"Yes, hooligans cost nothing," Berg said. "Good military soldiers are more expensive."

Muller said, "She was financing a putsch?"

"And why not? It almost worked for Herr Hitler. With a little bit more planning and a lot more money, who knows what could have happened?"

"Do you think it was this Robert who was responsible for both Anna's and Marlena's deaths?"

Berg said, "It would seem pointless for Robert to murder a woman who was supporting him."

"Maybe something changed her mind," Storf said.

"Like what?" Muller asked.

The men thought a moment. Berg said, "If this is Robert Schick, the same one who was very well acquainted with Anna Gross, maybe Marlena was jealous of his relationship with Anna. We know that Anna was involved with someone."

Muller said, "So Marlena found out about Anna and decided to cut off her support for Robert?"

"Perhaps."

"But why would Robert kill Druer?"

"It was accidental," Berg said. "They fought, and things became rough. Or perhaps Marlena threatened to tell Anna's husband of her affair with Robert. Robert killed Marlena to silence her."

Muller said, "Axel, I thought you told us that the maid implied there was no affair?"

"Out of loyalty-she was covering for her mistress."

"Didn't you just say this was a political murder?" Storf said.

"I don't know anything for certain, Ulrich; I am entertaining possibilities."

There was a pause. Then Muller said, "I need a smoke."

The three men lit up. Within moments, the room became clouded in nicotine. Storf exhaled a puff of rancid air. "Axel, even if we assume for a moment that Robert Schick murdered Marlena Druer . . . why would he then murder Anna Gross? Remember she was killed after Marlena."

"Maybe Anna found out about Marlena's murder and threatened to go to the police. A quick romp in the hay is one thing. Hiding a murder is quite another."

"How would Anna Gross know about Marlena's death when we just discovered it?"

Berg shrugged. "Maybe Robert Schick told her."

"That is not credible," Storf said.

"Just a thought," Berg said.

"Maybe the two murders are unrelated," Storf told him.

"That is another thought." Berg held up the letter. "However, if this Robert turns out to be Robert Schick, that is more than a coincidence." He glanced at the letter. "It has no last name, but there is a return address and it's not too far from here." Berg checked his watch. It was half past six. "Shall we pay a visit?"

"It's been a long day," Muller said. "I doubt if he'll be in. Perhaps it's better if we wait until tomorrow morning."

"And let this man slip from our grasp?" Berg frowned. "I will not take that chance. If you don't want to accompany me, I'll go alone."

Storf shrugged. "I'll go with you, Axel."

"You two leave me no choice." Muller rolled his eyes. "What do we do with her belongings?"

Berg looked around. Under the bed, he found a leather valise, unlocked and empty. "Put everything in here."

"Including the money box?" Muller said. "Isn't it going to look odd to our fellow police that the lock is broken and there is still cash inside?"

"We shall tell them the truth," Axel said. "That we broke open the lock. That there is still money inside is evidence of our honesty." He looked at his colleagues. "What occurred in this room remains between the three of us. Agreed?"

Muller said, "Agreed."

"Ulrich?" Berg said.

"Of course, of course," Storf said.

"So why the long face?" Muller asked him.

"Where do I hide so much cash?"

"You don't hide it, you spend it." Muller's expression became lecherous. "That is what whores are for."

TWENTY.

The little man blocked the door, his wiry mustache trembling with anger at the police intrusion.

"I tell you, Herr Schick is not in his room! And I will not allow strangers rummaging through his personal effects-"

"We are not strangers, we are the police!" Storf told him.

The desk clerk wasn't much of a physical specimen. Short and stout, but more flab than muscle. Berg could have easily dealt with the obstruction with a single push. But diplomacy often worked as well as physical force. "If you are worried, you may accompany us to his room. This will assure you that we will take nothing."

The little man reddened. "I hadn't assumed for a moment that you'd take anything!"

"This little discussion is throwing off our schedule." Berg tapped his pocket watch. "You are not going to prevent us from going to his room. So get the key and let's go upstairs."

"I cannot leave my post," the little man said.

"Then give us the key." Berg became irritated. "Come, man. It's late and we have families!"

Reluctantly, the clerk handed Berg a ring of keys. "Bring it down when you're done."

"Which key is it?" Berg asked.

The little man shrugged with indifference, then pointed to the stairs. "Fifth floor."

Slowly, the men trudged up the steps. When they got to the correct room, Berg began feeding the skeleton keys into the lock. The first key didn't fit, nor did the second. Berg cursed as he worked the locks. His grumblings brought out a neighbor.

"Excuse me?" the man said. "What do you think you're doing?"

Spoken with an English accent. The man was rail thin and hadn't a single hair on his head, which was smooth and round as a baby's behind. He wore a crumpled black suit and a gray shirt that had once been white. No tie. The man had probably slept in his clothes. Berg snarled out, "Police business. Please go back to your room, sir."

"I doubt you'll have any luck even if you find the correct key."

Berg looked up from his task. "Pardon?"

"Lord Robert left yesterday . . . took all his baggage with him."

"Lord Robert?" Muller said. "He is aristocracy?"

The bald Englishman smiled. "That is how he introduced himself. But I have my doubts."

Storf took out a pad. "And your name is?"

"Michael Green. I'm a reporter for the London Eagle." He extended his hand to Berg. "And you are . . ."

"Inspektor Axel Berg of the Mordkommission." He shook Green's hand, then took out Gerhart Leit's sketch of the man who had been with Anna the night she died. "Are we speaking about the same man?"

Green studied the picture for just a moment. "That very well could be him. If you give me that sketch, I'll put it in the paper for you."

"I think not," Berg answered. "You are English, sir, but not exactly."

"Good ear," Green answered. "American. Born and raised in Boston. I went to university at Oxford and never left. What do you want with Lord Robert? Oh, I forgot. You are the police. You ask the questions."

Berg's lips formed a small sneer. "I see you understand the German way. Tell us about Lord Robert."

"Why should I?" Green said.

"Because I have the power to arrest you," Berg said.

"On what grounds?" Green said.

"It doesn't matter," Berg said. "That is also the German way." He tried another key, and this time his efforts met with success. He opened the door, and switched on an electric light, staring into an immaculately made-up room devoid of any belongings. Berg swore under his breath.

Boldly, Green marched through the door and scratched his bald head. "Told you so."

Berg spoke to his men. "It does not look promising, but let's go through the drawers anyway."

Green ambled about the sterile space with his hands in his pockets. "So what do the police really think about Herr Hitler?"

"Can you kindly step out and let us do our job?" Muller said.

"Nothing to do." Storf slammed the closet door shut. "There is nothing here."

"I told you he left with all his baggage."

"Did he say where he was going?" Berg asked Green.

"Not to me, but why would he? I barely knew the man."

Muller said, "So tell us what you do know about Lord Robert Schick."

"Schick?" Green arched his brows. "He told me his name was Robert Hurlbutt."

Berg looked under the bed, then stood up. "The downstairs clerk knew him as Robert Schick. It appears the man has a few aliases."

The American smiled. "Robert was a puzzler."

"How so?" Berg asked.

Green thought a moment. "He spoke a serviceable English, but not the most educated English. This is not surprising. Many Englishmen with fathers in the diplomatic corps have been raised in other countries, so their English might not be as refined as that of the native born. But the accent bothered me. If you have an English father who speaks to you in English, your English shouldn't have a Continental accent."

"What country?" Muller asked.

"Maybe German, maybe Russian. Perhaps a mixture."

"How was his German?" Muller asked.

"To my foreign ear, it sounded fluent and beautiful. He spoke very poetically and used many long words. That also made me suspicious. Who was he trying to impress?"

Muller said, "Any ideas?"

"If you ask me, he's what we call an impostor in English."

"A Hochstapler," Berg translated.

"Yeah, that's right. Hochstapler-although I don't know what his game was. I have been around the English peerage. They are all pompous asses, but with Hurlbutt, there was definitely something off."

Berg took out his notepad. "Off in what way?"

"As a reporter you have a sixth sense about these kinds of things . . . who's lying and so forth. He was smooth, but most con men are."

"Con men?"

Green gave a hint of a smile. "I have seen several well-dressed ladies come in and go out of his apartment. A curious sort would ask what they were doing there."

Berg smiled. "And did you ask?"

A pinkish tinge dotted the American's cheeks. "I'm a reporter, so of course I asked. He said his relationship with the women was strictly a professional one. And I never did get any solid evidence of impropriety. No breathless noises, at least. And let me tell you, these walls are thin. You could knock a hole through with a single blow."