If he hadn't kept back that postcard, she wouldn't even have let him join her on the train.

In which case, maybe he wasn't so dumb after all.

"Wendell?" she said.

"What?"

"You seem preoccupied."

He realised that he had been standing at the window, moping there for at least five minutes. Across the Kurfurstendamm, a group of workers were bolting together a tall pressed-steel monument to the first ascent of Everest. The young Russian airman was depicted standing astride the summit, raising his gloved fist in what was either a cheery salute to an overflying aircraft or impish defiance at a vanquished and obsolete G.o.d.

"Just thinking about old times," he said.

Auger was sitting on the bed, leafing through a telephone directory. She had her shoes off, stockinged legs crossed over each other. "When you were here before?"

"Guess so."

"I'm sorry if I've made things awkward between you and..." She paused to jot down a telephone

number, using a pad letter headed with the name of the hotel.

"Greta," he said, before she had a chance to say the name. "And no, you haven't. I'm sure she knows the score."

Auger looked up, her finger poised halfway down one page. She was sucking on a strand of hair, as if it

helped her to concentrate. "Which is?"

"That you and I are here on business. That you didn't even want me along for the ride. That there's nothing more to it than that."

"She's not jealous, is she?"

"Jealous? Why should she be?"

"Exactly. No reason in the world."

"We're just two adults with some mutual interests in Berlin-"

"Saving money by sharing a single room."

"Precisely." Floyd smiled. "Now that we've got that out of the way..."

"Yes. What a relief." She looked down at the telephone directory again, wetting a finger to turn one of

the tissue-thin business pages.

"I should have found a different hotel," Floyd said.

"What?"

"Nothing." He turned back to the bed, his attention lingering on the shape of Auger's calves under those stockings. They weren't the longest legs he'd seen on a woman, or the shapeliest, but they were some way from being the worst.

"Floyd?" She'd noticed him staring, and he snapped his gaze up to her face, a little embarra.s.sed by the direction his thoughts had been taking.

"Did you get anywhere with that telephone number?" he asked. She had used the telephone several times while he had been looking out of the window, but he hadn't been paying attention to the outcome. A certain amount of talking had been involved whenever she placed a call, since they all had to be relayed through the hotel switchboard, but his rudimentary German made listening in a pointless exercise.

"No luck so far," she said. "I already tried this number from Paris, but figured there might be a problem with the international connections."

"I tried it as well," Floyd said. "It didn't work for me either. The operator said it was as if the line had been cut off. How could a big firm like that not have paid their bill, or not have anyone to answer their telephone? Haven't they heard of answering machines?"

Auger called through again. She spoke very good German each time, or at least what sounded like very good German to his ears. "Nope," she said. "Line's totally dead. It isn't even ringing at the other end." She smoothed a hand over the letter from Kaspar Metals, uncreasing it. "Maybe this number's wrong."

"Why would they print the wrong number on the letterhead?"

"I don't know," Auger said. "Maybe they changed the number but still had a lot of the old paper lying around. Maybe the man who sent this used old stock he'd had lying in his desk for years."

"Sloppy," Floyd said.

"But not a crime."

"Did you check the directory as well?"

"It lists the same number," she said. "But the directory looks old. I don't know where to go from here. We have an address on the letter, but it's just a generic post-office-box address for correspondence to the whole steelworks. It's not specific enough to be useful. It doesn't even tell us exactly where the factory is."

"Wait," Floyd said. "Maybe we can bypa.s.s Kaspar Metals entirely-just get in touch with the man who

sent that letter, and see what he has to say."

"Herr G. Altfeld," Auger said, reading from the paper. "But Altfeld could live anywhere. He might not even be in the telephone directory."

"But maybe he is. Why don't we check?"

Auger found the Berlin area private-number directory and pa.s.sed the heavy, dog-eared book to Floyd.

"Here we are," Floyd said, leafing through it. "Altfeld, Altfeld, Altfeld...a lot of Altfelds. There's got to

be at least thirty of them. But not many with the first initial 'G.'"

"We don't know for sure whether that 'G' refers to his first name," she observed.

"It'll do for now. If we don't hit the jackpot, we'll move on to all the other Altfelds."

"That'll take for ever."

"It's elementary drudgework, the kind that puts a roof over my head. Pa.s.s me a pen, will you? I'll start making a list of the likely candidates. And see if you can rustle up some coffee. I think it's going to be a long morning."

TWENTY-TWO.

Auger knew it was the right number as soon as the man answered the telephone. His authoritative, slightly schoolmasterly tone only confirmed her suspicions.

"Herr Altfeld."

"Excuse the interruption, mein Herr, and excuse my very poor German, but I am trying to trace the Herr Altfeld who is an employee of Kaspar Metals-"

The call was terminated before Auger could say another word.

"What happened?" Floyd asked.

"I think I struck gold. He rang off a little too enthusiastically."

"Try again. In my experience, people always answer the telephone sooner or later."

She dialled through to the hotel switchboard again and waited while her call was connected. "Herr Altfeld, once again I must-" The line crashed dead again. Auger tried once more, but this time the telephone rang and rang without being picked up. Auger imagined the sound echoing around a well-appointed hallway, where the phone rested on a little table under a print of a familiar oil painting-a p.i.s.saro or a Manet, perhaps. She persisted, allowing the phone to keep ringing. Eventually, her patience was rewarded by the receiver being picked up.

"Herr Altfeld? Please let me speak."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Mein Herr, I know you talked to Susan White. My name is Auger...Verity Auger. I'm Susan's sister."

There was a pause, during which it seemed quite likely that the man would hang up the telephone again.

"Fraulein White did not have the good grace to keep her appointment," Altfeld eventually replied.

"That's because someone murdered her."

"Murdered her?" he repeated, incredulously.

"That's why you never saw her. I'm here in Berlin with a private detective." Floyd's advice: tell the

truth wherever possible. It could open a surprising number of doors. "We think Susan was killed for a reason, and that it had something to do with the work being done at Kaspar Metals."

"As I said, I have nothing to tell you."

"You were good enough to offer to speak to my sister, mein Herr. Will you at least do us the same favour? We won't take up much of your time, and then I promise you won't hear from us again."

"Things have changed. It was a mistake to talk to Fraulein White, and it would be an even bigger mistake to talk to you."

"Why-is someone putting pressure on you?"

"Pressure," the man said, laughing hollowly. "No, I have no pressure at all now. A generous retirement settlement saw to that."

"Then you don't work at Kaspar Metals any more?"

"n.o.body works there any more. The factory burnt down."

"Look, mein Herr, I think it would really help if we could talk. It can be anywhere of your choosing.

Even if it's just for five minutes-"

"I am sorry," Altfeld said, and hung up again.

"Pity," Auger said, rubbing her forehead. "I thought I was getting somewhere that time. But he really

doesn't want to talk to us."