Abruptly, Volker stopped pacing, his eyes focusing on Berg's face. "Tell me."

"We have a drawing of a man who may have accompanied Anna Gross on the night she died."

"A drawing?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

Berg paused. "He has yet to be identified, but-"

"So what good does a picture do?" Volker shot back. "There are over half a million people in Munich, and at least fifty percent of them are male! How are you going to identify this unknown figment, eh?"

The man was irrational. Someone was breathing down his neck. Berg said, "I would like to start by talking to active party members. There may be political implications, too, sir."

"Ach, Gott im Himmel!" Volker turned to face him. "What kind of politics now?"

"Anna Gross had been meeting with a Russian gentleman. It might be political. It might be personal. Or maybe both."

Volker said, "A Kommunist?"

"Maybe. Anna's brother, Franz Haaf, did tell me that she had flirted with Kommunismus before she married."

"And you think this man, this murderer, is a Kommunist?"

"Possibly."

"And what do politics have to do with this latest corpse? Have we even identified her yet?"

"We're working on that."

"You're working on many things. It would be nice to have some answers."

Berg held his temper. "Indeed, Herr Kommissar, answers are always desirable. Georg Muller is interviewing Anders Johannsen, the man who found the body. He lives near the Grosses' apartment."

Volker's eyes narrowed. "Is that significant?"

"We don't know. No one has reported a missing woman who fits her description. I instructed Herr Professor Kolb to take some pictures of the woman's face. I plan to show them around the area as well."

"A slow process . . . and distasteful. Our good citizens might bristle at seeing such strong photographs. Can't you find another way?"

"If you can suggest something, I would be happy to comply."

Volker didn't answer.

"The woman had on evening attire," Berg told him. "She was dressed for dancing. If she frequented the Kabaretts, someone could have remembered her."

"That could take days or even weeks . . . months."

"The case is only two days old, mein Herr."

"And how long before panic takes over the city, Berg?" Volker dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief. "We need an arrest. Go pull in some vagrant and tell the papers we have a suspect in custody."

Berg was flabbergasted. "You want me to arrest someone at random, sir?"

"No, not a random person, a vagrant . . . a drunk . . . a man without resources and family. The streets are littered with them. Treat him kindly. Give him a hot meal and a hot shower, but keep him locked up. We'll eventually let him go, but in the meantime, having someone behind bars will calm the fear bound to arise as soon as the afternoon headlines are published." Volker inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. "Yes, that will do. Go out and arrest someone."

"And you don't think that will make us look silly, sir? Arresting one man only to let him go when we find the true suspect?"

"On the contrary, it will make us look responsive and efficient. It will be cheered by the overstuffed burghers of the city. Hopefully, they will remember us when it comes to our share of the budget."

"And if we don't find the suspect right away, are we to execute this innocent man?"

Volker waved his hand in the air. "He'd most likely die a horrible death by consumption or pneumonia."

"Excuse me, Herr Kommissar? I don't believe I heard you properly."

"No, we will not execute him," Volker said flatly. "We will not do it because before the noose is tied, you will find the correct man." He sat down at his desk. "Go out and find a sacrificial lamb." Berg hesitated. Volker crushed out another cigarette butt. "What now?"

"Before I go . . ." Berg cringed. "Before I arrest our vagrant, I'd like to at least try to identify the mystery man in the drawing. I was planning to show the sketch to patrons of the Russian teahouses in Schwabing. The afternoon papers don't hit until three, so I have several hours before the citizens learn of another body."

Volker slowly warmed to the idea. "If you find a man worthy of arrest before the afternoon papers come out, I will be thrilled."

"So we have the same objective. All that differs is the time frame."

"What do you have in mind, Berg?"

"Before I make any arrests, I'd like to confer with Muller and with Ulrich, who is out trying to identify our mystery woman. If you'd just allow me another day or two, I think I could find out crucial things."

"I'm not interested in things," Volker said; "I need names!"

Berg said, "Kommissar, suppose we arrest someone and another murder happens right away. It is going to be obvious that we messed up."

"Then we'll haul in another vagrant and say the first one had a partner. If nothing else, we'll clean up the streets."

"Sir?"

"Fine, fine. I'll give you a day." Volker shook his head. "Perhaps I can stave off the hyenas for that long."

Berg smiled. "Your superiors, sir?"

Volker did not smile back. "In rank only."

THE RUSSIAN EATERIES in the northeast area of the city were small storefronts with wooden shutters and hand-painted Cyrillic lettering on the doors. As Berg walked down Kaiser Strasse, glancing at the numerous establishments, he knew his job would be made easier if the Russians wore uniforms like everyone else in Germany. Because they didn't, he had to figure out which tavern belonged to what party in order to ask the proper questions. Within this sizable ethnic group, there was lots of discord and constant infighting.

Munich, with its charm, beauty, and accessibility, had been a natural magnet for Russian expatriates. The first wave of immigration began after Gregory Gapon led a march to Winter Palace Square in Saint Petersburg that terminated in a riot known as Bloody Sunday. The ensuing demonstrations and strikes forced the Czar to establish the Duma, a somewhat democratic parliament. Though the coup was unsuccessful, its aftermath left Russia's central government disorganized and feeble. Still reeling from economic woes brought on by the Great War, Trotsky and then Lenin saw an unparalleled opportunity for seizure of central power in 1917.

The brutal murders of the Czar and his entire family sent a flood of royalist Russians across the border where they found sympathy with the Bavarian monarchy. For hundreds of years, the Wittelsbacher had reigned without dispute, levying taxes, maintaining their own armies, and building numerous castles in the Alps.

By 1918, it was all gone. The Germans had taken their lead from their Russian brethren, and Bavaria was a baby step away from joining the Soviet Union. German Kommunist Kurt Eisner, a thin, bearded Jew, led a revolt, his party eventually forcing the Wittelsbacher into exile. Elected Prime Minister of the Bavarian republic, Eisner promised a government that would serve all citizens. A year later, Eisner's utopian dream was cut short by an assassin's bullet, which threw the region into upheaval and culminated in the Great Inflation of 1923. It was not so long ago that a wheelbarrow's worth of paper money was needed to purchase a single egg.

Russia's Kommunist postwar economy, like those of all of Europe, suffered. When Stalin usurped control, his wrath brought yet another mass exile of Russians streaming into Munich in the mid-twenties: This time it was the Bolsheviks.

Each Russian faction set up its own teahouses, taverns, chess parlors, and dance halls. The Kabaretts were identical in menu, smell, and language. The people looked the same, dressed the same, and drank the same. Once in a while, a teahouse or tavern would try to assert its identity by waving a royal flag or the hammer and sickle or even a poster of Trotsky. Within days, opposition had ripped the offending object down. Although Berg didn't come to Soviet Schwabing to talk politics, casual conversation always seemed to go in that direction.

It was lunchtime. Cooking smells wafting from the open shutters were pungent: a workingman's meal of onions, cabbage, turnips, and potatoes-and a little meat if the price was right. The evening menus were more varied, offering Russian delicacies such as blinis or gravlax cured in vodka. These tasty morsels were served along with German specialties like Spatzle and Maultaschen. Meals were washed down with locally brewed beer or vodka: The more the alcohol flowed, the rosier the atmosphere.

A chess tournament was taking place. Dozens of card tables were set out on the sidewalk, the benches occupied by men of all ages clothed in thick work shirts, patched pants, tattered jackets, and wool caps. The players sipped beer and smoked heavily, pondering the boards, then punching the timer after each completed move. The competition was due to end soon. Berg's plan was to pass around Anna's picture and the sketch of her unknown escort after the games broke up.

In the meantime, he found a small tavern that looked inviting and sat on a stool at the empty bar. He held out a finger to the barkeeper.

"Lowenbrau, bitte."

The German out of Berg's mouth made the barkeeper suspicious. Even so, he poured the beer from the tap until foam rushed over the glass. He gave it to Berg along with a plate of nuts and broken pieces of pretzel.

"Danke. Work here long?"

The tapster's eyes turned hostile with a touch of fear. "Why you ask?"

Berg showed him the sketch. "Do you know this man? I think he may be Russian."

The barkeeper gave the picture some attention. "Nyet." A shake of the head. "I don't know him."

"Do you know a man named Robert Schick?"

"No. Who is he, please?"

The tapster's accent was thick, but his German was decent. He'd been in the country for a while. Berg finished his pint and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He took out Anna Gross's photograph. "What about this woman?"

A shrug. "No."

"She doesn't look familiar?"

"No."

"She was murdered yesterday. The story was in all the papers."

"I don't read German papers."

"I'm sure it was in the Russian papers as well."

"I don't read any papers."

"Her name is Anna Gross. She might go by the name of Anna Haaf."

"I know none of these people. You ask many questions. You are police?"

Berg shoved a handful of pretzel pieces into his mouth and shrugged.

The barkeeper said, "All my papers are ordered."

"I'm not interested in your papers."

"Then you are interested in what?"

"In answers. Think again. Do you know Robert Schick?"

"Nyet!" A firm shake of the head. "I don't know him. And I don't know man in drawing. Bother someone else."

Berg took several coins out of his pocket to pay, but the barkeeper stopped him. "I give you beer. You say you never ask me questions. German police in here is no good, verstanden?"

"Yes, I understand." Berg wrote his name and the phone number of the police station on a piece of paper. "I'll leave now." He slid the paper across the countertop to the barkeeper. "But if you find something out, you'll do your local duty and tell me. Verstanden?"

"Da, da . . ."

Berg stared at him.

"I tell you. I tell you. I am good man."

"I know. All your papers are ordered."

BERG LEFT just as the tournament was breaking up. He took out the drawing and the photograph of Anna and began to show them to the chess players.

Nein.

Nein.

Nyet.

Nein.

Nyet.

Nyet.

Nyet.

A gnome wearing a cap asked if the man in the sketch was a Kommunist. When Berg said he might be, the man stiffened and announced he was a royalist.

Berg asked where he would find the Kommunisten.

The gnome replied that with any luck, he'd find them in a mass grave.

The name Robert Schick drew blank stares as well.