"We have no indication that Arco-Valley hated his mother," Volker said flatly. "Only that he hated Kurt Eisner."

"Yes, that is true," Kolb said. "But we do know that he was a rabid anti-Semite, which is why he killed a Jew. You murder what you hate unless what you hate you cannot murder because of societal taboos. Yes, yes, I would say that most definitely we are looking for a man with fanatical political convictions who hates his mother."

"He is sounding more and more like Hitler," Berg taunted Volker. "And before you quiet me, sir, I ask you to look at the facts. The Austrian is political. He is also a bastard, and that is definitely a good reason to resent your mother. Lastly, the Austrian fancies himself an artist."

"That is absurd," Volker said. "It is one thing to strike at your political enemies, but quite another to murder helpless women."

"Regina Gottlieb was Jewish, Anna Gross was married to a Jew, and Hitler is a rabid anti-Semite." Berg shrugged. "The leap is not a big one."

Volker was seething. "We are not, in any way whatever, going to implicate Herr Hitler in these murders, do you understand that!"

"I'm not saying you should, Herr Kommissar," Kolb answered flatly. "We are just having an intellectual discussion that hopefully will aid you in catching this monster. This monster will not stop killing-especially since Anton Gross was assumed to be the murderer of his wife. The killer thinks he got away with it! He's probably laughing at the police right now; at their stupidity and incompetence in arresting the wrong man."

"I hardly think that is the case." Enraged, Volker clenched his teeth.

"On the other hand," Kolb said, "it could be that he is angry that no one has given him credit for his murders. Maybe he's like his predecessor in London, Jack the Ripper. I fear that our fiend is a compulsive murderer. Furthermore, he wants attention for his evil deeds and will not stop until he has this attention."

Berg said, "So until we catch him, there will be more murders."

No one spoke for a moment, leaving the statement unanswered. But of course, everyone knew the answer. Why bother with the obvious?

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Refusing transportation, Berg limped home through a dense fog that had settled on the streets, pinpricks of drizzle tickling his nose and eyelashes. The heavy mist made him feel invisible yet strong, as if he were moving through the ether of heaven. As he huddled in the warmth of his thick woolen overcoat, he thought about three young murdered women whose commonality centered on beautiful attire. Tomorrow he would interview Frau Julia Schoennacht, the woman who had identified Regina Gottlieb, although he harbored little hope of attaining relevant information. The wealthy regarded servants as nothing more than conveniences like electricity or a car . . . or the police. Hired help was there to be used when necessary, then safely stowed away and out of sight at all other times. Even if Frau Schoennacht talked, it was highly unlikely that she knew anything about Regina other than the fact that she could sew.

As he struggled up the four flights of steps to his flat, Berg broke into a sweat. His apartment was dimly lit, one lone bulb flickering over the dining table. The rest of his home was shrouded in darkness. Joachim bolted up when his father walked in.

"Papa!" He ran to Berg, pulling up loose pajama bottoms that fell from thin boyish hips. He helped his father off with his coat. "Can I make you some tea?"

"Tea sounds good." Berg wiped his face with a handkerchief. "Everyone else is sleeping?"

Joachim nodded, then went to the stove and placed the kettle on the burner, stoking the dormant fire underneath.

Casually, Berg checked the hod: down to the halfway mark. The coal situation was still shaky. Perhaps he could do without hot tea. Sensing his father's concern, Joachim said, "The water's warm, Papa. It won't take long."

"That's good." Berg went over to the table and sat down, rubbing his eyes, then looking down. His son had been drawing with leftover coal bits, broad strokes in black on discarded newspaper. The execution was impeccable; the subject matter was disturbing.

A group of hoodlum boys wearing Nazi armbands beating up an old man who was obviously meant to be Jewish-the hooked nose, the bulging eyes, the prominent forehead, and the satanic grin. The drawing was all the more disturbing because although the Jew was a cartoon, the boys were sketched with realism. So was the blood dripping from the Jew's mouth.

Joachim brought over two cups of tea but only one lump of sugar. Britta must be rationing provisions. Berg gave his son the sugar.

"No, Papa, it's for you."

"I insist," Berg said. "I'm not in the mood for a sweet drink anyway."

The boy studied his father but took the lump, dissolving it in the dusky water and stirring it with a small silver spoon.

"What made you draw this?" Berg picked up the sketch.

"Do you like it?" Joachim asked anxiously.

"Should I like it?"

The boy didn't answer.

"Your skill is undeniable. But why this?"

"I don't know, Papa. I guess I draw what I see. What stays in my head."

"You saw some kids beating up an old man?" Joachim didn't answer. "They should be reported to the police. These boys are hoodlums."

Joachim looked at his father. A new expression in his eyes: a hint of defiance. "If they were arrested, there would be others to take their places."

"And that justifies such cruelty?"

"I don't justify it, Papa. I was not one of those who did the beating. I merely record what I see."

Berg sipped his tea, curbing the anger welling up in his breast. "And when did this take place?"

"Every day scenes like this take place," Joachim answered. "And it takes place everywhere. They should just leave."

"Who? The Jews?"

"Yes, the Jews. It would make life simple for them and for us."

"You think that would be the answer to Germany's woes?"

The boy looked his father in the eyes. Again with defiance, a little stronger this time: "If I was not wanted in a place, I would not stay. It would not be good for me."

"And where should they go?" Berg asked.

"Back to where they came from," Joachim said.

"And where is that?"

"I don't know . . . Palestine, I suppose. Let them be a problem for the Turks or the British."

"But many were born here. Many have parents and grandparents who were born here."

"It still doesn't mean they are German. And many of them were not born here. They take away jobs from our people, Papa. They take up places in the universities. They own the banks and cheat people. They open shops and charge outrageous sums of money for simple provisions."

"I see. . . ." Berg nodded. "Does this extend to your science teacher, Professor Gelb, and your art teacher, Frau Sonnenschein? Should they leave as well?"

Joachim knit his brow, troubled by this information. He liked his teachers, so he didn't answer. Instead, he said, "I know you do not approve of Herr Hitler. You think he is a thug, and maybe he is. Still, if we don't stand up for ourselves, who will stand up for us?"

"And who is trying to keep us down, Joachim?"

The boy was silent.

"As painful as it is to admit," Berg said, "the fault cannot lie exclusively with the Jews. Nor does it lie with the foreigners, the Gypsies, the Kommunisten, or even with the inept rulers in Berlin. At some point, we-and by we, I mean the German people-must take responsibility for our own messes. We were driven to war by our ambitions, Joachim. We are fierce warriors, and we have always been compelled to conquer. This is not a bad quality . . . that we go to war for the pride of our Fatherland. But we must accept when our ambition oversteps our abilities. I was there, son. I wore a uniform and marched shoulder to shoulder with my countrymen on foreign soil, where over a million of our men are buried in mass graves because the enemy refused to let us bring the bodies home for proper burial. We went to war . . . and we lost. And that, my dear son, is not the fault of the Jews."

Joachim looked away.

"It is a national tragedy that we have been shamed, yes. That we have a puppet government that bleeds us dry, and that we have to pay enormous sums of money to countries we detest. But isn't it equally a national tragedy that we have yet to realize that we brought such shame upon ourselves?"

Again, the boy didn't respond.

"And the biggest national tragedy is that we will probably go to war again." Berg finished his tea, then held up the picture. "These boys are nothing but cowards, picking on old men. Stay away from them and stay away from Hitler." He stood and kissed the top of his son's head, a mop of flaxen locks. "Turn off the light and dampen the coals before you go to sleep."

The boy nodded. "Papa, how can you shun the next leader of our country?"

Berg stared at his son. "You think he will be chancellor?"

"Yes, I do, Papa. I do think he will be chancellor."

"Then that would be yet another national tragedy."

IN A RARE DISPLAY of civic optimism, the sun decided to shine. It was a beautiful morning to go walking, and there wasn't a better area to stroll than Bogenhausen with its parks, flower gardens, and cafes. It was primarily a residential area; the houses were newer, roomy, and detached, sitting on their own private lots. Since Paris was still the rage, many of the homes were built with modern Art Decorative motifs gracing the exteriors. Sometimes the architecture worked, and sometimes the houses wound up looking like stucco wedding cakes. Still, the air was pleasant and the streets hummed with activity, the cable cars snaking through the area, clanging their music against a blue sky tufted with clouds.

On Prinzregenten Strasse, Berg passed the newly constructed Brown House, Hitler's edifice and the official offices of the NSDAP. Conceived by the famous architect Paul Ludwig Troost, the building sat on one of the most beautiful streets in the neighborhood. In all honesty, the structure did have some style, but the color was insipid-not dark enough to be espresso and too dark to be mocha. The result was a hue as dull and lifeless as a turd, an indication of what lay inside.

The Schoennachts lived in an apricot-colored two-story home trimmed with multipaned windows framed by green shutters. Peaked gables jutted out of the red tiled roof, and privacy was provided by a hedge of trimmed Italian cypress trees that encircled a good-sized lot. A stone walkway led to a carved walnut door more suitable for Gothic architecture than this simple country house, but old traditions died hard-true also of politicians who extolled a past glory that never was.

A maidservant answered Berg's knock. She was young and pudgy with dark hair plaited into two braids. Her thick Austrian accent was almost indecipherable. After Berg explained who he was, he could barely understand her response. But her affect suggested that whatever he wanted, the answer was no.

Berg peeked around her shoulders, trying to see inside. From what he could ascertain, the interior was light, bright, and filled with modern furniture. "Actually, Fraulein, this isn't a request. I must talk to the lady of the house."

"That is not possible."

"It is an urgent matter, Fraulein." He gave the servant girl his calling card. "It concerns a murder."

At the mention of murder, the young girl gasped and shut the door. Berg could hear running footsteps fading away. He sighed and knocked on the door once again. This time a tall, peevish-looking gentleman answered, twirling the calling card in his hand. He wore a smoking jacket, slacks, and leather slippers, and an ascot was tied around his neck.

"I suppose telling you to go away would do no good."

His accent was that of an educated Bavarian even though his look exemplified Prussian. He was tall with a sharp nose and as bald as an egg. Deep blue eyes were set behind rimless spectacles.

"No, sir, it will not do you any good whatsoever." Berg glanced over his shoulder. "Perhaps it would be better if we could speak inside, out of sight of your neighbors."

"They can't see over the shrubbery," the tall man answered. "Nevertheless, there's no point in being rude, seeing as this conversation is bound to take place one way or the other. You may come in."

The door swung open. Berg stepped into a vestibule steeped in light: such a rarity for Munich in the early spring. The floor was white marble tiles with diamond-shaped black inserts at the corners, but most of it was covered by a silken Oriental rug woven in jeweled colors-deep blues, royal golds, and rich reds. Directly ahead was the great room with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased spring trees abloom with white and pink flowers. The furniture was beautifully appointed and beautifully crafted-a symphony of exotic woods and stunning marquetry. The fireplace screen was the most magnificent ironwork that Berg had ever seen.

"Edgar Brandt," the man said. "This way."

Berg followed the man into a gentleman's parlor, not at all typical of Germany, let alone Bavaria. The walls were papered in concentric designs of orange and green, the furniture sleek, thin, and tall, echoing the skyscrapers heralded by this modern age. Furniture that was much more suited to New York where actual skyscrapers existed. The rug that covered the dark wood planks was a swirling whirlpool of muted green eddies. The artwork-oils, sketches, drawings, and prints by Kandinsky, Klee, Picasso, Channel, Fencer, and Matisse-was as modern and as fine as that found in any gallery in Paris. Berg couldn't help but be momentarily distracted by such wealth and taste.

"You approve, Herr Inspektor?"

The tone was slightly mocking. Berg turned around. "In my opinion, you have a wonderful eye." His own eye settled on an Otto Dix oil. Like the artist's war series, the Lustmord paintings were graphic and violent. This particular piece, done in Cubist primary colors, featured a mad, murderous fiend in a top hat, snickering over a floating naked woman with truncated limbs. How he wished Professor Kolb were here. "However, there are some who might consider such outlandish works to be violent and degenerate."

The man's laugh was snide. "Then those in the know will have to educate them."

Berg didn't comment, his face remaining bland. The man offered Berg a seat in an enormously large, rosewood-framed, black leather chair. It was one of a matched set. "Rolf Schoennacht." He clicked his heels by way of introduction. "I'm guessing that this nasty business has something to do with the murder of my wife's ex-seamstress."

"Then you'd be guessing correctly." The man was still standing. Berg had to crane his neck to look at him as he spoke. "I am familiar with your name, but I don't know from where."

"I often write for the Volkischer Beobachter."

"Ah, yes. The Volkischer Beobachter."

"You are familiar with the paper?"

"I read everything. I try to keep an open mind."

"A fine quality, Inspektor." Finally, Schoennacht sat down in the matching chair and propped up his long legs on a zebra-skin ottoman. "It is merely an amusement, my writing. It doesn't require a great deal of time. And anything I write is at least literate . . . which is more than I can say for most of the current trash that is printed." He shook his head. "If Hitler is to get anywhere, he must do better in the propaganda department."

Berg nodded. "Interesting. I would not have guessed that you were a supporter of Herr Hitler, certainly not with this art."

"I certainly don't agree with Herr Hitler's taste in art. Nor do I like the thugs and hoodlums that give the Nazis a bad name, but I do like what he has to say about honor and loyalty. And I think he has some fine ideas about how to improve such virtues."

"While I would love to address what virtues you speak of, I unfortunately must address this nasty business of murder."

"Regina Gottlieb." Schoennacht almost spit out the name.

"You did not like her?"

"I do not like any Jew. And I was particularly peeved at my wife for using her, a Jewess, when there are so many good German women out of work. I insisted that Julia fire her and hire one of our own."

"You did not know she was a Jew when she started working for your wife?"

"No, of course not. She didn't look particularly . . . I didn't think my wife would be that stupid. So there you have it. Never underestimate the stupidity of women."

Berg looked out the window at what appeared to be an orchard of fruit trees covered with blossoms. Then he fixed his eyes on Schoennacht. Several faint scratches at the base of his jawline extended downward until they were hidden by his ascot. "What happened to your face?"

"Excuse me?"

"The scratches?"

His fingers flew to his face. "Ach, that's what you get for using a dull razor."