I walked round Six’s desk and looked at the photographs that were arranged there. I picked one of them up, and stared grimly at the woman in the picture. I recognized her immediately. It was the woman from the beach house at Wannsee; the woman I had socked; the woman who I had thought was Eva, and was now calling herself Frau Teichmüller; the woman who in all probability had killed her husband and his mistress: it was Six’s only daughter, Grete. As a detective, you have to expect to make mistakes; but it is nothing short of humiliating to come face to face with evidence of your own stupidity; and it is all the more galling when you discover that the evidence has been staring you in the face all along.

‘Herr Six, this is going to sound crazy, I know, but I now believe that at least until yesterday afternoon your daughter was alive, and preparing to fly to London with your private secretary.’

Six’s face darkened, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me. ‘What the hell are you babbling about now, you bloody fool?’ he roard. ‘What do you mean “alive”? My daughter is dead and buried.’

‘I suppose that she must have come home unexpectedly and found Paul in bed with his bit of brush, both of them drunk as cats. Grete shot them both and then, realizing what she had done, she telephoned the only person she felt she could turn to, Haupthandler. He was in love with her. He would have done anything for her, and that included helping her to get away with murder.’

Six sat down heavily. He was pale and trembling. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. But it was clear that he was finding my explanation only too plausible.