I picked it up. The thing was about twenty-five centimeters long and as sharp as a bodkin. The heavy steel rectangular handle was embossed with Citizens Ice 100% Pure on one side and Citizens on the other. It seemed a curious thing to have brought from America until you remembered that it was possibly a favorite murder weapon. Certainly it looked like an effective one. I’d seen less lethal-looking switchblades sticking out of a man’s back. But there seemed to be little point in borrowing the ice pick in the hope that someone at the Alex might run some tests on it. Not as long as Max Reles was also using it to break the ice for his drinks.

I put down the ice pick and turned to examine the typewriter. A half-finished letter was still on the platen of the shiny Torpedo portable. I turned the platen knob until the paper was clear of the type guide and the paper fingers. The letter was addressed to Avery Brundage in Chicago and was written in English, but that didn’t stop me from seeing that the letter g on the Torpedo was riding one millimeter higher than the other keys.

I had the probable murder weapon. I had the typewriter on which Reles had written false bids for Olympic contracts. I had a copy of the report from the FBI. And a sheet from the Vienna KRIPO. Now all I had to do was check that the machine gun was still where I thought it was. Explaining that would be a tall order even for a man like Max Reles. I looked around for his screwdriver and, not seeing it, began to search the drawers.

“Looking for something in particular?”

It was Dora Bauer. She was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, naked, although she might as easily have covered herself with the object in her hands. It was big enough. A Mauser Bolo is a lot of gun. I wondered how long she would be able to hold it at arm’s length before her arms got tired.

“I thought no one was at home,” I said. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you, Dora dear. And so much of you, too.”

“I’ve been eyeballed before, polyp.”

“Whatever gave you that idea? Me, a polyp. Tsk-tsk.”

“Don’t tell me you’re searching the drawers to steal something. Not you. You’re not the type.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“No.” She shook her head. “You got me this job, and you didn’t even ask for a cut. What thief would have done that?”

“It proves you owe me something, surely.”

“You already collected that debt.”

“I did?”