"Not Axel's problem," Storf added.

Berg said, "And exactly how would I explain to my wife that I'm spending her money on whores?"

"I'm sure she doesn't ask for an accounting." Storf picked up a tiny cream-filled shell and popped it into his mouth. "How much does she cost you . . . your young one?"

Berg looked away. "Cigarettes, beer, an occasional trinket . . . the usual." He gave them both the heat and fury of his eyes. "May we talk about Anna Gross?"

"Murdered by strangulation," Storf began.

"Did you ever find her shoe?"

"I didn't know I was to look for it."

"We found nothing that appeared to belong to her in the area," Muller joined in. "No articles of clothing."

"No shoe, then."

"No."

"No coat?"

"No."

"A pocketbook?"

"Nothing means nothing, Berg."

"She had semen in her," Storf said. "Professor Kolb verified it with his microscope at the crime scene. What I can't explain is how this pregnant woman managed to leave the house in evening attire without her husband knowing she was gone. It seems to me that her husband must have known she was gone."

"Maybe he didn't know until she came home," Muller said. "He catches her as she sneaks in, and confronts her. Then he kills her and drags her body to the park and calls the police to cover up his crime."

"It is certainly plausible. But what about the shoe?" Berg brought up. The two men regarded the Inspektor. "Why would her husband remove her shoe? Why would he take her coat?"

"Why would anyone remove her shoe?" Storf asked.

"Because there are some perverted people who like to collect mementos of their victims."

"You read too many lurid stories from those cheap magazines."

Berg shrugged. "There is a witness who may have seen Anna last night with a man. They appeared to be intimate."

Muller sneered. "With so many wives whoring, is it any wonder that we good German men seek others for solace?"

"Can we keep the discussion on Anna Gross, please?" Finally having their attention, Berg spoke about his conversation with Gerhart Leit, then revealed the sketch of Anna's phantom companion. The men studied it in earnest.

Berg said, "He looks familiar, doesn't he?"

"He looks like a thousand people," Storf said.

True enough. Berg continued. "In answer to your question, Ulrich, about how she could have escaped her husband's notice . . . what about a sleeping potion in his nighttime tea or drink?"

Storf said, "Except she went to bed before he did."

"Obviously she didn't stay in bed," Muller said.

"A trusted servant could have slipped something in his beverage," Berg answered. "After Herr Gross fell into a deep sleep, someone could have informed Anna Gross that it was safe to go out."

"I reckon it's a possibility," Muller said.

"I will go back to the house of Herr Gross," Berg announced. "I think it will serve me better if I speak to the help. Usually it is the chambermaid who knows if her mistress has access to laudanum or some other sleeping medicine."

The trio drank coffee.

Muller said, "Are you going to show Herr Gross your little sketch?"

"He will only deny knowing the man," Berg answered. "The help is another matter. Especially the women. They are more open to police questions, no?" Berg checked his pocket watch and frowned. It was well past two o'clock. "We talk too much about trivia. Herr Gross is with Volker identifying Anna. I can't make it back before the husband."

"So go tomorrow morning," Muller said. "Your mind will be refreshed by a good night's sleep."

"But Gross will be home, planning the funeral. I need to talk to the help when he is gone."

Storf said, "You must look for an opportunity, Axel. I'm sure the Jew will have business to tidy up. Just be patient."

Muller said, "And how do you intend to get Anna's chambermaid to speak about such personal matters?"

"My dear Georg, you don't start out talking about personal matters, you segue into them only after you've sufficiently charmed the lady in question."

"And if your charm fails, Berg?"

"It is well known that many in the Munich police are not only sympathetic to the Austrian's cause but also well versed in his hooligan methods." Berg stowed the picture in his pocket. "The threat of a night in jail will be enough to loosen the tightest of lips."

ELEVEN.

When Berg returned to the Ett Strasse station, it was just past three. Awaiting him were two officially stamped envelopes on his desktop. If that didn't speak for German efficiency, what did?

Immediately, he took out a green folder containing a homicide file-a Mordakte-for Anna Gross. Also inside were eight postmortem photographs taken at the scene, all of them very clear, very focused, and very obscene. The second package was paperwork, an extensive report on the cause of Anna's death by strangulation. Also detailed were other marks and bruises on her body. Fresh indentation marks were found around her arm and wrist, made from fingertips squeezing flesh. She had tried to escape? Maybe he held her back.

The other papers were mainly lists: items found at the crime scene, names of suspects, names of potential witnesses. To all of this, Berg added his own notes, his own interviews and reports as well as the original sketch he'd drafted under Gerhart Leit's instructions. In order not to ruin the drawing by repeated exposure, Berg copied the face into his notebook, comparing the two versions, making them as close as possible. By the time the church bells chimed out the six o'clock hour, Anna Gross's homicide file had developed girth. Berg had been working for over twelve hours. He was tired and dirty and thirsty. A pint of beer would go down very smoothly.

But unlike most men after a hard day's work, he didn't head for the nearest beer hall. Nor did he take steps to go home. His decision was dictated by drives other than hunger pangs. She worked just a few blocks away from the station.

Proximity was how they had met. They had both been eating lunch in a nearby square. It had been a stunning autumn day, the sky cloudless and blue, the leaves in full color. The air had been crisp and cool at that turning point when the bite of winter started sinking its fangs into the bone marrow. She had been wrapped in a tattered wool coat with a scarf around her neck and a ski cap on her head. Her teeth were chattering. Her hands were encased in mittens, but her exposed nose had turned bright red. Had he known from the start that she was a Jewess, Berg wouldn't have bothered, but her looks were deceptive with her fair complexion and her bright blue eyes. He had offered her some hot coffee from his thermos, and they started talking.

One month later, they wound up in bed.

Margot worked in a small textile factory in the Isarvorstadt region-a swampy, low area where the banks of the Isar did little to stem the rising waters when the skies opened like faucets. It was a neighborhood of flooded streets and poverty, teeming with East European immigrants. The conditions were crowded, sanitation was poor, disease was rampant, and crime was pervasive. Still, roses grew in the most adverse of conditions.

The mill was hot and humid from the steam used to press the cloth, from the sweat of its workers: the weavers, dyers, laundresses, and pressers. The plant made many textiles, but specialized in the blue fabric that made up the typical Arbeitsmaid-Kleid-the farm-girl dress. It was Margot's job to press the fabric. Then she sent it down the assembly line where somebody else rolled the yards around square bolts or cardboard dowels for wholesale distribution.

It used to be that whenever Berg wanted to see her, he sent a messenger with instructions telling her when and where. In the past few months, however, he had turned bold, walking into the plant unannounced and right up to Margot's station, throwing his arms around her small waist and kissing her neck with the passion of ownership. She would scold him, of course, just as she was scolding him now.

"Not here!"

"Then come outside."

"I am working," she told him.

"It is past six."

"I know, but if I don't finish this job, he will fire me."

"How much longer?"

"Maybe ten minutes."

"I will wait," Berg said.

She smiled at him, perspiration covering her face. A hand, burned and roughened, settled gently on his forearm. "Then wait outside. Your association with me hurts both of us."

Berg regarded her pink, round wet face. Her long, curly hair was covered by a white cap. She was wearing a blue dress made out of the fabric she was pressing, a white apron tied around her waist. Her fingertips were callused. He kissed her palm, his tongue gently licking her skin. "Ten minutes, huh?"

"Yes, please."

He loved the urgency of her voice. Everything she did was urgent, as if time were running out. "Very well, then. At our usual spot?"

"Yes. Please. Go before my boss sees you."

Reluctantly, Berg left and stepped outside, into the dark made bitter by icy drizzle. The usual spot was a cigarette house-a front for prostitution. The police knew about these establishments, but since many frequented them, arrests were never made. He waited for her, tapping his foot, smoking a cigarette, biding the time of anticipation. Finally, he saw an outline coming his way. Still, he didn't recognize her until she was a few feet in front of him, the blackness was that thick.

Reacting instantly, Berg scooped her up and kissed her fiercely, driving her hand between his legs.

She pulled it away. "My God, you're forward."

"And you stink of sweat."

"So do you," she retorted. "But at least I come by my sweat honestly. What beer hall took my money this time, Axel?"

"Your money?"

Margot raised an eyebrow. "What did you bring me?"

He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a tin of cigarettes.

"And?"

"And?" He frowned. "That's not enough?"

She pouted. "The cigarettes are used up, and then I have nothing to show for it. I want something I can hold in my hand."

"Something you can swap for money."

"I can swap cigarettes for money, silly man."

"How about this, then?" With flash, he pulled out the feathered fan he had pilfered from the crime scene.

Her eyes widened. "Oh my gracious!" She gasped. "It is so beautiful!" She grabbed it, fanning her neck made wet by heat and steam and now drizzle. "Does it suit me?"

"Perfectly."

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. Her smile was radiant. "Thank you very much. But now I must do something for you."

"I can't stay long, Margot."

"It doesn't take long, Axel."

He wagged a finger at her. "Naughty girl."

"And aren't you happy that I am." She hooked her arm around his and together they crossed the street and went into a dilapidated rooming house. The man at the counter was fat, florid, and bored, picking dirt out of his nails. His eyes went first to her face, then to Berg's. He held the key aloft. Berg paid the fee, the entire transaction done without a word spoken.

Their third-floor room was dank and moldy. The decor consisted of a pitcher and bowl for washing hands and a bed covered by a worn feather duvet. The bedsprings were noisy, but as she had stated, it didn't take long. Afterward, she leaped up and started to dress, pulling on her garter belt and securing it around her hips.

"I hate this," Axel said. "This dirty room, this dirty bed . . . sneaking about like a couple of thieves."

"You're married." She rolled a stocking over her leg, then looked in his eyes. "You're married, you have children, and I'm a Jewess. It is suicide for both of us to have more."

"You don't aim high enough, my dear." Berg pulled up his trousers and buttoned his fly. "If you don't dream, you will always be at the bottom of the heap."

"Sometimes dreams turn to nightmares." She put on her other stocking and hitched it to her garter belt. Then she slipped her dress over her head. "Aren't you happy with what we have?"

"Of course I'm happy. You're so beautiful, Margot. You deserve better."

"You're enamored of youth, not of me."

"Not true! If it were just youth, you think I'd randomly take up with a Jewess?"

"I don't cost as much as the young Christian whores."

"Stop that, Margot, you are not a whore."

"Ask my mother. She will tell you differently."

Berg stared at her. "Your mother knows?"