And even if he did see people, what did it matter? According to Herr Professor Kolb, the woman was murdered at least two days ago. Muller tapped his pencil against his notepad.

Johannsen became impatient. "I have nothing else to add." He rose from the sofa. "If you have no more questions, Herr Inspektor, I would like to get back to my work."

"Ah . . ." As Muller got up, he awakened the beast, still drooling. This time a low growl emanated from the depths of its throat. "Is he going to bite me?"

"Otto?" Johannsen placed his shod foot squarely on top of the dog's head. "He's a baby."

"A very large one then," Muller said, sidestepping around the ruffian. Then he hesitated before saying, "Your work . . . what is your work?"

"I am a composer."

"Ah . . ." Muller glanced around the living room. "But one without a piano."

"I have a separate music room. Soundproofed." A slow smile spread across Johannsen's face. "I would not like it if my neighbors complained. Auf Wiedersehen."

SHOWING A PICTURE of a dead woman to people at random, hoping that someone could identify her, was a rigged game of hit-and-miss. But sometimes even the tremendous odds stacked against you were rendered meaningless. Such was the case when Storf spotted a young, attractive woman wearing a hat over a short bob coming out of Konigen's Milliners, near Maximilian Strasse. She toddled awkwardly because she was toting two very bulky hatboxes. She wore a brown tweed suit and had on leather pumps.

Storf corralled her just as she was readjusting her packages and showed her the postmortem photograph. Expecting nothing, he was stunned when her dark eyes got very big, her red-painted lips tightened into an "O," and her throat uttered an audible gasp. Quickly, she averted her glance.

"Is that Marlena?"

Storf's heartbeat quickened. "I don't know, meine Dame, perhaps you can tell me."

"I am Fraulein Erika Schulweiss." She looked up into Storf's blue eyes. "And you are?"

"My apologies for not introducing myself properly. I am Inspektor Ulrich Storf. I am sorry to trouble you with such unpleasantness, but the police are desperately searching for the identity of this woman. Perhaps you can peek at the photograph one more time?"

She did. "It looks like Marlena."

"Marlena who?"

"Marlena Druer."

Storf glanced at the young woman. She appeared to be in her early twenties with a slim figure, but ample hips. A lovely girl with a body meant for breeding. He felt a tug below his waist, then looked away, knowing he was red-faced. But the woman hardly seemed to notice.

"At least I think it's Marlena." She bit her thumbnail. "It looks like Marlena."

Storf took out his notepad and pencil. "And where does Frau Druer-"

"Fraulein Druer."

"Ah, yes. Where does Fraulein Druer live?"

"Not here," Erika answered. "I mean, not in Munich. She lives in Berlin. She is a longtime family friend . . . a friend of my older sister actually. My sister also lives in Berlin. The two of them come out to visit our family around this time every year . . . right after Fasching. They have been doing this for the last six years. But this year, Henrietta-that's my sister-she wasn't feeling well. She just had her fourth baby not more than two months ago. So Marlena came by herself." She stared at Storf. "Are you writing all of this down?"

"Yes, I am trying to do that."

"I'll slow down then. I talk very rapidly. It drives my family to distraction, I'm afraid. I grew up in Spain. There are many Germans in Spain. If you think I talk quickly, you should hear the Spanish. Especially the Cubans. We had several Cubans who went to my school. My school had all kinds of people-Spanish, Cuban, German, Portuguese . . . a regular League of Nations-"

"Fraulein Schulweiss?" Storf interrupted. "I'd like to talk about Marlena Druer, please."

"Yes. Marlena." Erika put down her packages on the sidewalk, straightened her hat, and raised the veil so she could see a bit better. She glanced at the picture again. "Ach mein Gott! I'm sure that's Marlena. This is just dreadful! She looks so young in that photograph."

Death tended to do that, especially to the face. It smoothed out the wrinkles. Ulrich said, "How old is she?"

"She is thirty-five. The same age as my sister."

"You are much younger than your sister, then?"

"Yes, this is true. I am twenty. I come from a large family. Henrietta is the oldest and I am the youngest. Only my brother and I are left . . . at home. The rest have married and moved away. The house keeps getting emptier and emptier, but my parents refuse to move."

"Marlena was staying with your family, then?"

"No. My sister of course stayed with my family, but Marlena never did. Instead, she rented at a small pension. Marlena always insisted on her privacy, which I never could understand because she could get plenty of privacy in our house."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Oh dear, maybe three days ago."

"And you weren't alarmed that you hadn't heard from her in two or three days?"

"Not at all. Marlena came and went as she pleased. If she didn't come calling for several days, we just figured she had other plans. She and my sister always brought their skis. It was entirely possible that Marlena had gone skiing nearby . . . or even in Switzerland. Or even that she suddenly changed her mind and went back to Berlin. Or even Paris. That was Marlena. I think that's why my sister adored her. Henrietta was very shy and Marlena was outgoing. They're quite a pair." Again, her eyes watered. "This is terrible!"

Storf patted her back in a comforting gesture. "I am so sorry to have burdened you with this ugly matter. Perhaps we can contact someone to come with us to the mortuary to identify the body. Perhaps your father or brother may be able to do that?"

Now Erika's eyes filled with tears that ran down her cheeks. "Yes, of course." She took out a handkerchief from her purse. "You will tell them this dreadful news. I cannot do it."

"Of course, Fraulein Schulweiss. We would never allow a lovely woman such as yourself to dirty her hands with such awful doings."

Erika smiled. "That is very kind of you, Inspektor."

"Think nothing of it."

The two of them engaged eyes for a moment.

Storf picked up her packages. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me to your family's home so I may talk to the gentlemen in your house?"

Erika reddened. "My father is working. My brother as well."

"Ah . . ." Storf nodded. "So perhaps you can give me the address of your father's employment so I may speak to him right away?"

Erika didn't answer.

"These are pressing matters, Fraulein Schulweiss."

"My father is a doctor, Herr Inspektor. Today is his day for surgery."

"Then perhaps I can speak to your brother?"

"He is not home, either."

"Oh . . . that is a problem. Still, I would like to accompany you home and carry your packages. It is the least I can do after bringing you such terrible news."

"That is very kind of you, Inspektor." She gave Storf a smile. "My streetcar is not more than two blocks away. Come."

They walked without speaking. Storf wanted to question her further about Marlena Druer and her habits, but with all the noise and the pedestrians bumping into the packages, he could scarcely manage to walk without toppling over.

"I have an idea," Erika said brightly. "Why don't you wait at my house for my brother? I do think that it would be much better for police matters to be handled in the privacy of one's home."

"And when do you think your brother might return home?"

"Well, it is around three. . . ." She paused. "Perhaps in an hour. Maybe a little longer."

Again, Storf felt his heart beating against his chest. Not only was the girl very well formed, her face was pleasing as well. She was, however, completely out of his class. Still, there was no harm in taking a break. He had been on his feet for the last three hours. If nothing else, he'd get a hot cup of tea and a chance to rest. Maybe he'd even get a beer, if the family was generous. "If it's no inconvenience to your mother, I will wait at your home, then."

"It will be no inconvenience to her whatever." A slow smile spread across Erika's face. "She is out of town."

SEVENTEEN.

The beer hall was packed, most of the tables taken up by Vereine, the numerous clubs that had formed and dissolved and formed again, each one indicated by a flag with its insignia on the tabletop. Vereine weren't just offshoots of the major political parties. These days, the clubs included the carpenters' union, the plumbers' union, the masons' union, the tailors' union, and, of course, the city police, although in this beer hall-Der Bierkeller-Berg couldn't see his departmental banner. After a minute of surveying the masses, he spotted some free seats at the end of a long trestle table. He and Muller sat down and ordered a couple of Lowenbraus.

Berg checked the clock and compared it to his wristwatch-a wedding gift from his father-in-law. It had an eighteen-karat gold case and was engraved, but it ran slow. He adjusted the time to quarter past five, then wound the stem three times, putting the face to his ear to make sure it was ticking. He said, "Not like Storf to be late."

Two beer mugs were plunked in front of their faces, foam swelling over the lip of each stein.

"Maybe he's discovered something." Muller took a big gulp of brew. "Ah . . . das tut gut."

"Discovered what? Has he contacted you?"

"No." Muller took another swig. "Just postulating."

"Did Professor Kolb say anything more about the deceased?"

"Just what he told you. From the insect eggs, it appears that she died around three days ago. Frankly, I think he just enjoys playing with repulsive things."

"And no one discovered her until Johannsen. What a pity."

"Yes, a pity."

"Anything else on her condition beyond being strangled?"

"It wasn't done with the stocking."

"Yes. Kolb said it was a wire or a piece of twine. I was there."

Georg popped pretzels into his mouth. "When he looked at the ligature mark under the microscope, he found a repetitive pattern etched into the skin . . . in the part where the wire didn't actually cut through the flesh. Little, lined circles-"

"A necklace chain."

"That's what he was thinking, yes."

"Did you find a necklace near her?"

"No," Muller responded. "But she was dressed in evening wear. It's logical that she had on a necklace. The culprit murdered her with it and then stole it."

"Did we find the other stocking?"

"No."

"So maybe the murderer took that as well."

"Whatever for?" Muller asked.

Berg thought a moment. "Some criminals are like that. They take things from their victims-clothing or jewelry."

"More likely, they rob for profit."

"Yes, of course. But they take insignificant things as well. I've seen a case where the murderer actually cut off pieces of his victim's hair. When asked why, he said he simply wanted a memory."

Muller shook his head. "Very strange."

"And she wasn't violated?" Berg asked.

"It appears not, but she has spent several days moldering. Herr Professor took swabs of the region. Perhaps he'll spot something under the microscope."

"So already there are differences. One was violated, and the other was not. Different implements to use as a garrote. It could be different murderers."

"Indeed." Muller took another gulp. "I'm starved. Are you eating, Axel?"

Berg was lost in thought. "But in both cases, the matching stocking is gone. That indicates the same hand, wouldn't you think?"

"What I think is I am hungry. How about a plate of cheese and cold cuts with some brown bread and butter?"

Berg stared at Muller for a moment, then slowly brought his thoughts back to the present. "Yes, that would be satisfying."

A waiter was summoned and Muller shouted the order over the din. People were laughing loudly, bellowing over one another. Not only that, the singing had begun-a cappella and off tune. The brass band had yet to set up, but in its stead was an accordionist in traditional Bavarian dress of white shirt, suspenders, and lederhosen, taking his instrument out of the case. Glasses were clinking, and momentary friendships were being formed. Beer-induced frivolity-and why not? Life was dreary and so was the weather. It was advisable to take whatever was offered.

Berg's musing made him think of Margot. He pictured her coy smile as she preened in front of a mirror, fanning her face with luxurious black feathers. He had thought about visiting her before meeting Muller, but then had quickly dismissed the notion. It was not wise to get too involved, even though being faithful made him testy.

"Where is Storf?" he groused.