“So maybe he was about nine or ten kilos lighter when he was in training,” said the Turk. “A middleweight. Or maybe a light heavyweight.” He looked again and then smacked the picture with the back of his hand. “I dunno. After they’ve been in the ring for a while, a lot of these pugs start to look the same. What makes you think he was Jewish? To me he looks like a goy.”

“He was circumcised,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, he was a southpaw, too.”

“I see.” The Turk nodded. “Well, maybe, just maybe, it could be that this is a fellow by the name of Erich Seelig. A few years ago he was a light heavyweight champion, from Bromberg. If it is him, this is the Jew who beat some pretty good fighters like Rere de Vos, Walter Eggert, and Gypsy Trollmann.”

“Gypsy Trollmann?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him, of course,” I said. “Who hasn’t? Whatever happened to that guy?”

“He’s the doorman at the Cockatoo, last I heard.”

“And Seelig? What’s his story?”

“We don’t get the newspapers here, friend. Everything I know is months old. But what I heard was that some SA thugs turned up at his last fight. A title defense against Helmut Hartkopp, in Hamburg. They put the frighteners on him. Because he was Jewish. After that he disappears. Maybe he leaves the country. Maybe he stays and ends up in the canal. Who knows? Berlin is a long way from Hamburg. But not as far as Bromberg. That’s in the Polish corridor, I think.”

“Erich Seelig, you say.”

“Maybe. I never had to look at no corpse before. Unless it was in the ring, of course. How’d you find me, anyway?”

“Fellow named Buckow at the T-gym. He said to say hello.”

“Bucky? Yeah, he’s all right, is Bucky.”

I took out my wallet and thumbed a leaf at him, but he wouldn’t take it, so I gave him all but one of my cigarettes, and Mrs. Charalambides did the same.

We were about to get back in the boat when something flew through the air and struck the man wearing the big hat. He dropped to one knee with one bloody hand pressed to his cheek.

“It’s those little bastards again,” spat the Turk.

In the distance, about thirty meters away, I saw a collection of khaki-clad youths now occupying a clearing in the forest. A stone flew through the air, narrowly missing Mrs. Charalambides.

“Yiddos,” they chanted in a singsong sort of way. “Yidd-os!”

“I’ve had enough of this,” said the Turk. “I’m going to sort those little bastards out.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t. You’ll only land yourself in trouble. Let me handle it.”

“What can you do?” said Mrs. Charalambides.

“We’ll see. Give me your room key.”

“My room key? What for?”

“Just do it.”