“This close to Mulack Strasse and the Always True, they must have figured they could hold on to their guns,” said one of the bulls.

“Maybe.” I started to retrace my steps along Hirtenstrasse, still searching the ground until my eyes caught sight of a drain cover in the gutter. It was a simple cast-iron grate, but someone had lifted it, and recently: The dirt was missing from two of the bars where someone might have grasped it. One of the Schupo men pulled it up while I was removing my jacket and my shirt; and then, inspecting the cobblestones around the open drain, I decided to remove my trousers as well.

“He was a dancer at the Haller Revue before he was police,” said one of the cops, folding my clothes over his arm.

“Versatile, isn’t he?”

“If Heimannsberg were here,” I said, “he’d make you do it, so shut up.”

“I’d put my whole fucking head down that drain if I thought it’d find the Jew bastard who killed Captain Anlauf.”

I lay down next to the drain and plunged my arm into thick black water, right up to the shoulder.

“What makes you think it was a Jew?” I asked.

“Everyone knows that the Marxists and the Jews are one and the same,” said the Schupo man.

“I wouldn’t repeat that in front of Counselor Heller if I were you.”

“This town is sick with Jews,” said the Schupo man.

“Don’t mind him, sir,” said the other cop. “Anyone with a hat and a big nose is a Jew in his book. See if you can find any war reparations while you’re down there.”

“Funny,” I said. “If I wasn’t up to my shoulder in stagnant water, I might fucking laugh. Now put the cork back in.”

I felt a hard, metallic object and fished out a pistol with a long barrel. I handed it to the cop who wasn’t holding my clothes.

“Luger, is it?” he said, wiping some of the filth off the gun. “Looks like an artillery-corps version. That’ll put an extra keyhole in your door.”

I kept on searching the bottom of the drain. “No commies down here,” I said. “Just this.” I brought up the other gun, an automatic with a curious, irregular shape, as if someone had tried to break the slide from the muzzle.

We carried the two weapons over to a street water pump and washed some of the filth away. The smaller automatic was a Dreyse .32.

I washed my arm and put my clothes back on and took the two guns back to the Seventh Street Precinct Station on Bülowplatz. Back in the detectives’ room, Heller hailed my arrival with a verbal pat on the back.

“Well done, Gunther,” he said.

“Thanks, sir.”