I admit that they are fairly good,” said Dörfner with an expansive smile. “But he still wasn’t able to capture just how handsome I am.”
“But that’s almost impossible, isn’t it, Herr Colleague?” Dörfner shook his head and they both laughed freely.
Chapter 42
In the next few days, Adolf Hitler tied up all the loose ends of his life in Vienna; at least, those that could be tied up quickly. He paid off several small debts to his closest friends at the Meldemannstrasse hostel – much to their surprise. He also paid off a few debts to a client who had advanced him money, and then collected on debts from two other clients.
He gathered together everything he thought important and worth bringing along to the next phase of his life. This mainly involved two valises of clothing and all his unsold artwork, packed into the leather case and then laid carefully at the top of one of his valises. In a large paper bag, he had stashed a number of odds and ends that he might need in the weeks ahead.
On the evening of May 23rd, Hitler went around to all the people at the hostel with whom he still enjoyed amicable relations and bade them farewell. He told most of them that he was moving to Munich. He had friends and family there, he said, and they had invited him to stay there for a while and pursue his career as an artist.
In point of fact, Hitler had no family or real friends in the Bavarian capital. He did have a few strong acquaintances from his days in Linz who had gone off to Munich, but he had never bothered to keep up with them. But there were other, much better, reasons for him to leave Vienna and seek a new base of operations.
As he admitted to his co-resident Josef Greuler, who shared Hitler’s pan-German biases, he was simply sick of life in what he often called “this mongrel metropolis”. He just needed to get to a “real German city” and “breathe clean German air’ without all these foreign elements polluting the atmosphere.
What he wouldn’t admit even to Greuler was that he had been dodging the draft for almost a year, failing to turn up for scheduled medical exams and induction calls into the Austro-Hungarian army. His years in Vienna had sewn a deep contempt for the sprawling, multicultural empire that was his homeland. As he put it, he had no stomach for serving in an army that protected and served “Serbs, Hungarians, Croats, Poles, Czechs and other Slavs, to say nothing of all the Jews and God knows what else had taken up residence within the borders of the empire”.
Hitler believed it was only a matter of time before the authorities caught up with and arrested him for avoiding military service. This was especially true now that he had become well known within police
headquarters for his role in catching that monster Brunner. Sure, he was a hero, but that would probably not protect him from prosecution – or, worse, being forcibly inducted into the army and then shipped off to some God-forsaken post in the far east stump of the empire.
Also, he was now afraid of being arrested for assaulting that man in the red-light area. Hitler felt no real guilt for this – the man truly deserved to get slashed for reacting the way he did. Besides, to Hitler, he looked like one of those foreigners looking to defile some lovely German girls – but he didn’t wish to go to prison for that rash act.
He was also afraid that he might run into that man on the street somewhere, and as the swine was much bigger than Hitler, he might have given him a good thrashing for stepping in to defend the honor of the young girls forced into prostitution.
He thus had three good reasons for wanting to get out of Vienna. Now that he had his reward money, he was finally able to do so.
He had already bought his ticket, a one-way ticket, for Munich, and late the next morning, Hitler boarded a tram that took him to Vienna’s Westbahnhof, or Western Railway Station. There he met up with Rudolf Häusler, a local pharmacist, who had also decided to relocate to Munich.
As the train lumbered out of the majestic station, Hitler moved to a window in the corridor, leaving Häusler alone with his copy of the Altdeustches Tagblatt newspaper. He stayed there, posted at the window, for the next twenty minutes, seeing for what he thought might be the last time this robust but horribly diseased capital of Habsburg grandeur. He drank in all the grandiose buildings, the wide boulevards, the swarm of people on the streets going about their late morning business.
