“And you can prove that.”

“Mister, this is Germany.”

She opened her bag to display several documents. One of them, in red pigskin, caught my eye.

“You’re a Party member?”

“Doing what I do, it’s always advisable to have the best documentation. This one turns away all sorts of unwelcome questions. Most cops leave you alone as soon as they see a Party card.”

“I don’t doubt it. What’s the yellow one?”

“My Reich Chamber of Culture card. When I’m not typing or selling mouse, I’m an actress. I figured being a Party member might get me a few parts. But not so far. Last play I had was Pandora’s Box at the Kammerspiele on Schumannstrasse. I was Lulu. That was three years ago. So I type for Herr Weiss at Odol and dream of something better. So what’s the pitch?”

“Only this. We get a lot of businessmen here at the Adlon. Quite a few of them need the services of a temporary stenographer. They pay well. Much more than the going rate in an office. Maybe not as good as what you’d make on your back in an hour, but a lot better than Odol. Plus, it’s honest, and above all, it’s safe. And it would mean you could come in and out of the Adlon quite legitimately.”

“Are you serious?” There was real interest and excitement in her tone of voice. “Work here? At the Adlon? Really?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“On the level?”

I smiled and nodded.

“You smile, Gunther, but believe me, these days there’s something dodgy about nearly all jobs a girl is offered.”

“Do you think Herr Weiss would give you a reference?”

“If I asked him nicely he’d give me anything.” She smiled vainly. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Gunther.”

“Just don’t let me down, Dora. If you do—” I shook my head. “Just don’t, all right? Who knows? You might even end up marrying the minister of the interior. With what’s in your handbag I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

“Hey, you’re one of the workers, do you know that?”

“I wish I was, Dora, I wish to God I was.”

5

THE VERY NEXT DAY the guest in suite 114 reported a theft. This was one of the VIP corner rooms, right over the offices of North German Lloyd, and, accompanied by Herr Behlert, the hotel manager, I went along to interview him.

Max Reles was a German American from New York. Tall, powerful, balding, with feet like shoe boxes and fists as big as two basketballs, he resembled a cop more than a businessman—at least, a cop who could afford to buy silk ties from Sparmann and his suits (assuming he didn’t pay attention to the Jewish boycott) from Rudolf Hertzog. He wore cologne and diamond cuff links that were almost as polished and shiny as his shoes.

Behlert and I advanced into the suite, and Reles looked at him and then at me with eyes as narrow as his mouth. His bare-knuckle features seemed to wear a permanent scowl. I’d seen less pugnacious faces on a church wall.