Berg took a final sip, then placed his empty cup and saucer on the cart. He was glad to get rid of the china without breaking or dropping something. "And you haven't seen her since eight o'clock last night."

"No . . . We have . . . since the beginning of her condition, we have maintained . . . privacy."

"I understand," Berg said.

Haslinger was back, a silver frame in his hand. Herr Gross took the picture, gave it an idle glance, then offered it to Volker. The Kommissar's eyes betrayed nothing. He handed the photograph to Berg.

She had been so radiant in her white gown and veil. How sad was it that this woman-more like this girl-had been reduced so cruelly to lifeless flesh. Berg caught Volker's nod. Of course, the bastard wanted him to break the news. The day had started poorly: It wasn't getting better.

"Herr Gross . . ." Berg glanced at Haslinger, waiting for the servant to excuse himself. Finally, the butler got the hint. "Sir. There is no easy way to tell you this. We found a woman's body in the Englischer Garten this morning. This was reported to us not more than two hours ago. After looking at this photograph, I have reason to think that it is . . . was . . . your wife."

Gross's stare was a mixture of vacancy and stark confusion. After several false starts, he said, "Are you telling me that my wife is dead?"

"I . . . Yes, that is what I fear . . . after looking at this picture." He cleared his throat and looked to Volker for corroboration. None came. "Yes. It is she, yes."

"Are you sure?" Gross's eyes beseeched Berg's. "Could you be wrong?"

"I . . ." Berg blew out air. "I don't believe so, no."

Carefully, Gross stood up and placed his china on the cart. Then he paced for several moments. Abruptly, he stopped and mustered some strength. "Well, I'd like to see that for myself!"

Volker stepped in. "Of course, Herr Gross. We will take you there straightaway. But first, may we ask you a few questions? Just routine protocol, sir."

"Yes, of course." Gross's eyes were wet, his mind a thousand miles away.

"Assuming the worst, sir, do you know of anyone who'd want to harm your wife?"

"No!" Adamant. "Of course not!"

"I'm sorry, Herr Gross," Volker said. "But I had to ask."

Gross bit down on his lower lip. "May I see her now?"

"Please bear with me one more minute. You said it was her habit to get up around eight. But you waited until nine to disturb her because she wasn't feeling well last night."

"Exactly."

"And she went to sleep around . . ."

"About eight."

Berg said, "And you heard nothing in the middle of the night to suggest that she might have gone out?"

"Nothing."

Volker said, "But it is possible that you, being in another room, did not hear her movements."

"Unlikely," Gross insisted. "I heard nothing. I have nothing else to say."

"Yes, of course," Berg replied. "But just assume for a minute that maybe you didn't hear everything. Can you think of any reason why she might have gone out at night without telling you, sir?"

The implication was obvious. Gross's eyes turned furious. "None whatsoever! And I don't believe that she would go out without telling me, especially in her condition! Maybe some hooligan broke in last night when I was asleep and took her."

"Ah, Herr Gross, entirely possible," Volker said. "And we will look into that. But then you must admit that it would be possible for things to happen in her part of the house without your knowing . . . provided that you were in a deep sleep."

Gross grew red with anger. "I cannot believe . . . She would never go out so late and on her own."

Berg tried to soften the shock. "I'm sure she would never do it under ordinary conditions, Herr Gross, but maybe an emergency came up and you were sleeping. Out of love and consideration for you, she ventured out on her own."

"Any idea what kind of emergency might draw her out?" Volker added.

"Only if it had something to do with her family, and I haven't heard- Oh, mein Gott! Her family!" His eyes, focused on Berg, pleaded for support. "Someone must tell them. I cannot. . . ." He squeezed his eyelids shut to prevent tears from rolling down his cheeks. He turned away and blotted his face with a white linen handkerchief.

Berg said, "I will tell them for you, Herr Gross."

The man heaved a deep sigh of grief. "Thank you. It is most appreciated."

"Of course, I will need their names and addresses."

Gross shook off his sadness and pulled a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. He was grateful to be doing something with his hands other than wringing them. "I will give them to you right now."

"And what is your wife's father's employment?" Volker asked.

"Banking." Gross finished writing and tore off the piece of paper with a flourish. He handed the information to Volker, who said nothing. But Berg detected the slight rise of his superior's eyebrow.

"The bank . . . it is family-owned, correct?" Volker asked.

"That is a personal question, Herr Kommissar."

"I don't mean to overstep my bounds, Herr Gross, but I am trying to assess the situation. I'm thinking of perhaps a kidnapping for ransom."

Gross had regained his composure, replacing shock with anger. "You can hardly ask for ransom if there is nothing to ransom."

Berg said, "Perhaps there was supposed to be a ransom note this morning, but someone found her too soon."

Gross ignored this hypothesis. "Again, I ask you! When can I see her?"

"First, we would like to make her presentable for you-"

"I want to see her!" Gross raised his voice. "I want to see her now!"

His cries brought in Haslinger. "Sir, is everything all right?"

Gross turned his fierce stare onto his servant. "No! Everything is not all right. It's Anna. The police think she . . ." He turned his head away from Haslinger and faced Berg. "You tell him."

Upon hearing the news, Haslinger gasped. Gross repeated loudly his demand to see his wife's body. Haslinger tried to calm Gross down by offering him a drink of brandy. Gross slapped the snifter from Haslinger's hand and began to pace. He grew increasingly more agitated as the dreadful words were finally registering.

His wife was dead!

The situation was spiraling downward. Volker took control. He stood up and said, "Herr Gross. I will accompany you to see the body. But I must warn you. It is hard to look at if one is not used to such things."

Gross's face registered horror. "She was mutilated?"

"No, not at all," Volker assured him. "But there is always something in the face . . . sometimes haunting . . . the eyes that no longer respond. I really do suggest you wait until the shock has worn off."

Defeated, Gross fell back onto the sofa. "If you think it's best."

"I do."

"Was she . . . violated?"

"I don't know," Volker lied. "We will find out, of course."

Haslinger broke in. "I'm sorry but I must ask you to leave right now! Herr Gross cannot stand any more shock!"

Volker patted the butler's shoulder with condescension. "Of course, my good man, we understand. Our coats, please?"

Gross said, "See them to the door, Haslinger. I'll be . . . all right."

"This way," the butler said stiffly. As they walked down the hall toward the front door, Haslinger made a slight detour. A moment later, he came back and thrust their coats against their chests. Then he threw open the front door. But Volker took his time before leaving, slowly putting on his coat. "We'll just be a moment, Haslinger. We must look presentable."

Haslinger tapped his foot. Berg waited, flipping the piece of paper between his fingers. Volker smoothed the brim on his Borsalino and gave it a flick with his fingers.

"Ah, that should do it. You need not bother waiting for us, Haslinger. We can let ourselves out."

The butler didn't move.

Volker smiled and stepped out into the hallway. He and Berg didn't speak until they were outside the building. Berg took a deep breath and let it out. It had been stifling inside the apartment. Never had the cold felt so good. He put on his hat.

Volker regarded the slip of paper Gross had given him. "Kurt Haaf. So Anna was his daughter. Interesting."

Berg waited.

"The People's Bank of Southern Germany." Volker handed him the address. "It almost went out of business in '25."

"Not exactly newsworthy, sir. Many banks went out of business."

"Those banks whose presidents did not marry their daughter to rich Jews, yes, they did go out of business." Volker laughed softly and shook his head. "An arrangement right out of a cartoon from Simplicissimus. Knowing Kurt, I'm not surprised. He should have been a Jew the way he loves his money."

"As if Jews are the only ones who love money . . ."

Volker smiled. "I see you're ready to join the leagues of the disenfranchised."

Berg ignored him. "And we're interviewing him together, sir?"

Volker thought a moment. "The address is in Bogenhausen, not at the bank. I want you to go to the family home and see if anyone's there. I shall go back to the crime scene and see what has been accomplished. When you have located Kurt, check back with me. I shall meet you then. Done?"

"Done." Berg sighed. "Poor people. Such a pity!"

Volker regarded him with appraising eyes. "Be courteous, Berg, but do leave the sympathy to the women of their household. The police are to be respected as Munich's soldiers of safety. Let us save the maudlin outpouring for the theater, no?"

"It was a simple statement, sir, not an overwrought snit."

Volker took in his words and found them satisfactory.

SIX.

It was one grand home after another, not Berg's usual homicide investigation. Most of Munich's deaths were mundane: a man flattened by a runaway horse or an out-of-control motorcar, a drunken onlooker crushed at one of the town's numerous political rallies, angry men reduced to fisticuffs in beer brawls gone awry. Murders weren't beautiful young women from wealthy families.

A fast walk over the Luitpold Bridge brought Berg into Bogenhausen, a residential area of stately homes on tree-lined streets, of green parks and cobblestone walkways. Quiet and peaceful, yet the neighborhood had none of the sterility often associated with affluent districts because it housed a considerable number of artists. Thomas Mann lived here. So had Oskar Maria Graf, Hans Knappertsbusch, and Max Halbe. In the cold months, most of the foliage was bare and spindly, but spring was coming, evidenced by the greening limbs of the elms, birches, and chestnuts. A pleasant place to stroll had murder not occupied Berg's mind.

Kurt Haaf's two-story detached villa was painted yellow with windows framed by green shutters. The roof was constructed from red tiles, high and peaked, allowing room for several attic gables. There was a second-story balcony ringed by scrolled wrought iron; a fence of the same design surrounded the lot. A pricey home but somewhat modest for a banker. If Volker's pronouncements were true, however-that the bank had almost failed-Haaf was most fortunate to end up with such prosperous accommodations.

Berg knocked on the door, and his rapping was answered by a young man in a partial state of dress. He wore long, black wool pants held up by suspenders and a white, long-sleeved shirt with cuffs but without a collar and tie. His face was lean and boyish; his lips so thin that they were almost invisible. Dark brown eyes rested behind half-glasses perched on a long nose. His entire expression was one of annoyance. He held a coffee cup in his right hand.

"Yes?"

"Guten Tag," Berg said. "I am looking for Herr Kurt Haaf."

"Yes."

A pause. Berg said, "Are you Herr Haaf?"

"No, I am his son, Franz. What's this about?"

"I am sorry for the intru-"

"Yes, yes. Get on with it."

"I am Inspektor Axel Berg from the police. May I come in?"

Haaf waited a moment. "Police?"

"Yes." Berg took a step toward the threshold. "Bitte?"

There was a pause, then Haaf opened the door all the way. Berg followed the young man through a marble entry hall into a sizable living room that looked smaller because it was crammed with ponderously ornate furniture. The room did boast high ceilings with carved moldings and highly polished hardwood floors. But the dark brooding pieces along with the heavy drapery ate up most of the natural light coming through the windows. The ivory walls were dressed either by sepia-toned landscapes or stern-looking portraiture.

Haaf did not sit. "May I ask your business, Inspektor?"

"It is . . . personal," Berg said. "I think I will need to speak with your father."

"My father is already at work-a good Munchener burgher-the model of industry. I, on the other hand, being a resolute wastrel, have spent too many nights in the city's most roguish Kabaretts."