"Papa," Franz said. "Do sit down-"

"I don't want to sit! I want to get back to my business. Some of us earn money. And don't tell me it is another gambling debt, Franz! That is not my concern."

Symmetrical pink spots rose on Franz's cheeks. "It's Anna."

"Anna?" The banker made a face. "What did she do this time?"

Franz's pleading eyes traveled from his father's face to Volker, then to Berg, who regarded the senior banker. "I am Polizei Inspektor Axel Berg, Herr Haaf. This is my superior, Erster Kriminal Hauptkommissar Martin Volker-"

"Yes, yes." Haaf's eyes went to Volker's. "We have met."

"We have, Herr Haaf," Volker answered. "At the house of Polizei Kriminal Direktor Max Brummer. One of the reasons I am here personally. And also out of respect for your position in the community. I am afraid we have terrible news."

Berg felt his face tighten. Kurt Haaf's eyes darkened. "What?"

Volker nodded to Berg.

Bastard!

Berg kept his gaze somewhere over Herr Haaf's shoulder. "The police were called into the Englischer Garten early this morning. A woman's body was found. We have reason to believe that the woman . . ." He cleared his throat. "We believe that the woman was your daugh . . ."

Haaf clutched his chest and pitched forward. Volker grabbed his right arm, and Berg took his left as he told Franz to bring his father a shot of whiskey. Wilhelm, who was standing, started to speak, but only sputtered instead.

"Move!" Volker pushed the young secretary out of the way.

Slowly, Kurt Haaf was lowered into Wilhelm's chair. Franz came back with amber liquid in a shot glass. Kurt drank it down and coughed, shaking off any help. To Wilhelm, he said, "Go in there and tell them an emergency has arisen. I'll be back in five minutes . . . ten at the most. Pass out the cigars-the ones from Havana-and tell them to take a smoking break."

Franz stared at his father in disbelief. "Papa, we should send them home."

Kurt ignored his son and whispered fiercely to Wilhelm, "Go!"

The young secretary disappeared behind the closed doors. Berg chose the temporary lull to look around the secretary's wood-paneled office. His desk was small but modern, made of blond ash burl and trimmed with ebony. On the top sat piles of papers along with a lovely Egyptian-style, gold-plated desk set inlaid with dots of mother-of-pearl. A nineteenth-century grandmother clock had been pushed into the corner.

Kurt's face was now deep red; a thin layer of sweat coated his forehead. "You are sure about this?"

"Your son-in-law gave me a picture . . . your son as well." Berg looked down at his shoes. Then he made eye contact with the old man. "It's the same woman."

This time, Haaf's voice cracked. "Still, I would like to be sure. When can I make the identification?"

Volker stepped in. "Herr Haaf, we shall avail ourselves to you at this difficult time. But first, sir, we would like to make the body presentable."

Kurt nodded, then suddenly clutched his chest again.

"Mein Gott," Franz exclaimed. "I shall call Doctor Wiess."

"I don't need a doctor!" Haaf turned to Berg. "You say you found her body this morning?"

Berg nodded.

Kurt pulled out his pocket watch, flipped open the cover, then stared a moment before closing it with a snap. "So the attack . . . it was not in her house?"

Berg said, "It is always possible that she was . . . that she expired in her house and was placed in the park afterward, but that being the case, we have no suspects for the crime."

"What about Anton?" Kurt suggested. "He was in the house."

Franz regarded his father as if he were speaking an unfamiliar language. "Papa, you can't be serious. Anton doesn't have enough gumption to step on a fly."

"That's because he is a bug himself. A bug and a Jew-"

"Father, you were the one who approved of the match!"

"I approved of the money, not of the weasel." He let out a gush of air. "Your sister's spending habits required nothing short of a small fortune. Why not take it from the Jew?"

Franz rolled his eyes. "Forgive my father. He's not thinking too clearly."

"There is nothing wrong with my thinking," the elder Haaf declared. This time he managed to stand up. "Their marriage was a sham. They fought all the time."

"Father! This is surely not police business."

"Don't be stupid, Franz!" Haaf had turned damp and florid. "Nothing but conflict from the day she moved into that house."

"What did they fight about?"

"What didn't they fight about? Money, religion, politics, friends, what to eat for supper. The only thing likable about Anton was his unerring sense of business. They are born with it, you know. And don't you tell me that I sound like one of Hitler's finest. I don't agree with everything he says, but not all of his rhetoric is drivel." His eyes threw daggers at Berg. "The Jew couldn't even impregnate her!"

Franz shook his head like a father indulging a petulant toddler.

"As a matter of fact, Herr Haaf," Berg said, "she was pregnant."

"Not by his seed-that I can assure you!"

"Papa!"

Berg said, "And you know that for certain, Herr Haaf? That the baby did not belong to her husband?"

Haaf snorted out an unintelligible grumble. "Not as fact, no." He grabbed his pocket handkerchief and dabbed his face. "But if it indeed wasn't his child, it could be the reason for her . . ."

"Demise." Berg provided the word.

Haaf wagged his finger in the air. "The weasel finally broke. He got angry. Another fight and this time he couldn't control himself. If you've been to the house, you know it's a stone's throw to the Garten." He poked Berg's chest as he spoke. "Take him into a locked room! Beat the confession out of him! He's weak. He'll buckle."

The young Wilhelm had come back. "The gentlemen await your return, Herr Haaf."

"I need another moment. Give me your handkerchief, Wilhelm. I need it out of necessity more than you need it as an ornament!"

The young secretary paused, but complied. The old man mopped his sopping brow. "Bring them refreshments, Wilhelm. Lowenbrau-dark. Also pretzels, mustard, and wurst. That will occupy their stomachs until I can regain my composure."

"Certainly." The young employee licked his lips. "Are you feeling better, sir?"

"Better? Hardly!" He waved the handkerchief with an air of dismissal. "Go!"

Again, Wilhelm disappeared. Haaf turned to Berg. "You will apprise me of the progress of your investigations."

"Of course, sir."

"And what about Anton?"

Berg said, "Perhaps another visit will be in order."

"You're damn right another visit is in order!"

"I will ensure it, Herr Haaf," Volker said.

"I certainly hope so, Herr Kommissar. I've given you plenty of my time. I'd like to think that I haven't wasted it." He took a deep breath and let it out. "And when may I see . . . see her?"

"This afternoon . . . maybe three hours from now." Volker thought a moment. "Say . . . two o'clock?"

The old man shook his head. "I've another appointment." He turned to his son. "Perhaps you can go make the identification in my stead, Franz."

"Of course, Papa."

The old man placed a bony hand on his son's shoulder, then dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "We should both be grateful that Mother is no longer with us to witness such heartache, no?"

Franz nodded. Berg said nothing. What a terrible thing for which to be grateful.

EIGHT.

Once outside, Berg felt as if an enormous stone had been lifted off his shoulders. Sadness loomed even larger when confined to the indoors. He inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly, adjusting his breathing to the rhythm of the city. He gave his companions a quick glance. Haaf's expression was grave, Volker's distracted.

The Kommissar adjusted his hat. "Your father's perspective on his son-in-law was quite interesting, Herr Haaf."

"My father is being ridiculous," Haaf snapped. "Anton adored Anna; he would never hurt her."

"His adoration combined with a sudden betrayal could have been the cause of the inexplicable action."

"Nonsense!" Haaf insisted.

Volker remained unconvinced. "Even if your father was ranting to deal with the shock, I think another visit to your brother-in-law is called for." Volker turned up the collar of his coat. "I will leave that up to Inspektor Berg. In any case, I shall meet you at Ett Strasse Station at one-thirty."

Haaf was momentarily confused.

Volker said, "For the identification?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Thank you for accompanying me."

"How could I do anything less?" The Chief nodded to Berg. "I will leave you two gentlemen now. Auf Wiederschau'n."

"Auf Wiederschau'n," Haaf mumbled.

Volker walked half a block, then got into his Mercedes, driving off amid clouds of black smoke.

"An extravagance for a policeman . . . to have a car, no? And such an impressive one at that." Haaf stuck his hands into his coat pockets. "He wears expensive clothing-his suit, his hat, his overcoat. How does he manage on a civil servant's salary?"

"You may ask him."

"I'm asking you."

"I don't know, Herr Haaf. He has never consulted me on financial matters."

"Your superior has style."

"The Kommissar is one of a kind."

"Said without a trace of irony," Haaf said.

"There is no irony. Simply a statement of fact."

"Hmmm." Haaf took out a cigarette tin, shoved a smoke between his lips, lit up and blew out a thick billow of gray fumes. "What next?"

Without thinking, Berg looked at the tin. English writing. Tobacco from The States was expensive.

"Oh, sorry." Haaf offered him a cigarette. "Here. I insist." Berg took it, and Haaf lit it for him. "So you will see Anton again?"

"I think yes. Did Herr Gross and your sister fight as often as your father said?"

"And you don't fight with your wife?"

"My wife is alive. Did Anna ever confide in you her dissatisfaction with her marriage?"

"It was rough for her, yes. But there was affection as well. I witnessed the flirtatious smiles between them. Genuine smiles."

Berg sucked in smoke from his cigarette and let it out slowly. "Still I would like to hear how your brother-in-law viewed his marriage."

"I'm sure he will tell you everything was perfect, that there were no problems at all."

"Then I would know that he was lying. In a marriage, there are always problems. And then there is Anna's pregnancy. If the child was not his, it could be a motive for homicide."

"My father spoke out of anger, out of prejudice, out of crazy agitation upon hearing such horrid news. I don't believe that Anton could possibly be involved. You may interview him, of course, but I doubt if my brother-in-law will speak ill of my sister or talk about any dissatisfaction with the marriage. Not in his current state of mind, certainly."

Haaf spoke sense. Gross would probably be too distraught to say anything remotely negative about his wife. In the months ahead, she'd probably become a saint. Berg reconsidered. "I should also like to take the photograph of Anna that you have given me and show it to the theater owners in Schwabing. I'd like to find out if your sister was there last night."

"I think it would make more sense than thumping on poor Anton," Haaf said. "Would you like me to drop you off someplace?"