It was a substantial two-story house—three if you counted the dormer window in the high mansard roof—with a curving bay-front door and a long white picket fence atop a substantial granite wall. It was painted the same color of yellowish beige that had been used to paint a small Star of David on the similar garden wall of the house on the opposite side of the street. There were one or two cars parked in front, both new and both made by Daimler-Benz. The trees had been recently pruned. It was a nice German neighborhood: quiet, well kept, solidly respectable. Even that yellow star looked as if it had been painted there by a professional decorator.

I mounted the front steps and tugged on a bell pull as big as a ship’s cannon, and almost as loud.

A light came on and a maid appeared in the door—a big pig’s-trotter of a girl with red braids and a stubborn, almost belligerent, cast to her jaw.

“Yes?”

“Bernhard Gunther,” I said. “Frau Rubusch is expecting me.”

“I wasn’t told about it.”

“Perhaps Hitler’s telegram hasn’t arrived yet. I’m sure he would have wanted to let you know.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she said, and, taking a large step backward, opened the curved door. “If you only knew how much I’m expected to do around here.”

I put down my briefcase and took off my hat and coat while she closed the front door and then locked it carefully.

“It sounds to me like you need a servant,” I said.

She shot me a high-velocity look.

“You had better wait in here.” She opened a door with the side of her foot and chopped at an electric light switch with the side of her hand. “Make yourself comfortable while I go and fetch her.” Then, seeing my hat and coat, she sighed loudly and took them, shaking her head at the inconvenience of finding herself with yet another duty to perform.

I went over to the fireplace, where a blackened piece of log was almost burning, and picked up a long poker. “Want me to bring this back to life? I’m good with fire. Show me a shelf of decadent literature and I’ll have you a blaze going in no time.”

The maid smiled back at me bleakly, although it could just as easily have been a sneer. It crossed her mind to say something tart until she thought better of it. I had a poker in my hand, after all, and she looked just the type who gets hit by one. I probably would have done it, too, if I’d been married to her. Not that being struck about the head with a poker would have troubled that girl very much, especially when she was hungry. I’ve seen hippos that looked more vulnerable.