Berg licked his lips and said nothing.

Haaf looked around the room. "If my father were here, he'd insist we talk in this stuffy mausoleum." The man smiled. "But he isn't here, is he?" He crooked a finger. "Come this way. No reason you should interrupt my morning coffee."

The young man led Berg into a glass solarium. The room was surprisingly warm and moist, no doubt due to the dozens of potted plants emitting heat as well as the odor of moss and must. The atrium looked upon a rose garden, dormant now, but Berg could picture the palette of color that would explode in a few months' time. Seating was provided by wicker furniture with cushions upholstered in tropical flowers. A table was prepared with a coffee set, a plate of pastries, and a variety of newspapers-the Munchener Neueste Nachrichten, the Munchener Post, the Volkischer Beobachter. There was also a copy of the Red Dog-the satirical magazine Simplicissimus.

Berg's eyes jumped from one party headline to another party headline. So viele Meinungen haben wie Winde auf dem Dach-as many opinions as winds on the roof.

"Do sit." Haaf lifted his mug. "Would you like a cup? Perhaps a fresh pastry from the Viktualienmarkt? The apple strudel is excellent."

Berg remained standing. "I'm not hungry nor thirsty, thank you. And I think my poor news may impact on your appetite." He closed his eyes, then opened them. "This morning the police found a woman's body in the Englischer Garten. I have reason to think that it is your sister, Anna-"

Immediately, Franz broke into spasmodic coughs, spewing out the hot liquid. The force of his hacking sent coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup and burned his hands. He cried out in pain, then placed the cup and saucer on the table. He shook out his fingers. "This is impossible!"

"I'm afraid it's-"

"Impossible!" The young man began to pace. "How can that be?"

"I was hoping that you could provide me with some clues."

"Me?" He turned livid. "Just what are you implying?"

"Nothing, Herr Haaf, other than one sibling's knowledge of the other."

"Dear Anna hasn't lived here in five years."

"And you are not close to her?"

The young Haaf sputtered out, "Of course, we're close. Oh dear, this is just . . . and you're sure it's she?"

"We think so, yes. Her husband will be making the identification later on today."

"So you're not sure."

"I have seen a picture. The likeness is uncanny."

"Oh, mein Gott! You must tell me what happened."

"We're still determining that. May I ask for your help in this matter?"

"Of course!" Haaf stopped pacing and sank into a chair. "This is terrible."

"Yes."

"Terrible, terrible, terrible!"

"Yes," Berg agreed. "I would like to ask you something. We are trying to ascertain why a lady of Anna's stature would have gone out last night without a proper escort. Can you think of any reason for such conduct?"

"What makes you think she went without Anton?"

"Because he did not accompany her last night. As a matter of fact, he insists that she went to bed last night at eight because she was feeling ill. Apparently she was with child."

"Oh, dear . . ." A sigh. "That is truly tragic. They have wanted a child for quite some time. Anton was quite insistent on producing an heir."

Berg's brow rose. "Your sister wasn't anxious for motherhood?"

"Of course, she wanted a child." Haaf started to speak, but thought better of it.

"There is more you are not saying, Herr Haaf," Berg replied. "Now is not the time for discretion. We must bring your sister's killer to justice immediately. What are your thoughts on this matter?"

Haaf shook his head.

Berg said, "Perhaps the marriage wasn't a happy one?"

"That is personal, Inspektor."

"Yes, but it may be relevant to the crime. You do want to know what happened, correct?"

"Of course." Haaf licked his lips. "What can I say? Both fathers were pleased with the union. Anton is a gentleman. His looks are certainly passable, and his manners are beyond reproach."

"But . . ."

"Anton is a fine man and provides wonderfully for my sister, but he is stiff even for the burghers in the region. He is a teetotaler. Not even a splash of beer. To say he is a conservative would be understating his political views. My sister, on the other hand . . ."

Berg waited.

"My sister is progressive . . . very modern with a keen sense of justice."

"A Social Democrat?"

"More like a-" Haaf stopped himself.

"A Kommunist?" Berg filled in.

Haaf averted his gaze. "She visited me when I was in school in Berlin. She had a fierce laugh and could drink with the best of my schoolmates. Her life . . . It is very different now-a beautiful bird in a gilded cage. If someone were to open the door, I think it might be quite possible that she would spread her wings."

"Ah . . ." Berg said. "Another gentleman in her life?"

"I'm not suggesting that that is the case. But I know she loved the theater and Anton did not. Their apartment isn't too far from Schwabing."

"And she'd go out unaccompanied to a play at night? With all that is going on?"

"Ironically, it is only under the cloak of night that one's movements are often undetected." Haaf hung his head in sorrow. "Maybe not this time."

"And you did not see her last night?"

"Ah . . ." He shook his head. "No, I did not see her last night, Inspektor. I wish I had."

"Then I shall check the theaters. Perhaps someone remembers her. Such a lovely woman and unaccompanied, she would stand out." Berg thought a moment. "Or perhaps she wasn't unaccompanied."

Haaf said nothing.

"In either case, I have a picture of her . . . her wedding picture."

"That awful thing . . . so rigid and posed. Wait here."

Haaf left the solarium. Berg eyed the pastries, a piece of strudel with raisins and apple extruding from the flaky crust. It was all he could do not to nip off a piece of the fruit and pop it in his mouth. A moment later, Haaf returned, picture in hand.

"One of my friends experiments with photographic equipment. I think this one captured the spirit as well as the face."

Indeed it did. Shining eyes burned through an angel's face. Thick hair cascaded down a long neck, falling past bare shoulders. Since the picture had been cropped just below her neck, one could imagine her body as nude instead of clad in an off-the-shoulder blouse.

"Thank you," Berg said. "This will help."

"I want it back."

"Of course." He stowed the picture in the pocket of his coat. "Now I have the onerous task of telling your father the dreadful news."

"I will come with you."

"Are you sure?"

"I cannot allow my father to hear such awful words without being there to support him."

"Very good. How far is the bank?"

"A five-minute car ride."

"I have no car," Berg told him.

"Then we shall take mine. It is parked right outside. I shall have one of the servants crank it up."

"And if you wouldn't mind, I would like to use your telephone . . . of course, you have a telephone."

"Of course."

"I would like to call up Herr Kommissar Volker. Out of respect for your father's position in the community, Herr Volker would like to be at the bank when we break the news to Herr Haaf."

"Certainly. If you just wait here for a moment, I shall arrange everything. And please . . ." He pointed to the table. "Help yourself."

"Thank you."

Once Haaf was gone, Berg again eyed the pastries longingly. He bit his lip, then sat down, idly brushing crumbs off the tabletop. Then he picked up several granules of heavy white sugar with a moistened index finger, licking the tip with his tongue.

What's done is done.

His hand inched over to the plate filled with sweets.

Life is fragile.

He picked up a piece of strudel and allowed himself a healthy bite.

SEVEN.

The gleaming black BMW was given its due respect as pedestrians stepped aside to clear a path for such a fine machine. The rumbling engine cut through the air, making the ride a loud one. Progress in Munich was measured in decibel levels, though most of the noise still came from the human voice box-the constant parades of uniformed members of political parties or the drunken roars emanating from beer halls.

Regarding his town through the back window, Berg could not help but admire its beauty: the sinewy banks of the Isar, the green parks, adorned bridges, tree-lined boulevards, majestic architecture, and the ornate, double-onion-domed Frauenkirche peeking through the sky from the old city. Though factories meant jobs and money, he hoped that Munich wouldn't end up with problems like the coal belt cities spasmodic from industrial fever, all hard-edged and gray.

The People's Bank of Southern Germany was located on Leopold Strasse past the state library just north of the Ludwig-Maximilian University-an enclave of private academia originally started by royalty, but now run by the city. The current rumor was that many of its professors and students belonged to the occult right-wing Thule Society and supported Hitler. When the educated got behind a dictator, there was always cause for concern. Berg couldn't dwell on politics, though. He had more-immediate concerns.

Like its neighbors, the bank building was five stories, with the tellers on the ground floor. Volker had already arrived, standing at the curb, expectant as he checked his pocket watch. The junior Haaf parked his car between a sausage cart and a gaggle of resting bicycles. The two men got out, and Berg immediately noticed that Volker had begun to wilt around the edges. His coat was wrinkled in back, the brim of his hat less than perfectly smooth, his shoes soiled with mud. Trivial imperfections but conspicuous because it was Martin Volker. Berg made quick introductions, and Volker offered condolences. Franz Haaf nodded gravely, then opened the door to the bank.

They went inside.

If customers were an indication of success, the business appeared to be prosperous. Bespectacled men in three-piece suits holding overcoats and several well-adorned, feather-hatted older women stood in four straight lines, waiting patiently to step up to the tellers. The handsomely attired employees, working with efficiency, sat behind scrollwork iron cages. The place was well appointed with white marble on the floors and fluted Doric columns holding up the beams that ran across a carved wooden ceiling. The walls were fashioned from picture-frame paneling, and hanging inside the frames were stiff portraits of bedecked, bellied burghers, past presidents of the bank, all of them displaying the esteemed Haaf escutcheon.

The young Haaf passed through the scene quickly, taking Berg and Volker behind the activity and into a web of private offices. The elder Haaf had a young private secretary with pinched features and a sour face. He looked at Franz and, in a nasal voice, immediately informed him that his father, Herr Haaf the bank president, was in an important meeting with several important Bavarian financiers. "Your father specifically asked not to be disturbed."

"It's an emergency, Wilhelm. Inform him that I need to speak with him now."

Wilhelm wrinkled his nose. "I was instructed not to disturb him, sir. So you may tell him yourself."

"But you're his secretary. It's your job to tell him."

"Not when he's in a meeting and he asks me not to disturb him."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Berg said. "I'll tell him."

Haaf stopped Berg, then glared at the obstinate young man. "If you don't tell him at this moment, I will have your job."

The young man gave a snort. "I doubt that." But he got up anyway. He knocked at the door to the inner office and went inside.

Franz was furious. "Upstart!"

Volker pulled off his gloves. "Indeed. You should inform your father."

"I will when the timing is more . . . suitable." Then the young Haaf's eyes misted. "I don't know if I can tell him what happened."

"We'll do the talking, Herr Haaf." Volker's voice was without comfort.

Wilhelm had returned with the elder Haaf in tow. Kurt Haaf was tall but so thin as to be almost skeletal, his finely tailored suit hanging on his narrow shoulders, suggesting that once this man had weighed more. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.

"Gruss Gott." He clicked his heels together in a sharp snap. "Kurt Haaf, here. I am in the middle of a meeting. What is it that couldn't wait an hour?"