The Vengeance of Rome

A man’s life plan takes him down some strange paths, I thought. Then I sniffed one of my powders and, my mood much improved, was soon in a deep and dreamless sleep.

I slept until noon when I was forced awake by the loud banging on my door. Thinking it was a telephone message from Röhm to change the time, I dragged on a dressing gown and stumbled to answer the knocking. Instead of a busboy, I was greeted by a somewhat surly Frau Socking, the head housekeeper, who had until now been rather pleasant. Her speech seemed rehearsed. ’I am sorry, Herr Peters, but you have to vacate your room today.’

‘At once? An emergency?’

‘Refurbishment works,’ she said firmly but without conviction. ‘The manager has asked me kindly to ask you to find fresh accommodation.’ She softened apologetically but recovered herself. ‘By tomorrow.’

I was baffled, suspecting every kind of attack from every possible source. Had Hitler found out about me? Unlikely. Had Röhm turned against me? Equally unlikely. Mussolini’s people? My male and female nemeses, the Baroness, Frau Oberhauser, and Comrade Brodmann? Surely neither of these would have influence over such a respectable hotel? I protested. I would speak to the manager.

Realising I would be meeting Röhm in a couple of hours and knowing that he had considerable influence in Munich, I decided to avoid serious confrontation. After bathing, ‘coking’ and preparing myself elegantly for the day, I strolled down to the lobby and ordered some coffee. At the reception desk I asked to speak to the manager, knowing he was almost certainly at his lunch. Sure enough he was not currently available. I left my card and said I had an important meeting this afternoon. I would return later. Meanwhile I assumed my room would not be disturbed. I would no doubt be ready to leave by that evening or the next morning. I also took it for granted that the presentation of a bill would not add insult to injury. I spoke with some force. I had no intention of being identified as a common bilker. They knew that I was a Hollywood star. To his credit the youth at the reception desk dropped his gaze, blushed and promised to pass on the message. I made it clear that I was extremely displeased.

My own belief at that time was that my association with various high-ranking members of the NSDAP had not improved my standing at the hotel. Röhm and Strasser were associated with the party’s left wing and had once even proposed a pact with Soviet Russia. The party was not, after all, the party of the rich and powerful, but the party of the poor and powerless. What was more, hoteliers were infamous snobs. Too many Prussian noblemen had declared themselves socialists for a gentleman’s politics to be trusted any longer.

Influential anti-Nazi elements in Munich included top policemen and politicians. The press speculated wildly about the Raubal case. Some hotels, shops and restaurants went so far as to refuse Nazis service. What possessed them to punish only the Nazis, when the Sozis were equally guilty of excesses, I need not tell you. The flow of stolen imperial gold from Russia into Central and Northern Europe at that time was as steady and as unstoppable as the Rhine herself.

I had already experienced the management’s animosity, and they had been cavalier in moving my room. Whatever the reason — and I did not suspect a mistake - it was prudent to look for a hotel that would give me credit. My credit at the Königshof was overextended. No doubt this had not improved their attitude in spite of my assurance that I was due to receive sums from Los Angeles and New York at any moment.

Without credit, however, it would be difficult to find a decent place. I would have to make some rapid arrangements. Taking a discreet pinch of ’snuff’ on my wrist, I strolled through the pleasant autumn weather to meet Röhm at the Karlsplatz. No doubt he or one of his powerful friends might be able to help. Yet underlying my pleasure in the day was a shadow of a question. Had I already been betrayed? I pushed the ideas aside. I am not by nature a suspicious man.

In compliance with Röhm’s request, I had dressed ‘German’ in my borrowed Crombie and Tyrolean hat with a big scarlet scarf flung over my shoulder. On the inside of my lapel was my party badge, the fashion among many middle-class Nazis.

Still something of a somnambulist, I managed to get to the big cinema at Karlsplatz. An historical extravaganza was playing as the main feature. I remember being mystified by the title, Der Kongress tanzt (Congress Dances). Would I have to endure some unfathomable expressionist film of which the Germans were so proud? I had already seen Caligari and the like, and while I had found Der Golem especially involving, I was not a great fan.

I entered the lobby at the same time as my friend in his wide-brimmed beaver hat, a loden overcoat with a tall wolfskin collar, dark glasses, the usual make-up over his scars. Today Röhm, too, wore his badge inside his lapel. Pretending to take an interest in the posters for coming presentations, he indicated I should join him in the men’s urinal. As soon as we were alone, he gave me my ticket. We would go in separately, he said. I had not, he was sure, been followed.