It was almost one in the afternoon, and the beer hall was crowded and noisy, each workers' union, each political party, each Verein claiming its regular table-its Stammtisch-with a banner or flag inscribed with the club's official insignia. The tables' occupants often became boisterous in their proclamations of predominance. Sometimes the competition got ugly. Volker eyed each patron, mentally sorting wheat from chaff: who would help and who would hinder, who to watch and who to ignore.

His brain sparked from auditory stimuli. Max was talking.

". . . don't need is more panic and lawlessness, Martin," cried Brummer. "Things are too unstable as it is."

Volker focused his eyes on the stout man. "The case is six hours old, Direktor."

"Even so, you know how these things feed the public's anxiety."

"No one even knows about it except for a few select individuals."

"Martin . . ." Roddewig sighed. "It won't take long for the papers to pick up on this. Then, it's chaos."

"I'm not talking to anyone, Stefan." Volker tightened his fists, then slowly released his clutched fingers. Being angry wouldn't help at all. He looked his boss squarely in the eye. "I assume everyone else is being equally discreet."

The Kommandant took out his cigarette case and hid a smile behind the process of lighting up. "Surely you know better than anyone, Martin, that there are spies everywhere."

Volker took out his own cigarette case, and tried to hide his annoyance at the bastard. "But if we remain circumspect, Stefan, I don't foresee mass hysteria. Besides, we are making progress-"

"What kind of progress?" demanded Brummer.

A sip of beer with an infinitely long-suffering sigh. "Steady progress. I have my best Inspektors working on it. We mustn't be rash in our assignment of guilt."

"Why not?" the Direktor called out. "The woman was a whore!"

The table next to theirs fell silent and stared at Brummer. Volker cleared his throat and dropped his voice. "That very well could be true, Herr Direktor, but we don't know that for certain." He spoke as if he were the teacher and the two men his pupils.

"Then make up a lie, Martin," Brummer said. "Imply that a secret lover murdered her because she spread her legs for someone else. Or that this lover was blackmailing her for money."

Volker said, "Meine Herren, neither story would settle well with Herr Haaf. The woman was his daughter, remember?"

Brummer downed his stein of beer, then pursed his lips. "Kurt Haaf is not as well off as he once was . . . but he still owns the bank. That is something to consider. Haaf just may be too important to scandalize."

"Then perhaps you can suggest that it was Anton Gross who did it," Roddewig put forward.

At this outrageous accusation, Volker looked at his superior with disbelief, but Brummer jumped on the suggestion. "Martin, you just told us that Herr Haaf can't stand the Jewish dog. Who'd miss him?"

"The man has a point, Martin," Stefan added. "Who cares if another rich Jew hangs?"

"It's unseemly for the police to randomly charge people with crimes," Volker said. "Why are you two so keen on closing this case in a preternaturally short period of time?"

"Because the last thing this city needs is an excuse to panic," the Direktor answered. "We've had much too much upheaval . . . things are finally quieting down."

Volker spoke soothingly. "No one is panicking."

Except you two.

"I will keep everything in order, I assure you both."

And where were either of you last night?

Brummer said, "If Haaf thinks you should concentrate your efforts on the Jewish dog husband, then I suggest you give it some thought. After all, it appears his wife was screwing another man."

"Why are you saying that?"

"Why?" The Kommandant sliced a chunk of veal sausage, speared it with a fork, dipped it in mustard, and popped it in his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. "Wasn't she drowning in semen?"

"Yes, she had had sex," Volker said, "but it could have been with her husband."

"Her husband didn't even know she was gone, Martin, yet you found her in an evening dress and filled with semen. If that isn't an indication of cheating, what is?"

"It could have been that she was dressed in her gown postmortem, Stefan."

"Only her husband could have done that. Maybe they had an argument and it turned into something very nasty, and he killed her. It could have been an accident, but he panicked, dressed her in a gown, and dumped her in the park. Your suggesting that she was dressed postmortem strengthens my case instead of weakening it."

"Good point, Herr Kommandant," Brummer said. "And even if Herr Gross didn't do it, he had some culpability by not controlling his wife. Since there is no love lost between Herr Haaf and Herr Gross, if we hint at the husband, it will make Herr Haaf happy and calm down the city."

Volker rolled his eyes. "You want me to charge Anton Gross for the murder of his wife based on no evidence?" He tried another angle. "Didn't Anton Gross's money help support the Munich Police Exhibition in Berlin a few years back? And Gross also helped finance the exhibition here in Munich. The Lord Mayor thanked him personally, if I recall correctly."

Brummer considered the facts that lay before him. Angering the Lord Mayor was not a good idea. "Our main concern is to keep panic out of the streets. I'm sure Stefan agrees with that as well."

"Of course," Roddewig thought out loud. "So maybe there's no need to arrest or charge him. All we have to do is implicate him. Cast suspicion and let rumors do the rest."

Volker said, "Idle gossip, Stefan?" The Kommandant shrugged. "This is all very premature. Let me work on the case a while longer before we take such drastic actions."

"And then if you do investigate and still come up empty?" asked Brummer.

"Idle gossip . . ." Volker nodded at his superiors. "With minimal effort, Herr Direktor, that can be done."

TEN.

In Munich, there were beer halls for tourists and beer halls for the locals. The Old City had the former establishments: Das Kellnerhaus, located in the southern area of Giesing, fell into the latter category. As soon as Berg stepped inside, he was enveloped in an intense cloud of heat, smoke, and grease. Mixing in with the odor of frying sausage and tobacco was the stink of sweat and gases pouring out from the raucous crowd of workingmen enjoying a hearty lunch. With all those bodies, it would have been noisy even without the band. Factoring in the din from the brass musicians and accordion player, the clamor was deafening. But few if any noticed the drawbacks because the place was warm, the beer was cheap, the food was good, and the atmosphere was home.

It took only a few moments for Berg's eyes to adjust from the outside glare to the interior's weak lighting. Although the shutters were open all the way, the afternoon sunlight was minimal. The decor was dark: dark wooden paneling on the walls, dark wooden floors, dark wooden ceiling planks and rafters. In Germany, the Black Forest was not just a name but a way of life.

The single room was packed with endless rows of benches and trestle tables holding people who sat shoulder to shoulder. Deft waiters in lederhosen and agile waitresses in dirndls carried multiple mugs of beer while balancing platters of food. Faces soaked with perspiration, they worked with efficiency and speed. Once Berg spotted Ulrich and Georg, he had to dodge the harried help just to walk from the door to where his colleagues were sitting. Berg managed to squeeze himself a place on the bench. The tabletop held plates of cold cuts, cheese, rye bread, and pretzels. Within seconds, a filled beer stein was plopped in front of his face.

After draining it, Berg shouted, "We can't talk business in here."

"So first we eat and then we talk," Georg Muller shouted back.

That made sense. Berg heaped cold cuts and cheese on his plate, slathered a slice of rye with butter, and proceeded to wolf the food down without even registering the taste. A few minutes later he devoured a pretzel. With his stomach satisfied, he nursed a beer until he reached his thirty-minute time limit. The heat was stifling, the racket was overwhelming, and the smells began to play havoc with his digestive juices. After paying his tab, he got up, signaling for the others to follow.

Outside it was cool and windy, but the bitter chill had lifted. A block down was a small Platz where a coffeehouse had set up a half-dozen tables outside. Berg pointed to an empty spot.

"How about here?"

"Then we have to order coffee," Storf groused.

Berg sat down. "I'll take care of the tab."

"Then I won't complain." Storf took a seat. "Shouldn't we go inside?"

"It's more private out here, I think." Berg looked around. The Platz was across the street from a small public garden. The trees were still bare, but the flower beds had been planted with tulips. "Drink something hot if you're cold." He rubbed his hands.

Storf pointed out, "You are cold as well. We should have waited out the crowd at Das Kellnerhaus."

"That would have been impossible, Ulrich; the place is always jammed. At least here we don't have to breathe in the stenches of farts and belches."

Storf bristled. "If you want effete university intellectuals, Berg, go to a Kabarett in Berlin and sip absinthe. A Munich beer hall is strictly for real people-those who eat and belch and fart and fuck."

"Pigs eat and belch and fart and fuck."

"That could explain why we eat so much pig," Muller said, laughing.

"There is nothing wrong with taking an occasional shower," Berg said.

"Yes, that would be fine, Axel," Storf said. "Showering in freezing temperatures and catching a death of a cold. Some of us don't have indoor plumbing."

"Besides, who sweats in the winter?" Muller added.

"My nose tells me many people sweat." Berg pulled up the collar on his coat. "Putting up with a little nip is better than the stink of bodies and tobacco."

"You are too delicate for this city," Storf commented. "The Brownshirts will eat you up."

"The Brownshirts are nothing but punks."

"Why you'd want to think of yourself as Kosmopolit is beyond me." Storf shrugged. "To be associated with those kinds of people."

"You mean the Jews?"

"The Jews, the Kommunisten, the intellectuals. They are subversive. In this climate, Berg, it is not good to be associated with subversives."

"I am considered subversive because I don't join up with a bunch of hooligans-"

"Shhhh . . ." Muller silenced him. "Giesing is his domain."

"So why do we come here?" Berg complained. "It's dangerous, stinks of garbage and horse dung, and the Austrian has spies breathing down our necks."

"And where would you suggest we go, Axel?" Muller said. "Not all of us have married so well."

"Your runaway mind has grossly exaggerated my financial condition."

Storf said, "You have a two-bedroom apartment, you have indoor plumbing, you have electricity, and you have a building with heat. That is rich by our blood."

Berg rolled his eyes. "Let's just order." He signaled for the waitress, a bored, heavyset woman in a blue working dress. He ordered coffee for all and a plate of pastries.

But Storf would not let the discussion end. "Why do you insist on defending degenerates?"

"I do not defend degenerates; I defend intellectualism. There is nothing degenerative about being educated."

"Except that all the universities are overrun with Jews."

"They are educated."

"They are subversive." Muller grew angry. "What is your affinity for those who steal from good German citizens, Berg?"

"Ask him about a young woman, Georg, of a certain subversive persuasion," Ulrich said under his breath.

"You!" Berg pointed a finger at Storf. "That's quite enough!"

Ulrich knew he had gone too far. He held out his hands defensively. Muller's smile had turned into a wide grin. "Ah . . . at last you make sense. Little kitty is very hard to resist, no matter where it comes from. I must ask you who she is or else I threaten to go to your wife."

"That is a fart without wind, Georg," Berg answered listlessly. "I know at least two 'working' Fraulein who take money from you."

"I see we must have women in common."

"Not quite."

"Yes, that's true. Even I wouldn't lower myself to fuck a Jew."

"You might if you saw this one." Storf brushed off Berg's glaring eyes. "I am only defending you, Inspektor."

"Ah, Axel, please!" Muller said. "Don't give the impression that you're sweet on her. It is bad to fall in love with whores."

"Especially subversive Jewish ones," Storf added. "The next thing you know she'll be talking revolution."

Fortunately, the waitress returned with three cups of coffee and a tray of sweets. Berg picked up a poppy-seed cookie and took a bite, chewing slowly as he thought about how to defuse the situation. He wanted to punch them both in the face, but it was best to keep emotions hidden in these uncertain times. "I am protective of my property, including my whores." Berg forced the words out of his mouth. "Especially one so young."

Storf broke into a venal smile. "Yes, women run dry very quickly. And how old is she? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"You're repulsive." Berg laughed it off, but in truth Margot wasn't much older. Although she had been eighteen for at least three months, the affair had started over a year ago. Blood rose to his cheeks. He hid his embarrassment behind his coffee cup.

Muller said, "The youngest girl I ever fucked-I mean fucked as a man-was thirteen. She was a Gypsy. And she wasn't even a virgin. Gypsies fuck very young."

Ulrich said, "How was she?"

"Dark," Muller said. "Very dark. Dark all over except pink where it counted: pink and swollen and ready. I went through a stage . . . I fucked many Gypsy girls. But now . . ." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It is too dangerous. Though not as satisfying, it is safer to be content with the old German whores."

"Why not a young German whore?" Storf asked.

"A money issue."