‘A fellow by the name of Hans Jurgen Bock. Until recently, he was in the cement with somebody by the name of Kurt Mutschmann, a nutcracker.’

‘And you think that this Mutschmann might have been the one who opened the Pfarrs’ safe, right?’

‘Both he and Bock are members of the same ring, as was the owner of the excuse for a hotel we just visited.’

‘But if Bock is in a ring with Mutschmann and Tillessen, what’s he doing working in motorway construction?’

‘That’s a good question.’ I shrugged and added, ‘Who knows, maybe he’s trying to go straight? Whatever he’s doing, we ought to speak to him.’

‘Perhaps he can tell us where to find Mutschmann.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘And Tillessen.’

I shook my head. ‘Tillessen’s dead,’ I explained. ‘Von Greis was killed, beaten with a broken billiard cue. A few days ago, in the police morgue, I saw what happened to the other half of that billiard cue. It was pushed up Tillessen’s nose, into his brain.’

Inge grimaced uncomfortably. ‘But how do you know it was Tillessen?’

‘I don’t for sure,’ I admitted. ‘But I know that Mutschmann is hiding, and that it was Tillessen who he went to stay with when he got out of prison. I don’t think Tillessen would have left a body lying around his own pension if he could possibly have avoided it. The last I heard, the police still hadn’t made a positive ID on the corpse, so I’m assuming that it must be Tillessen.’

‘But why couldn’t it be Mutschmann?’

‘I don’t see it that way. A couple of days ago my informer told me that there was a contract out on Mutschmann, by which time the body with the cue up its nose had already been fished out of the Landwehr. No, it could only be Tillessen.’

‘And Von Greis? Was he a member of this ring too?’

‘Not this ring, but another one, and far more powerful. He worked for Goering. All the same, I can’t explain why he should have been there.’ I swilled some brandy around my mouth like a mouthwash, and when I had swallowed it, I picked up the telephone and called the Reichsbahn. I spoke to a clerk in the payroll department.

‘My name is Rienacker,’ I said. ‘Kriminalinspecktor Rienacker of the Gestapo. We are anxious to trace the whereabouts of an autobahn-construction worker by the name of Hans Jurgen Bock, pay reference 30 — 4 — 232564. He may be able to help us in apprehending an enemy of the Reich.’

‘Yes,’ said the clerk meekly. ‘What is it that you wish to know?’

‘Obviously, the section of the autobahn on which he is working, and whether or not he’ll be there today.’

‘If you will please wait one minute, I shall go and check the records.’ Several minutes elapsed.

‘That’s quite a nice little act you have there,’ said Inge.