Volker smiled, although the corners of his mouth barely rose. "I don't have sympathy, I don't have antipathy, I am merely trying to solve a puzzling case."

"One day you will be called on to take a stand!" Brummer preached.

"Perhaps one day, but not at this moment."

Schlussel said, "Since you insist on being impartial, I'm afraid I'm going to give you a direct order, Herr Kommissar. Tomorrow morning I want you to arrest Anton Gross for the murder of his wife. I will make sure all the papers are notified. If Anton Gross turns out to be guilty of the crime, then we were one step ahead of the dog. If he is innocent, we'll sort it out when we have a real suspect. But we need to calm down the public." He turned to Brummer. "I hold you responsible for this."

"It will be done." Brummer regarded Volker. "And of course you have no trouble accepting these orders, Kommissar Volker?"

Volker was livid, but maintained his outwardly calm appearance. "If you order it, it will be done."

"Good man," Brummer said.

"Are we finished with our business?" Volker asked.

"In a hurry?" Schlussel asked.

"Just a bit uncomfortable," Volker said. "I am full, more than a little drunk, and the room is filled with much hot air."

Roddewig said, "I'll walk you to your car, Martin."

Volker was taken aback. "You need a lift, Stefan?"

"If you're offering, I won't say no." Roddewig turned to the table. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us."

Brummer said, "We're having a meeting with the Scharnagl tomorrow. Ten o'clock sharp, Stefan."

"I'll be prompt," Roddewig answered. "You know me, Max. You can set your watch by my arrival. Good evening."

As soon as they were out the door, Volker said, "You were rather quiet tonight, Stefan. I would have thought that you'd enjoy a good witch hunt."

"I don't mind blaming Jews, but that really doesn't solve the problem, does it? If the two murders are related, we have another possible Haarmann."

"It's only been two murders."

"These types . . . they never stop at two. Look what's happening in Dusseldorf. How many has the Vampire killed?"

Volker didn't answer.

"The police over there look like inept fools. That will be us unless we find him." A small smile rose to his lips. "Hitler will make political hay with this. I don't think Herr Direktor realizes how precarious his position is right now."

"Indeed."

"In the meantime, arresting the Jew might get the public's mind off of murder long enough for your boys to find the real culprit."

"That would be nice."

"Yes, it would be nice." Stefan nodded. "Gute Nacht, Martin."

"You don't want a ride?"

"Right now, I'd prefer to walk. It helps me think."

MARGOT'S FINGERTIPS brushed the bruise on her cheek as her eyes peered into the dull mirror of an old compact. Though the pain was gone, it had turned ugly-a jaundice-yellow inkblot in the middle of her face. She wanted to cry out in protest, but to whom could she possibly complain when the source of the indignities both external and internal was a man who had sworn an oath to protect Munich's citizens?

Brief thoughts entered her mind. She wondered why he had become so nasty of late and with so little provocation. Normally she would think it had something to do with the two murdered women, but his rage had begun weeks before. Margot suspected he was jealous.

Idiot.

They are all idiots.

Still, he had his good points. He was strong. He was handsome. More important, he was powerful. He had connections, and he had used them to help her out in the past. When those swine at work were tormenting her, all she had to do was mention it once. They hadn't bothered her since.

It was good to know someone like that, because she was a Jewess.

In the end, it was worth the intermittent outbursts and the occasional welt. Besides, what couldn't be rationalized away was hidden behind the application of makeup. With deft hands, Margot dipped the powder puff into her compact and dabbed a fresh pink cover over the hideous discoloration, smoothing out the blotches with her fingers.

Almost as good as new.

Almost was acceptable.

NINETEEN.

Der Blumengarten Rooming House for Women was a two-story wooden structure, one of the many broken buildings that littered the southern area of the city. Fronted by a mud-filled rut that, in drier times, passed as a lane, the place was badly in need of repair. Some shutters were missing slats, rot had settled into the steps of the porch, and paint was peeling from the wood siding. It could easily have been mistaken for a notorious "cigarette room," but the proprietor had put up an additional sign stating FOR PROPER LADIES ONLY. Most of the units had been rented to long-term residents, but two ground-floor flats were let out at weekly rates.

The lobby was little more than a front desk, and everyone-tenant as well as guest-was required to sign in and sign out. Tending the register was an English lady named Ruth Baylor, a desiccated old woman with gray hair that had been knotted into a tight bun. She was initially inattentive, but her indifference was shattered as soon as Berg, Muller, and Storf pulled out their police identifications.

Flipping through the pages of the guest book, Frau Baylor confirmed that Marlena Druer had signed out four days ago, at three-thirty in the afternoon to be exact, and as of yet, had not signed back in. Since she had paid two weeks' rent in advance, and since two weeks had not elapsed, Frau Baylor saw no reason for alarm.

"And what is this about?" she finally asked.

"We need to look in Fraulein Druer's room." Berg looked around. Why someone like Marlena Druer-a woman of supposed means-had chosen to stay in such an establishment was an interesting subject of speculation.

Consternation spread across the Englishwoman's face. "For what reason? Is she in trouble?"

"No, madam, she is not," Storf replied.

"Then why are the police here?"

Since the morning papers hadn't identified the newest body, Berg decided to lie for convenience. "We were told that she was looking for a specific item of importance. It might have been left behind in her room."

"What item is that?" Frau Baylor asked.

"That is all we're allowed to divulge, madam," Muller broke in.

Berg said, "Am I correct in assuming that no one has disturbed the room since Fraulein Druer left?"

"But of course! I run an honest establishment."

"Then you'll not mind escorting us to her room?"

Frau Baylor hesitated. It was then that her English heritage showed itself. A true German woman wouldn't have stalled when given an implied order.

"Bitte?" Berg requested.

Slowly, the woman rose from her desk and retrieved a ring of skeleton keys hanging on the wall behind her. "Come this way."

The trio followed her down a dark hallway, trampling on a wood floor that creaked under the weight of human travel. Using the weak illumination of a gas wall sconce, Frau Baylor took several tries to find the correct key. Since it was evening, the chamber was dark. Frau Baylor lit two kerosene lamps that bathed the room in a flickering orange glow. The fuel gave off a stale odor. It took several moments for Berg's eyes to adjust. When they did, he gave the room a quick look around, eyes traveling floor to ceiling. A decent amount of space, enough for a bed, a chair, and a cluttered desktop-books, papers, pamphlets, and a Remington 2 model typewriter.

The Englishwoman arched her brow, eyes affixed on the printed material strewn across the desk. As her hand inched toward one of the pamphlets, Berg blocked it with his body. "Thank you, Frau Baylor, you may leave. I know you must get back to your duties, looking after your women . . . and their guests." Berg smiled. "My men and I can conduct the rest of the search without inconveniencing you."

Frau Baylor took a step back, arms folded across her chest. "And how do I know that you will not steal anything?"

Berg conjured mock outrage. "Are you accusing the police of misbehavior?"

There was a moment of stiff silence. Without responding, Frau Baylor turned on her heels and stomped out. The men waited a few moments, then attempted to stifle spontaneous laughter.

"What a witch!" Storf said.

"Nothing that a good ramming couldn't change," Muller added.

"If you put a sack over her head, I suppose it would be possible," Storf retorted.

Berg laughed jovially, then picked up two piles of paper from the desk, handing one to Storf and the other to Muller, who asked what they were looking for.

"You'll know it when you see it." Berg took a third stack, mostly political leaflets, material that would have been passed out during Munich's numerous rallies. Sorting through the papers under poor lighting, Berg found two pamphlets that were marked up by hand with marginal notes and underlining. One was entitled A Summons to the Kameraden, the other Workers of the World: pieces of Russian propaganda that invited German workers to wake up to the call and join the great Socialist cause. "Apparently Marlena, like Anna Gross, flirted with Kommunismus."

Muller said, "Haven't these women got better things to do than to stir up trouble?"

Berg turned to Storf. "In the course of your interview with Fraulein Schulweiss, did she express any interest in Kommunismus?"

Ulrich's mouth turned sour. "We talked about Marlena, Axel, not politics. With an air of distaste, Fraulein Schulweiss described Druer as wild and bohemian. Though she was upset by Marlena's murder, I think she would be appalled if she knew her sister's friend was interested in an abomination."

Muller said, "If Marlena was a Kommunist, why would she associate with staunch conservative people like the Schulweisses?"

"They gave her respectability," Berg said. "Allowed her to penetrate circles not otherwise available to her. At least, we are detecting a pattern, no? Two bourgeois women with Kommunist leanings: A political motive for the murders is looking better."

Muller looked up from his papers. "You think it's some fanatical anti-Kommunist?"

"Perhaps."

"That's ridiculous," Storf said. "There are a lot bigger animals to hunt than these pathetic women who dress like aristocrats, fanning themselves with peacock feathers while embracing proletariat causes."

"Both women had money," Berg said. "If you want to weaken a cause, cut off its source of income." He held up the papers. "Someone has to pay for these pamphlets and for all the professional political agitators." He squinted in the murky glow of the lamps. "Let's sort the papers by date . . . if they're dated. We are looking for references to the mysterious Russian or to Robert Schick."

The men worked in silence for fifteen minutes. When the papers were properly stacked, Berg began to go through the desk drawers. One of them contained a locked steel box. Storf looked up with interest.

"Money?"

Berg rattled the container. "Perhaps." He took a pocketknife from his boot and worked the tip into the lock. It was of very poor quality and popped open without much prodding. Inside were a bundled stack of letters and a thick wad of new marks. "Herrjemine! This woman could have supported a lot more than a few proletarians!"

"How much?" Muller asked anxiously.

Berg exhaled as he counted out the bills. "Almost five hundred new marks. It is clear from this find that no one has been in the room since her disappearance."

"Who was it meant for?"

"Lord only knows." There was a moment of silence. Wordlessly, Berg counted out one hundred fifty marks apiece. The three men pocketed the bills.

"What are you doing with the remainder?" Muller asked.

"It will be recorded along with the rest of Marlena Druer's effects."

"Why leave so much, Axel? It makes much more sense that she would have traveled with her money, no?"

"That brings up a good point," Storf said. "Why didn't she take this much money with her?"

"Fear of robbery," Muller said. "Way too much to carry around in these dangerous times."

Storf said, "But she'd leave it here? In this dump?"

Muller answered, "No one would dream that she traveled with this much cash. And perhaps no one except the Schulweisses knew she was here."

"The better question is what had she planned to do with the money?" Berg divvied up the letters. "Let's find out a bit about her personal life, shall we?"

"And the rest of the money, Axel?" Muller persisted.

Berg said, "She was carrying around this fortune for a reason. If we find the reason but leave behind no money, it will cast suspicion on all of us. We were blessed with good fortune. Let's not spit at the fates, hmmm?"

After five minutes of sifting through Marlena's correspondence, Storf looked up. "Our luck is still with us. Here is our Schwabing Soviet." He handed Berg the letter.

My Dearest Lady- I count the days until your arrival, my most beautiful and elegant woman. How fortunate is my luck to have made your acquaintance and so much more. There is no way for me, a man made meager by the whimsy of fate and the wickedness of hatred, to repay you for all your goodness, generosity, and support. I will do my most profound best to ensure that your goodwill is not in vain, and that in the future, Munich will be liberated from the loathsome, petty burghers who feast upon Germany's good citizens. May our days together be filled with excitement and drama and the personal connection we dream about. Until we meet, may I forever remain in your heart as well as your debt.

With true fondness and deepest gratitude and, dare I say it, love, Robert "Robert," Berg said out loud. "There's our link. He appears to be Marlena's paramour . . . although she wasn't the one with semen inside of her. I wonder if she was pregnant?"

"Why?"

"A motive to kill. Two women, both pregnant, and a man who doesn't want either of them." Berg gave the letter to Muller. "Although in the context of this letter, it appears that Fraulein Druer was more interested in politics. She appears to be financing something very big."

"Like a major rally?" Muller said. "That is not so big. Just hire a bunch of hooligans or schoolboys to pass out the leaflets. They cost next to nothing."