The only thing left to do was to visit each individual establishment. He took out his notebook and started at one end of the block.

When he entered his seventh teahouse-a tiny space of tables and chairs and the ubiquitous bronze samovar-he realized he was hungry. He waited ten minutes for an empty chair, and for the price of a mark, he had a lunch of smoked fish, a beet and celery-root salad, a roll, and all the hot, dark tea he could drink. Expensive but satisfying.

A youth of sixteen or seventeen in a vest and cap was playing music on a balalaika. Berg liked the ethnic music, but his favorite was American jazz. He was disappointed when Joachim seemed more interested in classical guitar music after they had seen Andres Segovia in concert.

The place was thick with people and conversations, but since Russian was spoken, Berg was lost. Sipping tea, he realized that he was taking up desired space. Just as the balalaika player took a break, he got up, realizing this was an opportune moment.

He followed the youth outside.

The kid had a smooth, white face and not much in the way of a beard. His eyes were brown, and his hair was the color of rust. The musician leaned against the wall and took out a cigarette. Berg was there with a light. The young man stared at him, but took the proffered match. There was suspicion in his eyes. "Spasibo."

"I'm not Russian, I'm German," Berg answered. "I liked your playing."

The suspicion hardened. The teen's eyes darted from side to side. But he nodded at the compliment, puffing on his cigarette.

Berg said, "Do you play at other cafes?"

"I play where anyone will pay me. You have cafe?"

"Maybe. What's your name?"

"My name?"

Berg smiled. To prevent the musician from leaving, he leaned over, arm extended with his hand against the wall, blocking his escape. "Yes, your name."

"You are not cafe owner," the player pronounced.

"No, I am a policeman. What's your name?"

The musician froze. Berg took the cigarette from the player's lips. "You want to stay in Munich, no?"

"My papers are good."

"I'm sure they are. Your name?"

The player tapped his toe. "Sergei."

Surely a false name but Berg didn't pursue it. "I bet you've played at many cafes, Sergei. I bet you've met many people."

The young man said nothing.

Berg showed him the sketch of the man and the picture of Anna. "Do you know either of these people?"

Sergei stared at the pencil rendition, then at the photograph. His eyes gave nothing away. "Why you ask?"

"Yes or no. Do you recognize either or both of them?"

"The woman, no." He pointed to the sketch. "Maybe I see him."

Berg tried to hide his excitement. "Maybe?"

"It's like you say. I see many people." Sergei squirmed, but had nowhere to go. Instead he reached for his cigarette still in Berg's hand. "He has name . . . this man?"

"I'm sure he does, but I don't know it. Describe him for me."

"Why I describe? You have picture."

"Short, tall-"

"Tall."

"Hair color?"

"It is brown, I think."

"Eyes?"

"I don't remember eyes. But he wore monocle like he was important man."

Berg nodded, trying not to show emotion. "Important in what way?"

"Like he was big-shot royalty." The young man spat on the ground.

"Aristocracy?"

"Maybe. But there are many here that act like important peoples."

"A Schlawiner?"

"Maybe he is impostor, but a good one. He is always with the ladies."

"With this woman?" Berg showed him Anna's photograph again.

"I tell you I don't know her." He flicked ashes on the ground. "She is beautiful. He knows many beautiful women."

"Do you know a man named Robert Schick?"

"He is this man?" Sergei asked.

"You tell me."

Sergei shrugged. "Robert Schick is not Russian name."

"I know that. If he was Schlawiner, maybe he was using more than one name." As soon as Sergei finished his cigarette, Berg offered him another. "Have you ever heard someone call him any name?"

"Maybe I hear someone call him Ro."

Berg lit Sergei's cigarette. "Ro? What kind of a name is that?"

"You say his name is Robert. Maybe Ro is Robert."

Berg smiled. Inadvertently, he had fed him the answer he wanted to hear. "Could Ro be a Russian name?"

"Possible. Maybe Roman, maybe Rodion, maybe Rostislav, maybe even last name like Czar . . . Romanov." A wry smile. "So maybe he is big-shot royalty. These days only God knows friend from enemy."

"But you're sure he's Russian."

"I hear him speak Russian. But where he's born . . ." The musician shrugged.

"If you see him again, you contact me." Berg gave the youth his card. "Bitte . . . or should I say Potzhalusta?"

Sergei lifted his eyebrows. "You know Russian?"

"I know 'please' and 'thank you,'" Berg answered. "My mother raised me with manners."

SIXTEEN.

Anders Johannsen sat on a damask sofa. A white, fluffy thing with a gold necklace and a pink bow was curled up in his lap; at his feet was something live, large, and ominous. "It was so horrible! I knew something was amiss because Otto kept pulling at the leash, but I never expected . . ."

His iridescent blue eyes were moist and a little wild. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and was tall and thin. He flailed his arms as he spoke, nearly knocking the little critter off his lap. The thick, brooding beast on the floor picked up its head, pendulous maws dripping with saliva. Otto stared at nothing for a moment, then tucked his head into his bent legs and went back to sleep.

"Otto picked up the smell." As the man petted his lapdog, white fur flew into the air like snow. He sneezed.

"Gesundheit," Muller said.

"Danke."

"This one . . ." Johannsen framed the doggy's face with his long, tapered fingers. "She went right to the spot."

The man's hair was almost as light as the little dog's white fur. He was no doubt from the north. Muller said, "Dogs have good noses."

"Very good noses," Johannsen concurred.

Squirming on a dark purple settee, Georg Muller sat opposite Johannsen, his feet tucked underneath his seat to prevent his toes from nudging the brute's ribs. His notepad in his lap, his sharpened pencil poised, he was ready to write down anything crucial to the case. But so far, all he had done was listen to an unseemly display of emotion.

Johannsen's apartment was simple but fastidiously clean: sparkling white plastered walls, polished wood floors, and big windows letting in whatever light Munich had in the late winter. Hanging on the walls were several Cubist paintings-square torsos in bright colors without arms and legs and heads-a set of primitive drawings that could have come from African caves, and another group of drawings with very few lines.

Back to business. "Did you touch anything at the scene of the crime?"

"You mean the body?" Johannsen shuddered. "Good heavens, no! Otto was licking her face . . . trying to wake her up, I think. At first, I thought she might be a drunk. But then it was obvious. I was in total shock!"

"It must have been quite upsetting."

"Very upsetting." He shuddered again. "I must say that as a citizen here, I do hold the police accountable. So forgive my presumption if I ask what is going on."

"It is . . . puzzling."

"Were the murders political in nature?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because everything in Germany is political."

"You say Germany and not Munich, Herr Johannsen. Were you born here?"

"No. Up north."

"Hamburg?"

"Farther. Neumunster."

Muller said, "What brought you to Munich?"

Johannsen flipped his hair off his forehead. He had thin features, a protruding forehead, and a sharp nose. He looked like Beethoven's blond twin. He sighed deeply. "I came before the Great War because of what the city used to be-so alive and full of ideas."

"I've always found the Bavarians a conservative lot," Muller answered.

"The county of Munich yes, but the city . . . it was different. At the turn of the century, we were the true bohemians, not the silly Parisians. We were the Blaue Reiter."

"You are a painter, Herr Johannsen?"

"No. I talk metaphorically." He waved his hand in the air, then let it fall back down on his lapdog. "I am a collector." He pointed to the Cubist paintings. "Munich was an unrivaled artists' community. Since the Great War and the Austrian, nothing has been the same. Hitler claims to be an artist. That's a laugh. Surely you have seen Karl Valentin with Liesl Karlstadt at one time or another. His latest interpretation of modern times is quite apropos to what we're talking about."

If you say so. Muller was forever wary of those who expressed themselves so strongly. Political rivals were always setting traps. "What time do you walk your dogs, Herr Johannsen?"

"I rise and dress at six in the morning. I am out for my walk by seven. You may set your watch on my routine. You do not want to keep a hound like Otto waiting when necessity calls."

"I suppose not. So you discovered the body around . . ."

"I did not look at my watch, but I would say around fifteen minutes into my constitutional."

"Seven-fifteen."

"I would say so, yes."

"And then what did you do?"

"I found a policeman and apprised him of the situation. I could tell he wanted to question me, but instead he took my name and address and let me go home to compose myself."

"Did you see anyone suspicious coming into or going out from the area?"

"There were some people around me, ja? But no one I'd label as suspicious."