I followed her and the two Pekingese dogs that were always with her into the office of the hotel’s assistant managing director. This was her office, and when her husband, Louis, wasn’t around—and he wasn’t around much when the hunting season got under way—Hedda Adlon was very much in charge.

“So,” she said, closing the door, “what do we know about poor Herr Rubusch? Have you telephoned the police?”

“No, not yet. I was on my way to the Alex when you caught me. I wanted to tell them in person.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

In her early thirties, Hedda Adlon was much younger than her husband. Although she had been born in Germany, she’d spent much of her youth living in America, and she spoke German with a slight American accent. Like Max Reles. Only that was as far as the similarity went. She was blond, with a full German figure. But it was a healthy figure. As healthy as several million marks. You don’t get a healthier figure than that. She enjoyed entertaining and riding—she had been an enthusiastic member of the Berlin fox hunt until Hermann Goering had banned hunting with dogs in Germany—and was very gregarious, which was, I suspected, one of the reasons why the close-lipped Louis Adlon had married her in the first place. She added an extra touch of glamour to the hotel, like a mother-of-pearl inlay on the gates of paradise. She smiled a lot and was good at putting people at their ease and could hold a conversation with anyone. I remembered a dinner at the Adlon in which she was seated next to a Red Indian chief wearing his full native headdress: she spoke to him all evening, as if she’d been talking to the French ambassador. Of course, it’s always possible that he was the French ambassador. The French—especially the diplomats—do like their feathers and their decorations.

“I was going to ask the police if they might handle the matter discreetly, Frau Adlon. On the face of it, Herr Doctor Rubusch, who was married, had been entertaining a young lady in his room shortly before he died. No wife could ever like the news of her widowhood to be delivered with that kind of postscript. Not in my experience. So, for her sake, and the sake of the reputation of the hotel, I was hoping to put the matter straight into the hands of a homicide detective who’s an old friend of mine. Someone who’s equipped with enough human skills to deal sensitively with the case.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Bernhard. We’re grateful to you. But you said homicide? I thought his death was natural.”

“Even if he died in his sleep with a Bible in his arms, there has to be a homicide inquiry. That’s the law.”

“But you do agree with Dr. Küttner that his death was from natural causes.”

“Probably.”

“Only it wasn’t with a Bible in his arms, but a young lady. Am I to assume you mean a prostitute?”