"He'll be here, Axel. Relax."

Forget about her! "Anything productive come out of the interview with Anders Johannsen?"

"All business, eh?"

"Do you think I keep your company for pleasure?"

Muller smiled. "He claims to have found her around seven-fifteen in the morning."

"He is sure?"

"The old man's constitutional is like clockwork."

"He is old?"

"In his fifties, although he looks younger-except for the white hair."

"What does he look like aside from having white hair?"

"Sharp features, long nose . . . tall."

"He's tall?"

"What?" Muller was shouting over the racket.

"I asked if he's tall," Berg said, shouting back.

"I'd say about six-two."

The singing had picked up in volume and in spirit. Each Verein was boasting its superiority in animated melody, and when challenged by a rival club, the members flung back insults in song. The cacophony was enough to render any tune meaningless.

"The man who was with Anna Gross was tall and blond."

"Johannsen isn't blond, he's white."

"But in certain lighting white can be mistaken for blond." Berg took out his sketch. "Did he look anything like this?"

Muller regarded the sketch in earnest. "On a very basic level . . . the thinness of the face . . . the sharp nose." He looked up. "Really, Berg, this drawing could be just about anyone."

He was right. Still, Berg would not dismiss the thought that the man might have been more than just an unfortunate onlooker. "Was Johannsen nervous when you talked to him?"

"Not nervous, Axel, upset. It isn't every day that a citizen finds a decomposing corpse. Why are you suspicious of him?"

"Because some criminals love to revisit their handiwork. He could be toying with us . . . like Britain's Jack the Ripper-"

"Frau Gross was a married woman, not a prostitute."

"She was a woman who could have been carrying on an affair. And we know nothing about the other body."

"Maybe Storf knows something about that," Muller said.

"Wherever he is," Berg grumbled.

The waiter presented them with plates of food and a basket of brown bread. Conversation stopped temporarily as they ate.

Berg said, "I showed my sketch around the Russian teahouses today. A balalaika player told me he looked like a man known as Ro-a gentleman who presents himself as fallen aristocracy, although his authenticity is dubious."

Muller raised an eyebrow. "So the man in your sketch really does exist?"

"I think so, yes. Anna Gross's chambermaid also recognized the man in the sketch as someone Anna had entertained-possibly a Russian. We turned up a calling card that she could not place. The name on the card was Robert Schick. Ro . . . Robert. More than a coincidence, I'd say."

"Yes, I agree." Muller looked annoyed. "Since you have a name and a picture, why are you even considering Anders Johannsen as the culprit?"

"Impostors take on many names."

"Johannsen lives in a nice apartment. He appears to be a man of means. He doesn't seem like an impostor."

"Just a comment," Berg said. "Besides, I have to keep considering that there may be more than one murderer." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Storf-harried and disheveled-and waved him over. Storf was weaving his way through the crowd, bumping into elbows and knocking over beer steins, apologizing profusely for each mishap. At last, he took the chair next to Muller.

"Sorry."

Berg looked at the clock: quarter to six. "You were tied up with police work?"

"Yes, certainly." Storf was breathing hard. "It is hot in here."

"Hot and loud," Berg complained. "I don't know why we keep meeting in beer halls."

"You look thirsty, man." Muller signaled the waiter for another beer.

"Thank you, Georg," Storf replied.

"I hope your tardiness resulted in some good news?"

Storf drained half a stein. "All business, Axel?" He smiled, then took a picture out of his pocket. "This woman is our murder victim, no?"

It was the corpse in her more robust days: a pretty, dark-haired woman with round brown eyes, a wide smile, and two very charming dimples. Berg and Muller looked at him with admiration.

"Well done," Muller said.

"Where'd you get the photograph?" Berg asked.

Storf sidestepped the question. "Her name is Marlena Druer. She's from Berlin. She came down to visit family friends in Munich . . . the family Schulweiss. They haven't seen or heard from her in three or four days. They never reported her disappearance to the police because it was not unusual for her to come and go as she pleased. The family tells me she was staying at a pension-Der Blumengarten in Giesing. I haven't gone through the room. I thought we could all go together when we're done with supper."

"How did you find out about her?"

"I was lucky."

"Good job," Berg said. "Excellent, in fact."

"Danke." Storf finished his beer and smacked his lips. "I needed that."

Muller poured him another round. "Drink up."

"I will." Storf sipped, then looked at Berg. "Is something wrong?"

"You have blood on you-"

"Blood? Where?"

"Something red on your neck." Berg reached over and touched him right under the jawline. He wiped it away with his thumb. "Gone."

"Nick yourself shaving?" Muller asked.

"It was lipstick." Berg laughed and raised his stein to Storf. "To a man whose dedication to his bound profession knows no professional bounds."

EIGHTEEN.

Volker was listening with less than half an ear. The context of the speech was hackneyed and worn, but still Hitler kept going with force and energy as if he were delivering the diatribe for the first time, his blue eyes flashing something that was not quite human. The confidence that oozed from his voice belied the nervousness in his hands as he picked up a third roll from the bread basket, working it through his fidgety fingers and turning it into dust. Immediately, one of his devoted followers appeared, a boy not more than fourteen with bad acne and a bulging Adam's apple. Whisk in hand, he brushed the bread crumbs from the tabletop into a plate. The Austrian was a meticulous man.

Osteria Bavaria was normally one of Volker's favorite restaurants, featuring the cuisine of Italy, dishes lavished with wonderful cheeses, spices, exotic vegetables like artichoke hearts, and noodles in all shapes and sizes. Tonight's special had been a superb veal parmigiana with fresh asparagus. The bistro sat in the heart of Schwabing and attracted many from the artistic community, along with Nazis who mistakenly fancied themselves as painters. On other days, Osteria Bavaria was filled with bohemians who might have thrown dinner plates at tonight's speaker. But Hitler and the National Socialist German Workers Party had conned enough money from benefactors to rent out all the dining rooms for the party supporters. The man's lecture ranged from topic to topic-from degenerate art to degenerate Jews.

The space was appointed with traditional Bavarian furnishings made from dark walnut and carved with southern German scrollwork. Brown leather booths were lit by the amber glow of electric lighting. There were fresh flowers on each table and sketches on the wall that extolled the thrill of the hunt. Oversize tankards and painted mugs were set on shelves and fireplace mantels. A roaring blaze had been set in each of the three hearths and still the stone building let in a draft. No matter. Whoever wasn't made comfortable by the heat from crackling logs was warmed by alcohol.

Drumming his fingers against his pants leg, Volker glanced at his table companions: his immediate superiors, Direktor Max Brummer and Kommandant Stefan Roddewig, and their superior, assistant mayor Roderick Schlussel-a morose man in his fifties. Though Schlussel had outwardly forgiven Hitler for his 1923 misstep-a lapse in judgment that cost sixteen lives-he still did not fully trust the Nazi. Volker recognized the predicament the man was in. Schlussel and the government were forced to deal with the rising popularity of a very moody man, who shifted from charmer to lunatic within a heartbeat. Such unpredictability bore watching.

Hitler continued his ramblings for another ten minutes, then abruptly stopped. Without warning or explanation, he clicked his boot heels like a Prussian, gave a little bow, and, with legs extended at the knees, marched out the door before anyone knew he was through. Quickly, his attendants pulled napkins from their chins and followed, being caught off-guard by his sudden exit. His dinner-a plate of spaghetti with vegetables in tomato sauce-was left untouched.

After the entourage had left, Volker sat back and whispered to the ceiling, "My God, he's long-winded!"

Roddewig leaned over to Volker and whispered, "Careful . . ."

"I'm not saying his points don't have some merit," Volker backtracked. "But I am suggesting that he could be more succinct." But secretly he was relieved that Hitler spoke as long as he did. It meant that there was little time left for his superiors to discuss the two murder cases-and the lack of progress made by the police.

Schlussel sipped coffee laced with liqueur. "Yes, it is always preferable that things be done in a timely fashion."

Leave it to the politician to make the pointed comment. Schlussel was a bald man with a long face. Spectacles were perched midway on his prominent nose. Ignoring the barb, Volker reached into his pocket and offered each of his dinner companions a cigar. Within minutes, the table was engulfed in foul-smelling smoke.

Schlussel persisted. "Were you aware that Herr Hitler mentioned the murders more than once?"

Volker retorted, "Distraction is the bread and butter of politics."

"It is not a distraction, Martin, it is a reality," the assistant mayor answered. "It's on everyone's mind. We cannot have Munich engulfed in panic." Schlussel exhaled acrid fumes. "We need answers."

Slowly, Volker turned to his companions, giving each one the full heat of his eyes. They both knew that Volker, although inferior in rank, held unmentioned power by virtue of his family wealth and position. His contributions to the police were also significant. Without his keen, organized mind, many of the recent police developments, including the newly formed Mordkommission, would have dissolved long ago in disarray. Most important, Volker had somehow managed to accumulate dirt on notable Munich politicians. It allowed him to operate as a maverick. His power was effective but only if he wielded it with subtlety. Too much greed and he'd wind up with a bullet in his back. "And what, gentlemen, would you propose that I do?"

No one spoke. Then Roddewig signaled the waiter for another brandy by holding up his glass. "What about Anton Gross?"

Again we are back to him? Volker said, "What about him?"

"Once again, I think it would be wise if you brought him in for questioning."

"And how, Stefan, would you explain to the public Herr Gross's connection to the newest murder victim, Marlena Druer?"

His query was met with resounding silence. Schlussel sipped his coffee. The haze of cigar smoke thickened.

Max Brummer finished the last of his apple schnapps and then spoke up. "Bring in Gross, then suggest that the two murders are unrelated. That way, at least we have a suspect for one murder."

"But what if the killings are related?" Volker said.

"Since you don't know one way or the other, it does no harm for us to assume they're not," Schlussel said. "Perhaps these killings are the Jewish conspiracy that Herr Hitler warns about: Jews killing their German wives."

Volker tried to keep his temper. "Druer was not even married."

"But from what you've told us, Martin, she was bohemian," Brummer stated. "Maybe she was murdered by her Jewish boyfriend."

"What Jewish boyfriend?" Volker said. "We are looking for a Russian, not a Jew."

"How about a Russian Jew?" Roddewig suggested. "No matter what Stalin does, the Bolshevik Party continues to be flooded with them."

"So if it is a Bolshevik Jew, let me find him," Volker said.

"You may do that on your own time," Schlussel told him. "In the meantime, it is not so hard to construct charges against Gross . . . that he, like many of his race, is infected with Lustmord, which compels him to swoop down on our virginal German women."

"One minute Druer is a bohemian, the next moment she is the Virgin Mary." Volker blew out a cloud of smoke and smiled. "With all due respect, gentlemen, I do believe that it would be more constructive to stop the perpetrator of the crimes than to blame it on the Jews."

"But perhaps it is the Jews."

"Fine," Volker said. "If it's the Jews, everybody will be happy. And even if it isn't the Jews, we can find ways to blame the Jews. But right now, the best thing to do is to find the murderer because what we really want is for the crimes to be stopped."

"They better be stopped," Schlussel snapped. "This is just the kind of propaganda that Herr Hitler can use against our government. We can't afford another putsch."

"That's not going to happen. If the Austrian fails again, he'll be permanently discredited."

"Ah, but what if he doesn't fail?" Schlussel shook his head. "I think you're being a bit naive, Martin."

"So maybe we should blame the murders on Hitler's minions before he blames them on us."

"Go back to the Jews, Martin," Brummer piped in. "Arrest Gross and put him in custody. When you find the real murderer, you can let him go."

"I have no grounds on which to arrest him, Herr Direktor. We've gone through this before."

Schlussel stared at him with hatred. "I must ask you, Hauptkommissar Volker. Is your reticence a sign of sympathy for the dogs?"