I went inside and, at the desk in the cavernous main entrance hall, handed my business card to one of the clerks on duty. He had one of those startled animal faces that makes you think God has a wicked sense of humor.

“I wonder if you can help me,” I said unctuously. “The Adlon Hotel wishes to invite Herr Breitmeyer—that’s Arno Breitmeyer—to a gala reception in a couple of weeks. And we should like to know the correct way to address him and to which department we should send the invitation.”

“I wish I was going to a gala reception at the Adlon,” the clerk admitted, and consulted a thick leather-bound department list on the desk in front of him.

“To be honest, they can be rather stiff affairs. I don’t particularly like champagne. Give me beer and sausage any day.”

The clerk smiled ruefully as if he were not quite convinced, and found the name he was looking for. “Here we are. Arno Breitmeyer. He’s an SS-Standartenführer. That’s a colonel to you and me. He’s also the deputy Reich sports leader.”

“Is he, now? Then I expect that’s why they want to invite him. If he’s merely the deputy, then perhaps we should invite his boss as well. Who would that be, do you think?”

“Hans von Tschammer und Osten.”

“Yes, of course.”

I’d heard the name and seen it in the newspapers. At the time I’d thought it typical of the Nazis that they should have appointed an SA thug from Saxony to be Germany’s sporting leader. A man who had helped beat to death a thirteen-year-old Jewish boy. I guess it was the fact that the boy had been murdered in a Dessau gym that had really bolstered von Tschammer und Osten’s sporting credentials.

“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Must be nice working at the Adlon.”

“You might think that. But the only thing that stops it from being exactly like hell are the locks on the bedroom doors.”

It was one of the many maxims I’d heard from Hedda Adlon, the owner’s wife. I liked her a lot. We shared a sense of humor, although I think she had more of it than I did. Hedda Adlon had more of everything than I did.

Back in the hotel, I called Otto Trettin and told him some of what I’d discovered at the museum.

“So this fellow Reles,” said Otto. “The hotel guest. It looks as if he might have been in possession of the box quite legitimately.”

“That all depends on your notion of legitimacy.”

“In which case this little stenographer, the one who went back to Danzig—”

“Ilse Szrajbman.”

“Maybe she did steal the box, after all.”

“Maybe. But she’ll have had a good reason.”

“Like that, is it?”

“No. But I know the girl, Otto. And I’ve met Max Reles.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’d like to find out more before you go charging off to Danzig.”

“I’d like to pay less tax and make more love, but it’s not going to happen. What’s it to you if I go to Danzig?”