“Very likely. We chase them out of the hotel like cats where and when we can. But it’s not always easy. This one was wearing a tiara.”

“That’s a nice touch.” Hedda put a cigarette into a holder. “Clever. Who’s ever going to challenge someone in a tiara?”

“I might do it if it was a man wearing one.”

She smiled, lit the cigarette, sucked at the holder, and then blew out the smoke, not inhaling the stuff at all, like a child pretending to smoke, pretending to be a grown-up. It reminded me of me, pretending to be a detective, going through the motions with just the taste of a proper investigation on my lips and not much more. Hotel detective. Really it was a contradiction in terms. Like national socialism. Racial purity. Aryan superiority.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be getting along to the Alex. The boys in Homicide are a little different from most people. They like to hear bad news as soon as possible.”

10

A LOT OF WHAT I’D TOLD Hedda Adlon was nonsense, of course. I had no old friends in Homicide. Not anymore. Otto Trettin was in Counterfeiting and Forgery. Bruno Stahlecker was part of Inspectorate G: the Juvenile Section. Ernst Gennat, who ran Homicide, was no longer a friend. Not since the purge of 1933. And there was certainly no one with any human skills who worked in Homicide. What good were they when you were arresting Jews and communists—when you were busy building the new Germany? All the same, there were some Homicide cops who were worse than others, and these were the bulls I hoped to avoid. For the sake of Frau Rubusch. And Frau Adlon. And the reputation of the hotel. And all of it courtesy of Bernie Gunther, Ring-cycle hero and good guy, dragon slaying a specialty.

Near the front desk in the Alex I saw Heinz Seldte, the young cop who seemed too intelligent to be wearing a SCHUPO uniform. It was a good start. I waved him over, amiably.

“Who are the duty detectives in Homicide?” I asked.

Seldte didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. He was too busy coming to attention and looking over my shoulder.

“You turning yourself in for a murder, Bernie?”

Given the fact that I had actually murdered someone, and quite recently, too, I turned around and tried to look as nonchalant as I was able to. But my heart was beating, as if I’d run all the way along Unter den Linden.

“That all depends on who I’m supposed to have murdered, sir. I can think of one or two people I’d be happy to put my hands up for. Might be worth it at that. As long as I knew they were actually dead.”

“Police officers, perhaps.”

“Well, now, that would be telling, sir.”

“Still the same young bastard, I see.”

“Yes, sir. Only not so young. Not anymore.”

“Come to my office. Let’s talk.”

I didn’t argue. It’s never a good idea to disagree with the head of the Berlin Criminal Police. Erich Liebermann von Sonnenberg was still just a criminal director when I’d been a detective at the Alex, back in 1932. That was the year von Sonnenberg had joined the Nazi Party, and this had guaranteed his preferment by the Nazis after 1933. I respected him in spite of that. For one thing, he had always been an effective policeman and, for another, he was a good friend of Otto Trettin, as well as the coauthor of his stupid book.