"Who?"

"Anders Johannsen, the man who found the bodies of Regina Gottlieb and Marlena Druer. They don't live far from each other, Schoennacht and Johannsen, and they don't live far from where the bodies were dumped."

"Are these two men friends?"

"Not according to Johannsen. On the surface, they are very different. One is a homosexual progressive who was born in Lubeck; the other is an old-time Bavarian conservative and a fan of Hitler. They have some things in common, though, starting with a passion for modern art. Actually, they both have Otto Dix paintings . . . others as well, but because of his violent subject matter, Dix sticks in my mind. They're also around the same age, and they are both tall. A tall man was seen with Anna Gross on the night she died."

"Do either of these men look like the sketch that Gerhart Leit drew?"

"Not exactly. And the two men don't look alike. But if they were disguised and it was dark . . ."

"And why would these two men be killing women?"

"Perhaps one dislikes women because he is a homosexual, the other because the murdered women were liberal and Jewish and he feels they're trash anyway."

"And what do you offer as evidence?"

"Nothing. I'm just attempting to find a common link. "

"Berg, how would they ever meet? They don't socialize in the same circles."

"They met through their art, sir. At galleries, at auction houses, in Paris. Johannsen said as much." Berg licked his lips. "Granted, it's a very weak link. Still, I would like to find out more about Schoennacht and Johannsen."

"As long as you're discreet. I don't care about Adolf Johannsen-"

"Anders."

"Whatever his name is. He's a nothing, a little old fairy. But I know that Rolf Schoennacht has some connections in the city. I'm sure that he counts Roderick Schlussel as a personal friend."

"I will be very careful," Berg said. "I would like to interview Regina Gottlieb's husband, please. Before it gets too dark."

Volker waved him away. "Go."

Berg got up from the chair, keeping his thoughts about the dog chain to himself. It would have been all the evidence that Volker needed for an arrest. The mobs would take care of the conviction just as they had with Anton Gross. A Jew and a homosexual: perfect fodder for Hitler. The last thing Berg wanted was another lynching.

THIRTY-ONE.

Hallo, Axel!" Storf called out.

There was no response. Berg either hadn't heard him or was purposely ignoring him. Storf dashed over and caught Berg just as he stepped outside the Ett Strasse station house. "Gruss Gott, Berg, where's the fire?"

Berg continued at a fast clip, his gait made irregular by his sore hip. "No fire, but I'd like to make it to Gartnerplatz and back before dark." He looked up. "And while the weather permits. I have an interview to do-Volker wants me to talk to Gottlieb."

Without warning Berg's knees buckled as pain shot down his right leg. Storf grabbed his arm, preventing him from falling on his face.

"Are you all right, man?"

"Yes, yes . . ." His voice sounded shaky even to his ears.

"Sit down-"

"I'm fine!" Berg wanted to shake off the help, but didn't have the energy. He'd been pushing his compromised body until it finally had reached its limits. His face felt as hot as sizzling grease. "Really, I'm okay."

Storf steadied Berg back on his feet. "Axel, let's get a beer."

"I don't want a beer," Berg shot back. "I want to do this interview. Then I want to go home." He took another step forward and cried out in agony. "Herrjemine! I'm going to kill those fucking bastards for what they did to me."

Around them, stunned passersby swiftly walked away, heads down, eyes on their feet, assuming that Berg was crazy or drunk or both. Finally, he composed himself. "Really, I'm fine, Ulrich."

"Then keep me company while I get a beer, Herr Inspektor." Berg was in too much pain to argue. Storf saw an open-air cafe across the street. Gingerly, he walked Berg to an empty table, depositing him in a seat. "Don't move! I'll be right back."

As soon as Storf disappeared inside, Berg tried to stand, but pain forced him to sink back into his chair. He cursed like a seaman as waitresses wearing traditional dirndls averted their eyes. Finally Storf returned with a couple of pints. Berg took a sip from a frosted mug and felt immediate relief. Chastened, he muttered, "Thanks."

"You shouldn't be walking so much."

"I can't ride my bicycle. How am I to go from one place to another?"

"There are buses, streetcars, and cabs. And you can always borrow a Kraftrad. The bigger issue, Axel, is that you're working too hard."

"I just took two weeks of holiday, and look what happened while I was gone."

"You couldn't have prevented the murder even if you had been here."

"How do you know? Maybe I would have caught the bastard and Regina Gottlieb would be alive today."

"And maybe not."

"Well, we'll never know." Berg took another sip, then a gulp. "I'll survive my injuries, but as long as this bastard is out there, other women may not be so lucky. I need to reach Gottlieb before dark."

"Another day won't make a difference, Axel."

"That is where you're wrong. It was a direct order from Volker."

"Why? What does he care about an old Jew?"

"He'd like me to arrest him for the murder of his wife."

Storf sat up. "Did he do it?"

"I think not, but the Jew's guilt or innocence makes no difference to the Kommissar. All he wants is an arrest."

Storf was silent for a moment. Then he said, "It's not going to work forever . . . blaming these murders on the Jews."

Even Storf understood the very basics. Berg pulled out the flyer for the rally tomorrow afternoon. "Look at this."

Storf skimmed the announcement. "Another rally. So what?"

"Volker finds it worrisome. He fears another putsch from the Austrian."

"This is not '23: There are no breadlines. The economy is not sparkling, but it is not so depressed, eh? If the Austrian is elected chancellor, it will not be by force but by the will of the people."

"God forbid."

"We'll just have to see what God forbids." Storf took a long swig of his cold beer. "Go home. I'll talk to the Jew."

"I don't trust you. Neither will the Jew."

Storf laughed. "And you think he will trust you more than me? Axel, you are naive. You, me, all Germans . . . to the Jews, we are the enemy. And to us Germans, the Jew is the enemy."

"Bitte!" Berg was disgusted. He looked deep into his stein as if it held some magical solution to Germany's ills. In a way, it did. What couldn't be cured with a pint of beer? "Right now, I'm not open to the wisdom of a bastard Austrian."

"I speak what everyone here thinks." Storf leaned over and lowered his voice. "You can't make deals with these people. They are not like you and me. They are a different species."

Berg studied Storf's eyes. He failed to see the burning passion of hatred, none of Hitler's rage at the devil race. What rested there was nothing more than mild annoyance, akin to having one's pet piss in the house. Storf was irritated because he was the police, therefore responsible for cleaning up the city's messes. And many blamed the mess on the Jews.

Berg finished off his pint. "That was a good idea, Ulrich. Fortification. I feel better now-well enough to interview Gottlieb."

"You cannot walk by yourself."

"I will take it slowly."

"Sit a moment. I have some information for you."

"Regarding?"

"Diplomats."

Berg pulled a pocketknife from his boot and flipped the blade open. He began to clean his nails. "Go on."

Storf smiled. "You have given me an almost impossible task. In Munich there are far too many former ambassadors, envoys, attaches, emissaries, and the like to investigate every single one. But since we are narrowing our search to people who are fluent in English and Russian as well as German, I began there. I started with those who speak Russian because there is only one Russia, while there are many countries that have English and German as their primary languages. I was lucky. There was a former diplomat-a minor diplomat actually-who lived in Munich while serving as an attache to Russia when the Romanovs were in power. He was also married to an American woman. I thought that sounded promising."

"Very."

This time, enthusiasm burned in Storf's eyes. "The man is dead now, but he had a son." He paused for dramatic effect. "The attache's name was Dirk Schick-"

"Good heavens!" Berg shouted aloud. "And the son is Robert?"

"Rupert-"

"Son of a bitch! The man really does exist!"

"It appears that way."

"What else?"

Storf's face fell. "I thought that was quite a lot for three hours of shuffling paper. Do you know how many layers of bureaucracy I had to go through just to find out about Schick?"

"You did well, Storf," Berg said immediately. "Far better than I could have done. How did you get those vile civil servants to cooperate?" He smiled. "Charming a few Staatsbeamte?"

"It will take more than my charm, Axel." He sighed. "There are many, many records we have yet to go through. It could take months."

"At least we know that Robert or rather Rupert Schick is not a product of our imagination." Berg replaced his knife in his boot and checked his pocket watch. "I must go, Ulrich."

"Then I will walk with you." He stood up and helped Berg to his feet.

"This is entirely unnecessary."

"Yes, yes." Storf lit two cigarettes and gave one to Berg.

"Are you sure?" Berg asked, holding the smoke.

"I have more than my monthly ration of tobacco. Please."

Berg inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth fill his nostrils and lungs. The two men walked in silence. It was slow going, but at least Berg could move without doubling over. As they got closer to Gottlieb's apartment, the streets narrowed, the crowds thickened, and the smells intensified from a mixture of sweet and savory aromas from vendors' carts to the unmistakable stench of urine and garbage. During the rains, the lowland area of the Isarvorstadt swelled with groundwater from the river, bringing with it sewage and disease. Many of the blocks had only recently been lifted off quarantine.

But this afternoon even poverty couldn't disguise the crisp blue skies and the gentle perfumed winds blowing from the crystalline Alps. People were out in numbers. Bicycle riders cut a path through the throng of souls, dodging horses, old-fashioned pushcarts, and children who darted into traffic with no concern for their safety. All around were buildings ripe with decay and rot, barely holding up their weight. Most of the ground floors were tiny shops with windows fogged with dirt. The stores were packed with merchandise-everything from clothing to books. Noise came from everywhere: the shouts and squeals of children's games of Kreisel and stickball, and conversations held in many languages: German, Polish, French, Czech, and occasionally Yiddish-the language of the poor Jewish immigrants. They passed by two musicians who stood on a stoop, one of them pushing the bellows of his accordion, the other languidly bowing his violin, the result being a plaintive rendition of "Es liegt in der Luft."

Berg said, "Rupert Schick . . . how old would he be?"

"I suppose he'd be in his forties."

"Around Rolf Schoennacht's age?"

Storf slowed to a halt. "Schoennacht looks a bit older . . . but maybe he could be in his forties."

Around them, people sneaked furtive glances, then scurried away. The two men clearly didn't belong here. Berg finished his cigarette and crushed the butt beneath his boot. He espied a group of young thugs in brown shirts weaving through the street, singing a raspy, drunken version of the "Horst Wessel Lied," marching and tripping at the same time. They had lots of space to move in because people kept their distance. The thugs stood out because there were no other uniforms in the area. He glanced at Storf. "There's trouble."

"They're not doing anything illegal. You cannot arrest people for what they may do in the future." Storf gave him a glance, then continued walking. "You barely survived one beating, Inspektor. Let's not tempt the fates."

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Berg resumed his pace, limping along, trying to ignore the pain. "Schoennacht and Schick," he said out loud. "We don't know anything about Rupert Schick, but Rolf Schoennacht exists. Let's find out who his parents are." Berg winced as he stepped too hard on his left foot.

Storf slowed down. "Are you all right?"

Berg didn't answer. "You say that Dirk Schick was married to an American?"

"A woman named Della Weiss. Ordinarily, I would have thought that she was German, but a carbon copy of her visa was attached to her papers. She was born in Boston."

"Was her family German?"

"With a name like Weiss, I would think yes, but I know nothing about her. And frankly, there is little on Dirk Schick as well. It took me hours just to look through all the diplomats. Schick wasn't a career diplomat, that much I can tell you. He lived in Munich about ten years."

"What was his business other than being a part-time diplomat?"