Berg sat down on the deep purple settee. He took in a small, fastidious apartment. The artwork on the walls was of high quality-full of life and color-but Berg's eyes were immediately drawn to the Otto Dix war painting, similar to the Lustmord series, but the bodies were all men. "You have interesting taste in art."

The tall man turned around and glared at him. "Are you being facetious?"

The vehemence took Berg aback. "Not at all. I am especially taken with the Matisse dancing girls. Such kinetics in so few lines. And the Dix-such . . . power!"

Johannsen's eyes went from Berg's face to the drawing. "I am surprised that you would like such pieces. The other two men I spoke with were barbarians."

"The other two men being . . ."

The pale man waved in the air. "Those awful policemen. Inspektor Muller was just an oaf, but Messersmit was positively bestial. That man actually implied that I had something to do with the horrible murders of those two women." Johannsen was flushed. "When in doubt, blame the victim."

"It must have been very upsetting for you . . . to discover a second body."

"It was upsetting to discover the first body. The second one was dreadful!" He paced back and forth in the small room, holding his lapdog in one hand and flapping his other hand as he spoke. "Maybe you're used to such gruesome events, but I assure you that I am not!"

A deep moan was coming from another room.

"Poor Otto," Johannsen said. "He's not used to seeing me so apoplectic. I must let him out or he will show his displeasure in destructive ways." The man whispered, "He chews on the piano legs! He knows it drives me crazy."

Before Berg could protest, the tall man was out of the room. Moments later he was dragging in a beast by a chain.

Actually, the beast was dragging him: a monster dog gray and thick, with tremendous maws, jowls dripping down excess flesh far past the animal's mandible. Foam and spittle escaped from its lips. Dense, defined muscles rippled with each step. It must have weighed nearly one hundred kilos. Immediately, it charged toward Berg, shoving its fearsome face into his lap, sniffing and drooling over his shirt. Normally Berg liked dogs, but this brute was so huge, it would give any animal lover pause. Berg didn't move, waiting for the idiot Johannsen to call off the beast. Seconds passed before anyone spoke.

"Ah, Otto likes you," Johannsen said with a smile. "His tail is wagging."

Suddenly a rough tongue washed Berg's face. "Perhaps you can convince Otto to settle down so we can talk, Herr Johannsen."

The tall man jerked on the chain, and the dog retreated into a sitting position. "Platz." Another jerk on the chain. "Platz, Otto. Down." Finally the beast flopped down on the wooden floor, his head nudged against Berg's boot. "He's just one big baby, you know. I've never been threatened but I wonder what he would do if I were really attacked."

"And you worry about being attacked?" Berg asked.

"Of course, I worry. Despite the city's assurances, the streets are crawling with thugs looking for targets to beat up."

"The disorder is exaggerated, limited to a few areas and a few of a specific ethnic persuasion."

"Nonsense. After the Jews and the Gypsies, he will go after others-the Kommunisten, the liberals, and the freethinking professors of our universities-what he calls the degenerates." Johannsen's voice had become loud and shrill. "He will not be satisfied until every citizen of Germany is in brown uniform, goose-stepping into Russia. I know how men like him think. I was in the army-the reserves. I was in Belgium. I am no stranger to the German love of order. But these animals . . . it goes beyond . . ." He pointed to his Matisse. "Such brilliance will be reduced to relics of a past progressive time."

His rant against Hitler left him limp. He plunked down into a chair and wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief he pulled out of his robe pocket. The little fluffy dog nestled in her master's lap, but Otto lifted his head in concern. Johannsen absently patted his head.

"I don't know . . . maybe I'm just too old for this city."

"Maybe it is a reaction to discovering two murdered women."

Johannsen nodded vigorously. "Herrjemine, that was ghastly! I mean one was bad enough, but two?"

"Terrible," Berg sympathized. "This may be a hard question for you to answer, Herr Johannsen, but can you recall any similarities between the first body you discovered and the second?"

"I cannot help you, Inspektor. All I really remember was running with Otto and Misty until I came upon a policeman."

"So you really can't recall how the bodies were lying or-"

"Nothing at all . . . well, not much, anyway."

"Go on."

"Just that both poor souls were wearing expensive clothing. The first one had on a flapper dress festooned with beading. This recent one wore a deep blue taffeta overlaid with silk lace. Lovely material."

Telling Berg nothing he didn't already know. What did he expect? Still, there was something about Johannsen that bothered Berg. The man was out of place, out of step with Munich, yet here he was, finding two dead women.

When in doubt, blame the victim.

Kolb had once told him that men of that persuasion had conflicted relationships with women, hating them deep down. But from experience, Berg knew that most murdered women were killed by men they had been intimate with-a husband or a boyfriend-not a homosexual. What was it about this man and his apartment that was bothering him? He needed more time with the tall man to figure out what was gnawing at him.

Again, Berg looked at the paintings. "Are you an art dealer, Herr Johannsen?"

"I dabble in it. I used to consider myself a composer. Once Germans had an interest in modern musical scales-Arnold Schoenberg, Alban Berg . . . Webern." A sigh. "Now . . ." He shook his head sadly. "I am reduced to writing inane Kabarett songs. Drinking songs. Ho, ho, ho, ho . . . hee, hee, hee, hee." He rolled his eyes. "At least, there is still some money in it."

"From whom do you buy your art?"

"Here and there." The old man shrugged. "If I like the piece and I can get a good price, I snap it up. If someone sees it and wants to buy it for a good price, I am more than willing to sell."

"Have you ever purchased any works from Ernest Hanfstaengl?"

"That Nazi! I wouldn't give him the time of day, let alone my money."

"Maybe from Rolf Schoennacht?"

"He's just as bad. Besides, both of them-Hanfstaengl and Schoennacht-do most of their business in The States. Only the obscenely wealthy industrialists in America can afford such outrageous prices."

"Have you met either man?"

"We've been introduced." Stated very casually. "I remember meeting Hanfstaengl at a gallery opening in the Paris Autumn Salon. I saw Schoennacht once with Ambrose Vollard. Sometimes we frequent the same auctions. But do I know them?" He shook his head. "Not at all."

"I just have a few more questions, Herr Johannsen. I hope they won't trouble you too much."

"I'm sure they will." He bristled. "What?"

"When you discovered the body of Marlena Druer-"

"It's so awful!" Johannsen said. "Putting a name on the body."

"She had a name, yes." Berg looked solemn. "You told Inspektor Muller that you were out for your walk at around seven in the morning."

"Seven, seven-thirty. Right after daybreak. I used to find walking along the banks of the Isar a thing of quietude and beauty. Oftentimes, melodies would come into my brain, beautiful songs of a country that once was-all that was progressive and modern. Such a pity!"

"And the day you found the second body . . . what time did you leave for your walk?"

"I believe I told that awful man Messersmit that I left just before daybreak. Otto really needed to get outside, as he's been having some stomach problems. I've been walking in the Englischer Garten lately because I've been too nervous to walk along the Isar. Which is crazy because the first woman was found in the Englischer Garten. But at least, it has pathways and open space.

"So then this happens! Now, I'm too nervous to walk anywhere. I'm like an old crazy person, housebound . . . sitting in the dark. A living model of what this city has become-from the light of all that was new and fresh heading straight into darkness."

Johannsen rubbed his arms and shivered.

"Perhaps I would be better off moving out of Munich. I wasn't born in this city. I came here because I thought it had something unique to offer."

"You're from the north."

"Lubeck," Johannsen said. "My father was a handsome Danish seaman who fell deeply in love with my mother, who was a beautiful and creative German woman. They were terrible for each other . . . my mother and father. Eventually she got tired of waiting for her staid husband to return. One day she packed all of our belongings and moved us to Paris where she studied art. Fine for her, but horrible for me. We lived in squalor. A year later, she died from cholera. I was sent back to my father, who was still at sea most of the time and had no intention of settling down for his snot-nosed son. That's what he called me: a snot nose."

Berg nodded, thinking about Joachim . . . Monika . . . how his children's welfare had become even more important to him as they grew older.

"Finally, I convinced the old man that at fourteen, I was quite capable of living on my own. Anything was better than living with my paternal grandmother, who was very Lutheran and quite awful-punitive, stodgy, strict. It was no wonder my father chose a life at sea."

"You had quite a childhood."

"It was worse than some, better than others. At least with my father, I had enough money for food and clothing. Plus, I had this natural gift for music. A teacher at the Gymnasium convinced me to apply for advanced lessons in music. A year later, I was studying piano at the conservatory."

"What brought you to Munich? Bavaria was always very traditional."

"Yes, Munich is a progressive island in a sea of conservatism. Years ago, the city was all beauty and grace, filled with laughter and the latest modern ideas. Now . . ."

He sighed.

"I have thought many times about moving back to Paris, but my French is so rusty . . . and it brings back terrible memories. Besides, we all know that Parisians have no use for Germans. Holland and Belgium are too cold, and I don't speak Dutch or Walloon. Austria is like Munich, only worse."

"How is your English?"

Slowly, Johannsen smiled. "It's serviceable. Enough to get by. But if the French have no use for the Germans, what would that say about the English?"

"There is always Switzerland."

"When was the last time you've heard of a modern Swiss composer or a modern Swiss artist?"

"Paul Klee."

"He's basically French." Johannsen stroked his lapdog but addressed the big one: "What do you think about moving to Switzerland, Otto?"

At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head. And then with complete clarity Berg suddenly saw what was bothering him. The big dog was wearing a metal chain, heavy and ponderous, that was securely attached to his leather leash. The lapdog, however, was wearing more of a necklace than a chain. Lightweight and braided, if placed around a woman's neck and pulled tightly, it would leave an imprint that was eerily similar to the impressions found on Regina Gottlieb's throat. And if drawn even tighter, it could have sliced through the neck of Marlena Druer.

VOLKER SHOVED THE FLYER in Berg's face. "Another rally, this one scheduled for tomorrow afternoon-three o'clock at Konigsplatz. The topic is the inability of the police to keep our city safe. Not only are Hitler and other NSDAP faithful slated to speak, but also members of the BWP. Even the death of a lowly Jewess is raising alarms." He spun around and poked Berg's chest. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What would you like me to do, sir? Arrest another innocent person?"

"If you have to, yes. Arrest Gottlieb's husband. No one will care if another Jew dies. In fact, it may appease the restlessness in the streets."

"Maybe as a temporary measure, like Anton Gross. But we both know that another innocent man will die and, in the end, we will still be no closer to solving these killings."

"How do you know he is innocent? Have you investigated him?"

"I will as soon as I leave this office."

"You're not going anywhere!" Volker ordered. "Sit down!"

Berg sat. Volker was bright red in the face, and veins bulged from his neck as he spoke. "We are sending our men in full force. There will not be another putsch in Munich, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Whatever your orders are, Herr Kommissar, I will follow them."

Volker seemed momentarily mollified. "You don't have a damn notion of what pressure I am under. Orders from everyone-from Roddewig, from Brummer, from Mantel, and from Schlussel, who is nothing but a mouthpiece for the Lord Mayor. They demand results!"

"More like they want someone to hang."

"They want answers, Axel!"

"I am doing all I can, Herr Kommissar. Just when I think I have a lead to follow, a new body appears and confounds everything."

Volker paced around the small room. "How does he move so quickly and so brazenly?"

He was speaking rhetorically, but a thought suddenly came to Berg. "Maybe our fiend has help."

"What kind of help?"

"One is the lookout and holds the victim down while the other rapes her. Then they switch."

Volker digested that. "Herrjemine, what do we have? Two murderers?"

Berg shrugged.

"Hitler's boys?"

"Ordinarily, I'd say yes, but in that case, there would be evidence of a struggle in all of the victims. The only one who seems to have put up a fight is Regina Gottlieb. The first two-Gross and Druer-I suspect they both knew the murderer . . . or murderers."

"And the only thing you have so far is a Russian mystery man named Robert Schick?"

"Who, I think, is also posing as Lord Robert Hurlbutt. I believe that this man is responsible for the deaths of Druer and Gross. Regina Gottlieb is another story. She was neither rich nor politically inclined. She worked for Rolf Schoennacht's wife in secret. He hates Jews, and he might have been resentful that he owed money to Regina Gottlieb."

"You think Rolf Schoennacht killed a woman because he didn't want to pay a simple debt?"

"Maybe his anti-Semitism allowed him to believe that since she was a Jewess, he owed her nothing."

"So why would he rape her?"

"What better way to show contempt for a woman whom he considers a degenerate bitch."

"That's absurd. If you subscribe to Hitler's doctrine, you know that sex with Jews is forbidden."

Berg thought a moment. "Here's another idea. The first two ladies thought of themselves as progressive and cultured. Rolf Schoennacht is an art dealer who deals in modern painting. So does Anders Johannsen for that matter."