"Thank you, Herr Haaf, but no. A smoke along with a short walk will clear my mind."

"There is a very good bakery on Turken Strasse. Kulms, near the Komodien Theater. Just in case you are in need of a quick bit of nourishment."

"Thank you for the recommendation," Berg said.

"I shall leave then." A slight bow. "Auf Wiederschau'n."

"Auf Wiederschau'n." Berg watched the young man pivot and walk away, then whispered, "Pfueti"-an informal Bavarian way of saying good-bye. It was a contraction of "Behut dich Gott"-may God protect you. This time, Pfueti was exactly what Berg had wanted to say.

BERG STROLLED several blocks down Leopold Strasse, then turned right onto Franz Joseph Strasse and into Schwabing, the heart and soul of the city's artistic and intellectual community. Called the Munich Montmartre, the area was still vibrant with life, although its glory days had dulled as the decade wore on. Once it wasn't unusual to see Kandinsky sipping coffee with Berthold Brecht, or Lenin engaged in a heated debate with Trotsky outside one of the many Russian tearooms, giving rise to the term Schwabing Soviet.

Once was a very long time ago.

The neighborhood abounded with sidewalk cafes flying blue and white state flags as well as banners of all colors. Plenty of men still occupied the outdoor tables, smoking and sipping hot spiked beverages to keep warm while indulging in a game of cards or a round of chess. Berg couldn't walk more than a few steps without passing a Kabarett, a tavern, a beer hall, or a restaurant featuring the newest in Italian cuisine-a current trend that had started with Osteria Bavaria.

Down the side streets were apartment houses, dignified stone structures but built for function, the simplified architecture steering away from the ponderous government buildings with their heavy Gothic facades. They were the residences of the bourgeoisie-the doctors, the lawyers, the businessmen, the Protestants, and the rich Jews. A while back, Berg had contemplated moving into Schwabing. It was close to the Englischer Garten and filled with stimulation for the children. But Britta feared that the children might be overstimulated, and Berg had to admit that there was some justification to Britta's concerns. More than once, he had passed window posters of skimpily clad female boxers or Josephine Baker in her infamous banana-peel skirt. Because she had not been allowed to dance in Munich, she had become an icon, taking on more importance than she was worth.

Berg pulled a notepad from his pocket and drew up a rough map of the area. Then it was just a matter of routine, going into each public establishment one by one, writing it down on his list . . . each tavern, each beer hall, each coffeehouse, and each Kabarett.

Have you seen this woman before?

Nothing but a shake of the head or the simple "Nein, es tut mir leid"-no, sorry: the same answers from proprietors and patrons alike, from the men and from the women. None of the street vendors recognized Anna Gross as someone they knew, nor did the corner paperboys recall her face.

Truly a lady of mystery. If she had sneaked out of her house to play night games, she had been discreet.

An hour dragged by, and still no luck. It was nearing one in the afternoon and Berg felt his empty stomach protesting. Perhaps Ulrich and Georg had come up with some meaningful clues at the crime scene. Much better to meet with them over lunch and discuss other possibilities than to continually engage in fruitless endeavors.

He decided to return to the station house.

As he walked south, he came across a small theater, not much more than a cave with a door. Outside the establishment was a bright red sign that featured a smiling comedy mask painted in gold, surrounded by an assortment of white champagne flutes tilting at all angles. The lettering was black.

Das Spielhaus: Kabarett und Komodie.

Berg read the playbill. The theater specialized in skits satirizing Kapitalismus and conservative Munich, complete with a cartoon of an overstuffed burgher, a monocle magnifying his widened eye as it peered upon flowing piles of marks. Many of Munich's theaters catered to individual tastes, each having its own special troupe. Since Anna Gross had once flirted with Kommunismus, Berg figured his stomach would be patient if he gave the assignment one last try. He banged on the locked door, and his knock was answered by an irritated male voice. A moment passed, then the bolt slid back and the door opened.

The young man was sickly thin and pasty. His eyes were washed in the palest of blue, and his short, spiky hair was so blond as to be almost white. He wore a black sweater that didn't quite reach the waistline of his black pants. Berg could see a hipbone jutting from the gap between the clothing.

Eyebrows arched upward. A heavy sigh. The man spoke. "Not again!"

"Excuse me?"

"Clearly, you are the police."

"Clearly," Berg answered.

"All of our licenses are in order. Why do you pick on us incessantly when Nazis routinely throw bricks through our windows? Surely there must be one policeman who is not a member of the NSDAP."

"I am not a member," Berg answered.

"Really? Then make yourself useful and go arrest a Nazi."

Berg narrowed his eyes. "You should watch your mouth, man. Such impertinence to authority could result in a very bad headache for you."

The young man ran his fingers through the straw on his head. "Do you demand to see our licenses?"

Berg inched toward the threshold. "Let's talk inside."

It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness because very little light was filtering through the lobby's dusty windows. Resting against one wall was a compact mirrored bar that advertised absinthe and cigarettes. A velvet-upholstered bench stood opposite the bar. Two doors punctured the back wall, one marked Eingang, the other Ausgang-entrance and exit-the doors to the theater. The wooden floor had suffered many dings from the stomp of heels and could have used a swipe from a mop. The room did have modern electric lighting, but someone had elected not to use it.

The man said, "As I stated, all our licenses are in order."

"I am not interested in your licenses. What is your name?"

"Gerhart Leit." Suspicion in the faint blue orbs. "What do you want?"

"Patience, Herr Leit, is not your strong point, is it?"

Leit said nothing, his eyes focusing on some distant spot. Berg took Anna's picture from his pocket and showed it to him. "This woman . . . do you know her?"

Slowly, Leit's eyes lowered until they rested on the photograph. Then they reacted, but only for a moment. "I don't know her."

"But you've seen her, yes?"

"I see many people."

"Yes or no. Have you seen her before?"

"I might have."

"And might you have seen her last night?"

"Why?" Leit asked. "Is she in trouble?"

Pesky fellow. Berg said, "Not anymore. She's dead."

Immediately, Leit slumped against the bar. He brought his hand over his mouth. "Oh my! Dead?"

"Yes."

"Dead as in murdered?"

Berg ignored the question. "She has come to your theater before?"

Leit nodded.

"Last night?"

Leit looked away. "What happened?"

"Her body was found this morning in the bushes at the Englischer Garten. Perhaps you might have a theory as to what happened."

"Me?" Leit was clearly shocked.

"I'm always interested in you theater types, how you come up with your stories. How would you have written it?"

"I write satire, Herr Inspektor, not grisly drama about dead women."

"Even so, creativity is creativity. Try, Herr Leit, try."

Leit's eyes swiveled onto Berg's face. "I wouldn't know where to begin!"

"You can start with her physical description, of course. What did she look like last night? What was she wearing?"

"That's easy. I remember her because she was a pretty thing with a delightful laugh." He struggled to get more clarity. "She had on a beautiful black dress that swayed as she moved . . . modern style . . . longer in the back than the front. Black shoes . . . satin, I believe. A feathered fan."

"You recall her in detail then."

"I recall the fan, yes. She used it quite a bit last night and not as mere decoration. It was hot in here . . . lots of people. The show has been successful. We still have believers who defy this exclusionary nonsense."

Leit's description-the particularity of it-had credibility. Berg took his notepad. "And her coat?"

"I didn't see it. But of course, she wouldn't be wearing her overcoat while inside."

"Did she drink anything?"

"Drink?"

Berg pointed to the bar.

"Beyond beer, I don't recall. Her companion had absinthe."

"Ah." Berg nodded. "A companion. Tell me about him."

"He was tall . . . sophisticated . . . smooth like a Berliner. You know, well dressed and seemingly suave. The Putzi Hanfstaengl type."

"Was it the art dealer?"

Leit let out a small laugh. "As if a Nazi would dare to step foot in this place other than to vandalize it. Why on earth would he come here?"

"Maybe to pick up the latest piano tune?"

"More likely to spy for the Austrian, if anything at all. I don't think it was him."

"You seem unsure."

"It was a mere glance, Inspektor. He could have been a thousand different men."

Berg took out his pad. "If you could describe him, perhaps I could sketch him." He drew an oval. "We can start with the basic face. Was his longer or shorter?"

"Longer."

Berg extended the oval. "Light eyes . . . blue?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Big, small, close-set, far apart?"

"I don't know. Draw something and I will change it."

Berg drew standard eyes, a standard nose, and a standard mouth. By the time he was done, he had a picture of a mustachioed man with a long face, deep-set eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin lips. He looked vaguely familiar, but one often draws from the inner mind. One interesting thing that came out: Leit remembered that the man wore a monocle and a top hat.

The Kabarett owner stared at the sketch. "The drawing does look a little like Hanfstaengl, but Putzi wasn't the man. I'm sure of that. The man I saw wasn't as tall and his brow and chin were less pronounced."

"One of his brothers perhaps?"

Leit shrugged.

Berg said, "How did she and her companion interact?"

"They weren't fighting, if that's what you mean. On the contrary, when they left, I saw her arm linked in his. But of course, I didn't follow them out of the theater. Why would I?"

"They looked happy together?"

"Very happy, Inspektor. Being a sentimentalist, I might even say they looked as if they were in love."

NINE.

It was a variation on the words of the famous American president Abraham Lincoln: God must love stupid people because He certainly made a lot of them. Touching his forehead lightly, Volker tried to remain calm and self-possessed. After all, Polizei Kriminal Direktor Max Brummer and Polizei Kriminal Kommandant Stefan Roddewig were his superiors in rank. Yet the more they talked, the harder it was to maintain his composure.

He took another sip of his beer and licked foam from his lips.

Hans und Franz: two dunces almost identical in their small-minded thinking. Brummer was the stupider of the two, a staunch follower of the Socialist German Workers Party, a good friend of Hitler and utterly without charm. He was rabidly anti-foreigner, anti-Semitic, and anti-modern aesthetics, calling the works of such geniuses as Klee, Picasso, Dix, Grosz, Kandinsky, Feininger, and Marc degenerate rubbish. It was this last deficit-Brummer's utter lack of taste-that was truly unforgivable.

Thick in the jowls as well as the shoulders, with a head of white, unruly cowlicks, he had just turned sixty. His conservative politics stemmed not from the ideals of the Nazis but from the loyal Royalists, those antiquated beings who nursed futile hopes that one day the Wittelsbacher would restore Bavaria to its former-albeit illusory-eminence. No matter that there hadn't been a king in over a decade. No matter that Munich had not only survived, but also thrived. Some were slow to catch on.

The Direktor had come up through the ranks of the department, attaining the coveted position due to favoritism. His war record was not particularly heroic, but he had served under the right leaders. He was not very clever, but past events had shown that he could be very brutal.

Kommandant Stefan Roddewig was more of a cipher. Over six feet with long arms and big hands, the Kommandant was born up north, but moved to Munich early in his adult life. The only remnant of his youth elsewhere was a slight but distinct accent that gave his Bavarian German a little charm. Other than that, he had melded into the population so adroitly that he had become a typical Bierbauch Bavarian with his flabby stomach and his thinning hairline. Whatever was left on his head was colored dishwater brown. It was hard to believe that the man was still in his thirties: He had the cunning of a seasoned politician.

Roddewig had risen through the ranks of the Munich Police Department with unprecedented speed, leaving a wake of gossip, including rumors that money had bought certain positions. The Kommandant had stifled the scuttlebutt by purging the department of his enemies. At that time-in the wake of Kurt Eisner's assassination and Hitler's failed putsch-Volker had been one of Stefan Roddewig's staunchest supporters, sensing the need for law and order. Soon afterward, it became clear that the Kommandant was enamored of his position and his power. Now, the two barely tolerated each other and Volker wondered how long that would last.