Berg said, "Change of plans. You must leave while the city is still under siege. Once the Oberburgermeister imposes martial law, the streets will be quiet and you'll be more likely to be noticed. Also, if you try to leave then, you will be arrested."

"I've done nothing."

"That's irrelevant. Do you wish to live or die?" Berg eyed him up and down. "You are about my size. Trade clothes with me." As Gottlieb stared at him, he said, "I am thinking of you, Jew. It will be easier for you to travel dressed as a policeman."

Biting his lip, the Jew suspected otherwise, but removed his clothing, stripping down to his long underwear. Berg greedily scooped up the discarded three-piece brown woolen suit. The Jew's clothes were finely crafted from good fabric-to be expected because the man was a tailor. Yet it was irritating that this immigrant Jew should dress much more handsomely than he, a hardworking cop.

It felt good to be garbed in such well-made apparel. The wool was warm but not itchy. Berg now had a new suit to show for his nobility. But there was more than just blatant theft behind the switching. Volker would be expecting him to climb down the fire escape. Berg had never fully trusted the Kommissar, and now he was especially wary. Volker's order could be a trap. If that were so, better Gottlieb dead than he.

Opening the window, Berg peeked outside, listening to the sounds of rioting that carried through the night air. Things seemed quieter, but the hours ahead were still dangerous, an overloaded mountain of fresh snow just waiting to avalanche with the least little bit of agitation.

"It's time, Herr Gottlieb. Go."

"You're not coming with me?"

"If we are seen together, we both will die. This is where we part ways."

"I will not forget you."

"If you do or don't, it is of no consequence. Take care of your daughters. I have children of my own." Berg turned to him. "God be with you."

Carefully, Gottlieb climbed out the window and lowered himself onto a rickety iron landing. Berg watched him tiptoe down a flight of teetering steps, then quickly lost sight of him. He shut the window and leaned against the wall.

He was panting. Waiting and thinking.

If Gottlieb was murdered, would he even know?

And if the Jew was murdered and Volker then discovered that he had killed the wrong man, would he come up here to correct the mistake?

Thinking and waiting.

Through the front entrance or through the side window onto the fire escape?

Turmoil was still roiling through the tenement. No matter. It was time.

He straightened his collar, brushed off his vest, and opened the door to the hallway. He came in through the front; he'd leave the same way, with his head erect and his eyes staring straight ahead. He'd leave not as a scared rabbit but as a man. He stepped outside the room.

Walk calmly.

Down the first flight of steps. A policeman emerged from one of the whores' rooms, buttoning up his fly. He looked up, saw Berg, and reddened. Berg walked by as if he hadn't noticed the man.

You are in control.

Down the second flight. Noises grew in volume. Berg could make out people in the streets-running, screaming, chanting. There was a police whistle, the rumble of motorcars, the clop of horses' hooves. Distant sounds as well.

Keep going.

One more flight to the reception area.

Five steps, four . . .

He paused. His pathway was blocked.

Sprawled across the last two steps was the fat attendant, eyes wide-open, mouth agape, lying in a pool of his own blood. A knife protruded from his neck.

In his death, he had company.

Margot lay just a few meters away, three ragged holes in her chest. The visa papers that Volker had given her were scattered over the floor, soaked with blood and excrement. Her clothing had spilled from her bedroll, a skirt and a blouse strewn across the wet, stained floor.

At first glance, it appeared that there could have been an altercation between them. The explanation would be simple: The fat man wanted something from the whore, and the whore had refused. In fact, Berg knew that the attendant had always had an eye for her.

But Berg also knew an authentic crime scene. Margot was a short woman and not particularly strong. Even stung with fear, she would never have had the muscle power to shove a knife so deeply into the fat man's throat. Even if the man had bent down, the angle of the attack would have been different, the hilt of the knife pointing down with the blade pointing up. This stabbing had been accomplished by someone tall and strong. The shots had been fired by a man who knew how to use a revolver.

There was nothing that could be done.

It was over.

Again Berg took a minute to catch his breath. Then, dry-eyed, he ambled out of the cigarette house, wiping the soles of his boots several times against the ground. Britta worked hard to keep a clean house. No sense tracking in bloody shoeprints.

THIRTY-NINE.

Walking into the state hospital at Ludwig-Maximilian University, Berg was limping, but no one seemed to notice or care. The hospital was rife with activity and since he was ambulatory and not in need of immediate attention, he was rightfully ignored. Moaning emanated from every corner, crevice, and wall, with patients overflowing from the waiting rooms into the hallways. Those who had sustained broken bones were lucky enough to have snagged gurneys to rest on. The remaining populace seemed less in need of urgent care, having come in for cuts and lacerations, bruises and contusions, and lots of swollen faces and black eyes from anonymous punches. When chairs weren't available, the people made do by sprawling on the floor.

Nurses were running an obstacle course around the bodies, holding paperwork, shouting out names, rushing about while trying to figure out who needed them most. When Berg tapped one of them on the shoulder, the harried young woman in a white uniform with a starched white hat jumped back in surprise. She looked no more than twenty with smooth skin and amber eyes. Berg saw Margot in them, but then he blinked and the image was gone. Her expression was stern and sour. She looked up from her clipboard, her eyes giving him a two-second evaluation. Quickly, they concluded that he was a nuisance case.

"You need to check in with the clerk before you can be seen."

A shriek cut through the corridor, followed by a curse.

"I am a policeman." Berg fished around in his coat pocket and showed the young nurse his credentials. Her face said that she was not impressed. After tonight's riots, it would probably be a while before the police were impressive again. "I am here to locate-"

"Go check in with the clerk. Rules are rules." She called out a name, checked it off her list, and gave Berg a view of her back.

After a bit of hunting, Berg concluded that Storf's name hadn't been entered into the system. Either Ulrich hadn't been brought here or it meant something that Berg chose not to think about.

Georg Muller had been admitted, although it took Berg over an hour to find him. His good colleague lay in a ward of twenty men-ten on each side, each with a single curtain for privacy. Muller's curtain was open, his left leg wrapped in white gauze and slightly elevated. He wore a white hospital gown, and all that pale cotton just served to emphasize his red and puffy face. Georg had taken a few nasty jabs to his right cheek, but no doubt he had returned those jabs with some nasty hooks of his own.

His wife, Karen, was standing at his side, wringing her pudgy hands, the layers of fat rolling over one another as if she were kneading bread dough. Her eyes were red-rimmed and moist. Obviously Muller's vision was still intact. He broke into a smile when he saw his colleague.

"Good to see you, man." Berg grinned and placed a hand on Muller's shoulder. "I was concerned about you."

"Likewise." Muller's nose wrinkled, and Berg knew right away that his friend smelled blood. Although he had washed his hands and arms at least four times, Berg hadn't had time to wash his hair. Muller was a professional policeman, using not only sight and sound but all of his senses for detection. "And you are all right, Axel?"

"I'm grateful to be walking." Berg sighed. "Hello, Karen. You're taking good care of him, I see."

"Better than the police."

"That is for certain."

"How is it going out there?" Muller inquired.

"I rode here on my Kraftrad from Gartnerplatz. Things are settling down . . . I think."

"Thank God. Over a hundred thousand people at the rally, Axel. That is almost a fifth of the city. We were badly outnumbered . . . especially near the stage. I do think that if Hitler had known he would attract such a turnout, he would have tried another putsch."

"Then it's good that he didn't know."

"I reckon the thought of another jail sentence acted as a deterrent," Karen added.

Muller said, "By morning all will be under control, I think."

"For how long?" Karen blurted out. "Why must we deal with this constant unrest? Why does Munich seem to attract misfits?"

"It must be the Fohn," Berg said.

"That's not funny!" Karen scrunched up her doughy face.

"He already has a nagging wife, Karen, he doesn't need two," Muller scolded. When tears formed in her eyes, he softened his tone. "Now, now, my dearest. You know that I'm a bit testy. Please don't make a scene."

She held back her tears. "It's today's youth! No respect for authority!"

"Not all youth, Karen," Berg answered. "Not your children, and not mine, either. These boys are just thugs . . . stupid teenagers-all aggression, no brain."

"They should have been sent to war instead of the tenderhearted like Georg. It's people like them that got us into war in the first place. It is probably people like them that will get us into another war."

"The devil, Karen, I hope not." Muller turned to Berg and said, "She is a staunch Social Democrat."

"Hear, hear!" Berg smiled.

"A minority of one in my apartment house." She shook her head in disgust.

Berg patted her hand. "Why don't you take a break, Karen? Go get something to eat. I'll take good care of him until you get back."

"A fine idea," Muller concurred.

"You're trying to get rid of me."

"I have some business to discuss," Berg explained. "It might be a bit strong for your ears."

"Business?" Karen was aghast. "Can't you see what those animals did to him? Can't you let him be for one night?"

"I'm fine," Muller insisted. "A little mental stimulation will take my mind off the pain. Go refresh yourself, my dearest. You'll feel better."

It took another few minutes of cajoling, before Karen acquiesced. Berg waited until she was gone, then drew the curtain around the bed. It provided only the illusion of privacy-a layer of thin cloth was not enough to shut out the whimperings and the plaints-but it was enough of a barrier to make them both feel comfortable.

"What happened to Ulrich?" Berg whispered.

Muller sighed deeply. "He was stabbed. Under his arm, I think."

"Dear God!"

"He underwent surgery. He has lost a lot of blood."

"And he is out of surgery now?"

"Yes, he's suffering from a collapsed lung."

"The devil!" Berg swore. "I'd like to tear those thugs limb from limb."

"Ulrich should recover if infection doesn't ravage his body."

"What about that brand-new medicine that has been effective against cholera? Pyo . . . pyo . . ." Berg tapped his foot. "Pyocyanase . . . something like that."

Muller shrugged. "I'm sure the doctors are doing everything they can."

"Of course. I will try to see him tomorrow."

"A good idea . . . when you do not smell so ripe. What slaughterhouse have you come from, my friend?" When Berg didn't answer, Georg didn't press it. "Go home, Axel. I'm sure Britta is frantic with worry."

"I already spoke to her. Our neighbor has a telephone. She knows I am safe." Dark clouds formed in Berg's brain. He shooed them away. "She will survive tonight . . . far better than the city. If it isn't the Austrian, it's this ghastly murderer who has debased himself even further by including children now."

"Maybe he's taking a lesson from Haarmann or the Vampire of Dusseldorf."

"I don't think the devil needs any lessons." Berg balled his fingers into a fist. "I cannot go home until I've learned more about these horrible murders. I have not seen the crime scene, and I should see it tonight. There is only one of us left. If I wait until morning, critical evidence might be lost."

"I reckon they've already sent the bodies to the pathology lab, Axel. Besides, it's pitch-black. You won't be able to see a thing."

"There are some gaslights in the park. I have a kerosene lamp."

Muller rolled his eyes.

"At the very least, I should visit the family."

"It's quite late, Axel. Besides, the Austrian might be there."

"To hell with Hitler. As far as I know, he doesn't run the city."

Muller shrugged, then winced in pain. "You can't go over there, Axel. Not the way you smell. You're not even in uniform."

Muller was right. He couldn't go anywhere in an official capacity until he was properly dressed. "I'll get a fresh uniform at the precinct."

"And you've cleared this late-night visit with Volker?"