“That would seem to cover pretty much everything,” I said, looking at the signs.

“I thought you said this place was owned by a Turk,” she said.

“No, he just called himself a Turk. He’s German.”

“Correction,” said a man walking toward me. “He’s a Jew.” The man was the Neanderthal I’d seen before—a little shorter than I had supposed but as broad as a farm gate. He was wearing a white roll-neck, white gym slacks, and white gym shoes, but his eyes were small and as black as two lumps of coal. He looked like a medium-sized polar bear.

“That explains the sign, I suppose,” I said to nobody in particular. And then, to the nobody in the roll-neck, “Hey, Primo, did the Turk sell the place, or did someone just steal it off him?”

“I’m the new owner,” said the man, lifting his belly into his chest and poking a jaw as big as a toilet seat toward me.

“Well, I guess you answered my question, Primo.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Gunther, Bernhard Gunther. And this is my aunt Hilda.”

“Are you a friend of Solly Mayer’s?”

“Who?”

“I guess you answered my question. Solly Mayer was the Turk’s real name.”

“I was hoping he could help me to identify someone, that’s all. Someone who used to be a fighter, like the Turk. I’ve got a photograph here.” I took the picture of Fritz out of the file and showed it to the roll-neck. “Maybe you’d care to take a look at it yourself, Primo.”

To give him credit, he looked at the photograph as if he really was trying to help.

“I know, he’s not looking his best. When this was taken, he’d spent several days floating in the canal.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Private.”

Still looking at the picture, he started to shake his head.

“Are you sure? We think he might have been a Jewish fighter.”

He handed the picture back immediately. “Floating in the canal, you say?”

“That’s right. Aged about thirty.”

“Forget it. If your floater was a Jew, then I’m glad he’s dead. That sign on the wall isn’t for show, you know, snooper.”

“No? It’d be a strange kind of sign that isn’t for show, don’t you think?”

I slipped the picture back in the file and handed it to Mrs. Charalambides, just in case. Roll-neck had the look of a man who was building up steam to hit someone, and that someone was me.

“We don’t like Jews, and we don’t like the kind of people who would waste other people’s time looking for them. And, by the way, I don’t like you calling me Primo, neither.”