Journey to Munich by Jacqueline Winspear

Or perhaps they wanted to annoy someone, and Leslie provided the means.
    The motor car pulled up in front of the imposing and somewhat austere Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten on Maximilian Strasse, only a few minutes’ walk from the Residenz, the grand and ostentatious seat of kings and dukes for over four centuries. The familiar red flag with the black swastika insignia flapped in the wind above the entrance. A porter came to help with Maisie’s luggage, such as it was, and as he approached, his hand shot up in salute.
    â€œHeil Hitler!” he said, glancing sideways at two men in uniform walking toward them.
    Gilbert Leslie lifted his hand just a little and repeated the words, while Maisie fumbled with her shoulder bag, deliberately dropping it on the ground.
    â€œWie bitte,” she said. I beg your pardon.
    The men in brown uniforms went on their way, and the porter breathed a sigh of relief. Leslie accompanied Maisie into the hotel to ensure there were no problems when she signed the hotel register and that she was seen safely to her room. As he studied other guests goingback and forth, leaving or entering the hotel, and the number of black-uniformed men in the vicinity, he seemed agitated.
    â€œAre you all right, Mr. Leslie?” asked Maisie.
    â€œThose thugs in the brown shirts on the street—they unnerve me. They don’t care if you’re a tourist from a friendly country or not, they’ll usually knock you down if you don’t give that salute. An American couple ended up needing medical attention last summer. They were minding their own business on a sunny day in the street, and the next thing along comes a column of those henchmen and they start attacking anyone who does not salute. Of course, if you’re a visitor, you don’t know, do you? But here’s the interesting thing about them—they’re all new recruits, bully boys brought in by Hitler’s regime. They had to get uniforms for them pretty quickly, so a batch manufactured for the desert armies was commandeered—and soldiers in the desert wear those brown uniforms, to blend in with all that sand, I suppose! Now the brown-shirted thugs are a law unto themselves. And Adolf Hitler.”
    Maisie looked away and smiled as the young man returned with her key and her passport and gave directions to her room. Another young man was summoned to accompany her and ensure she knew where the well-regarded restaurant was situated. While he waited to one side, Leslie whispered instructions to Maisie.
    â€œI will be here for you at nine tomorrow morning. It’s not far to walk to the headquarters, so we might as well.” He paused. “Oh, and it’s likely that you’ll have time on your hands for a day or so afterward—I doubt if they’ll have your final papers ready to collect your father until late Wednesday, so you won’t be able to leave until Thursday. If I were you, I would make sure I confirmed my train ticket for Paris as soon as I had the stamped papers for the release. Get out as fast as you can, before they change their minds.”
    â€œDo they?”
    â€œThe common wisdom is that no one gets out of Dachau—but there have been instances of men being bought out by relatives. In this case, it’s not only the money involved, but the fact that your father has friends in high places. Hitler likes his associations among the British aristocracy, and your father’s connections in the right strata of society have helped enormously. That letter from— Oh, I’d better go now. Your escort is looking a bit hot around the collar.”
    As Leslie turned to leave, he gave one last reminder. “Nine o’clock. Wrap up warm and wear those shoes—they’re best for walking. Good day to you, Miss Donat.”
    Maisie watched as he made his way out, stopping briefly to exchange a salute with the doorman. The young man snapped his heels together in front of her and