“These days a considerate German is someone who doesn’t knock at your door early in the morning in case you think it’s the Gestapo.”

I handed him the letter containing Muller’s resignation as an Adlon Hotel detective. He read it and then laid it on his desk.

“I can’t say I’m surprised or sorry. I’ve had my suspicions about that man for some time. Of course, for you it will mean there’s more to do. At least until we can find a replacement. Which is why I’m going to increase your salary. How does an extra ten marks a week sound?”

“It’s not Handel, but I guess I like it.”

“Good. Perhaps you can find a replacement. After all, you were very helpful with Fräulein Bauer. The stenographer? She’s been doing a lot of work for Herr Reles in 114. Apparently he’s very pleased with her.”

“Good.”

“You might know someone else. An ex-policeman. Someone like yourself. Someone reliable. Someone discreet. Someone smart.”

I nodded slowly and poured the drink down my throat.

Georg Behlert seemed to think he knew me, but I wasn’t sure I knew myself. Not anymore. Certainly not since my visit to see Otto Schuchardt on the Jewish Desk at Gestapo House.

It was, perhaps, time I did something about that.

I CAUGHT A NUMBER 10 TRAM WEST, across Invalidenstrasse and into Old Moabit, past the criminal courts and the prison. Next to Bolle’s Dairy—from which a strong smell of horse manure blew down the street toward the Lessing Bridge—was a dilapidated tenement. It was a crummy sort of area—even the trash in the street looked like something someone had thrown away.

Emil Linthe was on the top floor, and through the open window on the landing in front of his door, one could hear noise from the machine-tool factory on Huttenstrasse. It had been silent for almost a year during the Great Depression, but since the Nazis had come into government, the place was constantly active. There were just three iron beats, over and over again, like a waltz conducted by Thor, the god of thunder.

I knocked on the door, and eventually it opened, to reveal a tall, slim man in his thirties with a plentiful head of hair that was high at the front and almost nonexistent at the back. It was like finding a chaise longue on top of someone’s head.

“Do you ever get used to that noise?” I asked.

“What noise?”

“I guess you do. Emil Linthe?”

“Gone away. On holiday. Rügen Island.”

There was ink on his fingers. Enough to make me suspect I was talking to the right man after all.

“My mistake,” I said. “Maybe you’re going by a different name these days. Otto Trettin said it might be Maier, or maybe Schmidt. Walter Schmidt.”

Linthe’s persona deflated like a balloon. “A copper.”

“Relax. I’m not here to squeeze your wrists. I’m here on business. Your kind of business.”

“And why would I want to do business with the Berlin polenta?”