"Michael Moorcock - Seaton Begg - The Case of the Nazi Canary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

really blame him for that."
"Blackmail?" said Sinclair from the shadows in the back, unable to contain himself. "Your leader was being
blackmailed?"
"A couple of years ago. That's not what the blackmailer called it, of course, Herr Sinclair. But Putzi, Hitler's
foreign-press secretary, handled the details of that. Putzi's half-American, a great source of vitality, you know. We all
love him. Only his jokes and piano playing can cheer Alf up when he's really depressed. ..."
Begg had begun to realize Hess had to be kept on course or he would wander off down all kinds of twists and
turns in the story. He slowed the car behind a stopping tram, then indicated that he was going to pass. Slowly he
increased pressure on the accelerator. "Putzi?" "A nickname, naturally. Putzi Hanfstaengl was at Harvard. He's an art
expert. Has a gallery in Munich. His firm publishes the official engraved portraits of Hitler, Strasser, R├╢hm, Goring,
myself, and the other eminent Nazis. Anyway, Putzi took the money to the blackmailerтАФwe weren't rich in those days
and it was hard to scrape togetherтАФand got the material back. Probably nothing especially bad. But, of course, Alf
became much less trusting after that."
"Does Herr Hanfstaengl usually enjoy a drink at the Hotel Bavaria?"
Hess's enormous eyebrows almost met his hairline.
"Mein Gott, Sir Seaton! You are indeed the genius they say you are. That is remarkable deduction. Putzi's natural
American vitality has been drained, it seems, by recent events. He has never really been at ease since we began to gain
real power. A little bit of a playboy, I suppose, but a good fellow and a loyal friend."
After that, Begg asked no more questions. He darted Sinclair a vindicated glance, for he had gotten that
information from one of his much-loved "gossip columns." He told Hess he would like to drive around and think the
case through for a while. Hess showed some impatience, but his admiration for the English detective soon reminded
him of his manners. Heels were clicked as Hess was dropped off at the Brown House. Then Begg had touched the
feather-light wheel of the superb roadster and turned her back toward central Munich.


CHAPTER FOUR
FEAR AND TREMBLING

As usual, Sinclair was amazed at Begg's extraordinary retentive memory, which had drawn itself a precise map of
the town and was able to thread Dolly's massive bonnet through the winding streets of old Munich as if the driver had
lived there all his life.
Soon they were leaving the Duesenberg in the safekeeping of the Hotel Bavaria's garage and strolling into the
plush and brass of the old-fashioned main bar. Clearly the Bavaria was more popular with those who preferred to be in
bed with a good book by eight PM. The bar was large, but sparsely occupied, save for one middle-aged couple
dancing to the strains of Franz Lehar played by an ancient orchestral ensemble half-hidden by palms and curtains on
the distant dais. At a shadowed table two smart young men upon second glance turned out to be smart young women.
Against the walls leaned a couple of sleepy-eyed old waiters and at the bar sat two young couples from the local
"cocktail set" who had lost their way to the latest jazz party. Slumped alone, as far away from the couples as possible,
wearing a great, bulky English tweed overcoat, sat a giant of a man nursing a drink which seemed tiny in his monstrous
hands.
With his huge, pale head and irregular features, an expression of solemn gloom on his long face, the lone drinker
looked almost comical. He glanced up in some curiosity as they entered. Begg wasted no time in introducing himself
and his colleague. "You are Herr Hitler's foreign-press secretary, I understand. Too often in Berlin, these days, I
suppose. We've been hired to prove your boss's innocence."
Herr "Putzi" Hanfstaengl did not seem greatly surprised that Begg knew his name. He lifted his hand in a salute
before returning it to the glass. "You guys from the Times, are you?" He spoke in English with an educated American
accent. He was clearly drunk. "I told your colleaguesтАФwhen the Times turns up, that'll be a sign this is actually an
international story." He let out an enormous sigh and drew himself to his full six and a half feet.
"You've been trying to keep all this speculation out of the papers, I suppose."
"What do you think, sport?" Hanfstaengl tossed back his drink and snapped his fingers for a refill. "It's not doing