Murder on the Short List by Peter Lovesey Page B

someone and then attacked with a bottle and almost forced over the edge. Her attacker had tripped and gone over.
    Even the next day, when she made a full statement for their records, she omitted some of the details. She decided not to tell them she’d been at the point of suicide when she discovered that bench. She let them believe she’d come on a sentimental journey to remember her childhood. It didn’t affect their investigation.
    Maggie’s body was recovered the same day. Lionel, elusive to the end, was washed up at Hastings by a storm the following October.
    He left only debts. Donna had expected nothing and was not discouraged. Since her escape she valued her life and looked forward.
    And the bench? You won’t find it at Beachy Head.

THE MUNICH POSTURE
    A dolf Hitler stared across the restaurant.
    Camilla, blonde, eighteen and English, succeeded in saying without moving her lips, “He’s looking, he’s looking, he’s looking!”
    â€œFor a waiter, not you, dear,” Dorothy Rigby remarked. Rigby was, at this formative stage in her life, less flagrantly sexy than her friend Camilla. Rigby’s appeal was subversive and ultimately more devastating. Here in Munich, in September, 1938, the girls were at the Countess Schnabel’s Finishing School. Rigby’s lightly permed brown hair was cut in a modest style approved by the Countess, so that a small expanse of neck showed above the collar of one’s white lawn blouse.
    It was Camilla who had dragged her into the Osteria Bavaria. Their table was chosen for the unimpeded view it afforded of the Führer and his party, or rather, the view it afforded the Führer of Camilla. Flamboyant Camilla with her blue Nordic eyes, her cupid’s-bow pout and her bosom plumped up with all the silk stockings she owned. She was resolved to enslave the most powerful man in Europe. It wasn’t impossible. It had been done by Unity Mitford, the Oxfordshire girl turned Rhine-maiden, who had staunchly occupied this same chair in Hitler’s favourite restaurant through the winter of 1935 until she had been called to his table. From that time Unity had been included on the guest lists for Hitler’s mountain retreat at Obersalzberg, and for the Nuremburg rallies, the Bayreuth Festival and the Olympic Games.
    Until this moment, Camilla had unaccountably failed to emulate Miss Mitford, though she was just as dedicated, just as blonde and, by her own assessment, prettier.
    Until this moment.
    â€œOh, my hat! He’s talking to his Adjutant. He’s pointing to this table. To
me
!”
    â€œCalm down, Cami.”
    Camilla gripped the edge of the tablecloth. “God, this is it! The adjutant is coming over.”
    Undeniably he was. Young, clean-shaven, cool as a brimming
Bierglas,
he saluted and announced, “Ladies, the Führer has commanded me to present his compliments . . .”
    â€œSo gracious!” piped up Camilla in her best German.
    â€œ. . . and states that he would prefer to finish his lunch without being stared at.” Another click of the heels, an about-turn, and that was that.
    â€œI’m dead,” said Camilla after a stunned silence. “How absolutely ghastly! Let’s leave at once.”
    â€œCertainly not,” said Rigby. “He wants to be ignored, so we’ll ignore him. More coffee?”
    â€œIs that wise?”
    They remained at their table until Hitler rose to leave. For a moment he glared in their direction, his blue eyes glittering. Then he slapped his glove against the sleeve of his raincoat and marched out.
    â€œOdious little fart,” said Rigby.
    â€œI hope Mr Chamberlain spits in his eye,” said Camilla.
    â€œHe’ll have Mr Chamberlain on toast.”
    Outside, in Schellingstrasse, heels clicked and the young adjutant saluted again. “Excuse me, ladies. I have another message to convey from the Führer.”
    â€œWe don’t wish to