"Was this lady one of his guests?" Berg showed him the picture of Marlena Druer.

"This lady looks dead."

"Yes or no."

Green sighed. "I couldn't say yes or no."

Out came Anna Gross's photograph. "How about this one?"

Again Green hedged. "I think . . . yes. But I wouldn't swear to it. I don't spend a lot of time in my room." The American paused. "She looks alive. Is she?"

"And what profession did Lord Robert profess to be engaged in?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"I know I didn't," Berg said. "Still, it would behoove you as a foreigner to answer mine."

"Tough guy, huh?" Green smiled. "Lord Robert never elaborated. I think it was conning women out of money."

"Any specific reason to think that?" Storf said.

"No, not really. Just . . . certain things paint a certain picture."

Berg said, "Thank you for the information, Herr Green; you have been most helpful."

The American regarded Berg, unable to ascertain if the Inspektor was putting him on. "You're welcome."

"If Lord Robert should return, I would like you to tell me immediately." He handed Green his card.

"All right," Green said. "Now how about helping me out? You said you're from the Mordkommission. You show me a picture of at least one dead woman. I've got to ask: What has Lord Robert got to do with the two murdered women in the papers?"

"This is Germany, Herr Green, not America. As you stated, I ask the questions; you answer." Berg stuck his notepad into his jacket. "If I have more questions, I may visit you again."

"Sure, I'm not going anywhere . . . unless I'm kicked out of the country."

"Why would you be kicked out of the country?" Storf asked.

"A lot of people in England are not too fond of your Munich Meister, Herr Hitler."

"He is not our Meister, Herr Green," Berg said.

"Not now . . ." Green pulled out a cigarette. "But the situation here, Inspektor, is a volatile one."

Berg opened the door and pointed to the hallway. After everyone had left the room, he shut the door. "Guten Abend, Herr Green."

"Don't you Bavarians say . . . what is it? Pfueti?"

"How about 'good-bye'?" Berg said, speaking English.

Green blew out a cloud of smoke, which wafted through the cold air and traveled down the dimly lit hallway. "By the way, the Hurlbutts are a very prominent Harvard-educated family from New England. Lord Robert or whoever the heck he is may have spent some time at Harvard . . . or at least in Cambridge . . . Cambridge, Massachusetts."

"Yes, I know that Harvard is in Massachusetts, Herr Green." Berg paused. "Choosing that name Hurlbutt, sir . . . does that mean anything?"

Green shrugged. "I don't know, Inspektor. You're the police, you figure it out."

TWENTY-ONE.

Trying to plead a case that held few concrete clues and very little evidence, Berg used drama and feigned excitement to further his cause. By the expression on Volker's face, it was a useless endeavor.

Berg plodded on. "We are closing in, Herr Kommissar. Yesterday we discovered his apartment."

"Whose apartment?"

"The suspect. He is using aliases."

Volker studied his nails, a practiced mannerism that showed he was bored. "So you do not know his true identity, much less know where he is right now."

Berg rubbed his hands together. A bitter wind rattled the ill-fitting windows and chilled the stone floors of the Ett Strasse station house. The country's coal supply was strained; the mines had been stripped almost to the center of the earth. Suppliers were asking exorbitant prices. Volker and his family grew wealthier by the hour. Not surprisingly, the Kommissar was dressed in a fine woolen three-piece suit with a silk tie. Why the man continued to work as a public servant was anyone's guess. Why the family didn't support his sister with more than subsistence handouts was a dark mystery.

"He's been using the name Robert-Robert Schick and Robert Hurlbutt. We have no listing for either man yet, but-"

"Is he English?"

"He speaks English-"

"That was not the question."

"Possibly he is a Russian who has learned English and German. We think he may have some diplomatic connections."

"That would not be good-"

"Or maybe not," Berg quickly added. "I just brought that up because it seems that the man may have spent some time in England or America."

"Accusing a diplomat of murder would be out of the question," Volker told him. "I hope you understand that."

No one should be allowed to kill without consequences. Berg would simply have to explore the diplomatic possibility without Volker's help. "Most likely, he is a bourgeois who has done some traveling."

Volker grew irritated. "I need to know if you've made significant progress beyond what you have told me."

"I think that is significant progress."

"Perhaps to you, but for others it is not enough."

"You are getting pressured, sir?"

"I am accountable for answers, yes. But in the end I make decisions." Said with ego and a hint of malevolence. Volker adjusted his tie, knotting it high on his throat, more for warmth than for vanity. "I've decided to go back to my original plan. Arrest Anton Gross for the murder of his wife, Anna. If people demand a reason why-and I suspect they won't because Gross is a Jew-tell them that Anna was making a cuckold out of her husband. Moreover, she was pregnant with another man's child. It was this last fact that sent Anton into a murderous rage."

Berg swallowed hard. It was early in the morning, and his throat was dry. This morning's coffee was bitter, laced with cheap grain used as an extender. A little bit was tolerable, but Britta had used way too much. "And where is our proof of Anton's guilt?"

"You don't need proof for an arrest, Axel. It is early, Herr Gross should still be home. You may take the Zweikraftrad rather than go on foot."

"And what about Marlena Druer?"

"What about her?"

"Are you telling me that her murder is independent of Anna Gross?"

"Can you find something that links Anton Gross to Druer?"

"Of course not. I cannot even find a link between Anna's murder and Anton Gross. He was in bed the entire night."

"So Anton hired someone to do the nasty deed." Volker took out a cigarette and lit up using an engraved silver lighter. He took a deep inhalation, then offered the cigarette to Berg.

"Danke," Berg said. The bastard! Volker knew how expensive such cigarettes were. He was trying to bribe him into compliance with a whiff of fine tobacco.

Volker lit a fresh smoke for himself. "You will continue to investigate Druer's murder. If your suppositions about Marlena and Anna dying at the same hand turn out to be true-and you find a reasonable suspect-we will release Anton Gross."

"And if he is executed before I can establish my case?"

"Such is the fate of Jews, Axel. They are cursed from birth, but we Germans are civilized. We carry out the execution in a swift and painless manner. We are nothing if not efficient."

"THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!" the butler cried out. "A complete and utter outrage!"

"Now, now, Haslinger." Gross reassured his servant with a pat on the shoulder from his gloved hand. "I am sure this terrible mistake will be rectified before the day is over." He glared at Berg. "It is not enough that I have lost my wife? That I am still grieving for her? You have the audacity to accuse me of being her murderer?"

Berg felt small. The best reply was none at all.

"My attorney will have your job for this recklessness. I will have your head!"

"I don't think so, Herr Gross, and I would recommend that you cooperate."

Gross put on a dark wool overcoat. "I don't understand why I must ride in that silly contraption of yours when I have a perfectly suitable car."

"Orders from Herr Kommissar Volker."

"He thinks I am going to escape?"

"It is not my duty to question his orders, only to comply with them."

"Yes, God forbid a good man like you would question!"

Berg flinched at the sarcasm. He took his charge's arm, but Gross pulled away.

"I can walk without an escort, thank you."

Haslinger, the ever-faithful butler, opened the door for his master. Quickly, he ran ahead and pushed the button for the elevator operator. There were tears in his eyes. "Do be careful, sir. Please. The climate in Munich is not at all favorable to . . ."

He stopped short.

"To Jews, you mean." Gross smiled at his servant. "Yes, I know, Haslinger. And your loyalty to my household has been a source of light in these dark times."

The butler bowed his head. "Thank you, Herr Gross."

"Be strong, Haslinger, be strong." The elevator door opened and Gross stepped inside, giving his servant a jaunty wave. To Berg, he said, "Are you coming, Inspektor?"

Wordlessly, Berg entered the lift. The quick ride down was uncomfortable: The elevator operator's eyes remained fixed on the buttons. Gross's demeanor was expressionless.

Outside, a small band of hoodlum teenagers wearing swastikas jeered as soon as they saw Gross. Berg helped Gross inside the sidecar of the Zweikraftrad, then glanced at the group of ruffians. The tallest of the young boys had a familiar face-long and red and pitted with acne. Lothar Felb, Volker's nephew, was in the throes of puberty, beginning to develop a layer of muscle. That was truly worrisome. Lothar taunted Gross as if his actions were without repercussions, a stupid move considering his jaw still had a lump from the whack his uncle had given him a week ago.

"Away with you now," Berg shouted. "This is a police matter. Out of my way!"

"This is a matter for the people!" Lothar shouted back. "Herr Hitler will see to it that justice is done."

Berg went up to Lothar until they were nose to nose. The lad's breath stank of onions and cheap beer. Berg spoke quietly and pointedly. "Herr Hitler can mete out justice when Herr Hitler is in power. Right now, he isn't in power. But your uncle is."

No one spoke.

Berg said, "Out of my way, lad. Don't be foolish."

Lothar didn't back down. To avoid confrontation, Berg let the kid save face. He turned around and tended to his business.

"Idiots," he whispered. But Gross heard him.

"It is idiots like you who urge them on."

"I suggest you watch who you are addressing." Berg's words rang hollow. He was getting nervous. The crowd was gaining in numbers. One of the boys picked up a small rock and hurled it at Gross, hitting him in the arm. The lawless act emboldened another to act accordingly. A bigger rock followed. Then another. Berg started the Kraftrad and bolted onto the street, hoping to speed away. Unfortunately, he was slowed down by roads clogged with pedestrians, bicycles, autos, wagons, taxis, and buses. The vagabonds dogged the motorcycle, running as they shouted epithets.

"Jude! Jude!" the boys screamed.

"Schmutziger Jude!"

"Dreckiger Jude!"

"ubler Jude!"

Their obscenities attracted attention. The crowd grew steadily, swarming toward the Kraftrad as Berg frantically tried to steer it through the congested streets. If Berg had been on a single motorcycle, he could have dodged the hooligans easily. But with this vehicle's cumbersome sidecar, it was hard to maneuver through the traffic. He began to worry about Gross's safety.

Damn Volker!

Berg was forced to stop for a streetcar. The crowd swelled.