The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
I was a little taken aback by his apparently rehearsed speech, as if von Schirach suddenly recalled he had not spoken what he had prepared, so spoke it anyway, as a specific duty. Doubtless Röhm had offered some instructions on how to address me. Now young Baldur seemed to think he had become carried away in his excitement. Like many polyglots, he said more than he should when speaking a language other than the local one. He had revealed a romantic crush on an older man.
This generous emotion continued to radiate from him as he flitted about the flat showing me how to work the stove, where the china was kept, how a certain flap worked in the desk. I had a fleeting impression of an angelic visitation. Then he looked at his watch, raised his eyebrows and apologised. He had to go. Berlin and duty called!
I accompanied him and the boys back down the stairs while he tried to tell me the best baker, the best grocer and so on, suggesting that I could also shop in the Viktualienmarkt, which, as I had seen, offered a convenient short cut to the tram stop. The market was a bit crowded with tourists at the moment, because of the festival, and the prices had gone up, but I would still find it worth trying. There were several good cheap restaurants in the vicinity, also a wonderful new cinema nearby. The whole area was much improved since he had lived there. Even St Peter’s, the local church, seemed a bit brighter. I assumed it was a Roman church and that therefore I might attend services if I were here for a length of time. At that time, you will recall, I had yet to accept the faith of my ancestors and worship in the Greek tradition.
As I stood in the street doorway bidding my new friend goodbye, the inner door leading into the shop at the side opened suddenly. I had not known the shop was occupied and jumped slightly.
A black beret perched on the side of his head, a sprightly puckish little face regarded us, looking us over with merry, sardonic eyes. Then, stiffening, the dapper newcomer bowed and heel-clicked to von Schirach. Ignoring me, he advanced upon the scowling Hitler Youth leader.
‘Mein lieber Baldur!’ He opened his arms as if to receive a beloved child. But Schirach’s eyes narrowed, and he coloured a little. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Doctor. We thought you still in Vienna. Or was it Prague you went to? I believe you are not supposed to be on these premises. I think you should let me have your key.’
‘Why so?’ A jovial Herr Doctor indeed! He twinkled, he was sly, he was warm, sarcastic. His mobile, clever mouth seemed forever smiling, smirking, sneering or grinning. His audacious brown eyes bore a hint of the Mediterranean, reminding me for an instant of my friend Fiorello. The doctor created the same sense in me that I was forever being watched for my reaction, so that he might respond appropriately, or at least know what to think of me, or how to make me think well of him. Yet his words were sardonic enough and showed no lack of courage. ‘Has your lord and master Hitler banned me from the building I first helped him rent? I’m not surprised, since he’s an habitual turncoat. He’ll turn on you one day, my dear Baldur, and then nothing will save your tight little bum. Not even your convulsive poetry.’
Blurting and blushing, the poor boy pressed a large envelope into my hand and made his escape, warning me that the doctor had no business being on the premises. If he gave me any further trouble the police could be called. The number was in the office near the telephone. He was sorry about the dust. His last words were grimmer, addressed to the newcomer. ‘I believe you have gone too far again, Doctor Strasser. I doubt it will be quite so leniently tolerated this time.’ But because of his lisp, the words had no weight.
The doctor smiled quietly to himself and, with crooked mockery, bowed to von Schirach. Removing his beret, he placed it against his heart and clicked his heels. ’My good Herr Youth Leader! You’ll discover soon enough that Herr Hitler’s men are not quite as loyal to Big Business as their “Führer”. This murder investigation will only help clear their vision . . .’
He lifted his black beret mockingly, a cigarette burning between his fingers, and dropped the hat neatly back on his balding head. ‘My regards to your dear fiancée, Miss Hoffman. And to my brother Gregor, if you see him in Berlin. What a shame about Fräulein Raubal. I heard you were on the scene with Hess and my brother in a matter of hours. Clearing up the evidence, were you? Who did it, eh? Hitler hasn’t the nerve for it. Himmler? Don’t worry, my brother wouldn’t tell me. We haven’t been on the best of terms since he made his choice. He’s almost as happy to lick Uncle Alf’s arse as you are. I have plenty of other friends still in the party. Is Germany’s great white hope mortified? How inconvenient for him . . .’ He laughed without malice after them. The little boys were bewildered, perhaps waiting for Baldur to strike back at the man for uttering so many blasphemies at once, but von Schirach murmured something about the plane for Berlin and herded them ahead of him.
After von Schirach and his lads had rounded the corner, Doctor Strasser turned his cheerful attention on me. Gregor Strasser’s brother was a small man, scarcely taller than myself, but very dapper. His humorous, sardonic manner seemed completely natural to him. He looked at one slightly sideways. Neatly dropping his cigarette butt into the street, he took a small case from his pocket and offered me a smoke but I refused. I told him I had eaten no breakfast or lunch and was beginning to feel peckish.
If I gave him five minutes, he told me, he would be glad to take me to an excellent and very cheap restaurant. A little worried that back numbers of the party paper would be destroyed during or after the elections, he had come from Vienna to sort out some of the old copies. He had no spares, and everything was stored here at what had been the party HQ until they’d moved to the Brown House. He remembered this place in the old days before the Great Compromise, but now it wasn’t inhabited much. Was I going to live in the flat?
In spite of Baldur von Schirach’s animosity towards him, Gregor Strasser’s brother Otto was exceptionally charming and far more engaging than his taciturn sibling. He had a mobile, vaguely Jewish, face which could not help but twinkle and smile.
It occurred to me momentarily that perhaps he indeed had Jewish blood, the reason for his volatility, but it was extremely unlikely. Given their policies the Nazis could not afford to be too careful on matters of early ancestry. For some time I had heard and ignored the persistent rumours of Hitler’s own Jewish grandparents. The theory was that these part-Jews so hated the blood in their own veins that they strove to tear it from the body of Germany as they would tear it from themselves. A popular theory, but not one I necessarily subscribed to. Ludecke, whom I met later, believed that the most virulent anti-Semites had strong doses of Jewish blood. Rosenberg was certainly Jewish, he argued. He had known several such creatures. All possessed a certain pathos. But even Ludecke, that irredeemable cynic, would agree with me that whatever blood animated the Strasser family it came from the right side of the Mediterranean!