Ferdinandstrasse ran south from the railway line. There was a policeman, a young Anwärter in the Orpo, standing guard outside Number 16, which was missing most of the roof and all of its windows. The bungalow’s blackened timbers and brickwork told the story eloquently enough. I parked the Hanomag and walked up to the garden gate, where I flipped out my identification for the young bull, a spotty-looking youth of about twenty. He looked at it carefully, naively, and said redundantly: ‘A private investigator, eh?’

‘S’right. I’ve been retained by the insurance company to investigate the fire.’ I lit a cigarette and watched the match suggestively as it burned towards my fingertips. He nodded, but his face appeared troubled. It cleared all of a sudden as he recognized me.

‘Hey, didn’t you used to be in Kripo up at the Alex?’ I nodded, my nostrils trailing smoke like a factory chimney. ‘Yes, I thought I recognized the name - Bernhard Gunther. You caught Gormann, the Strangler, didn’t you? I remember reading about it in the newspapers. You were famous.’ I shrugged modestly. But he was right. When I caught Gormann I was famous for a while. I was a good bull in those days.

The young Anwärter took off his shako and scratched the top of his squarish head. ‘Well, well,’ he said; and then: ‘I’m going to join Kripo. That is, if they’ll have me.’

‘You seem a bright enough fellow. You should do all right.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Hey, how about a tip?’

‘Try Scharhorn in the three o’clock at the Hoppegarten.’ I shrugged. ‘Hell, I don’t know. What’s your name, young fellow?’

‘Eckhart,’ he said. ‘Wilhelm Eckhart.’

‘So, Wilhelm, tell me about the fire. First of all, who’s the pathologist on the case?’

‘Some fellow from the Alex. I think he was called Upmann or Illmann.’

‘An old man with a small chin-beard and rimless glasses?’ He nodded. ‘That’s Illmann. When was he here?’

‘Day before yesterday. Him and Kriminalkommissar Jost.’

‘Jost? It’s not like him to get his flippers dirty. I’d have thought it would take more than just the murder of a millionaire’s daughter to get him off his fat arse.’ I threw my cigarette away, in the opposite direction from the gutted house: there didn’t seem any point in tempting fate.

‘I heard it was arson,’ I said. ‘Is that true, Wilhelm?’

‘Just smell the air,’ he said.

I inhaled deeply, and shook my head.

‘Don’t you smell the petrol?’

‘No. Berlin always smells like this.’

‘Maybe I’ve just been standing here a long time. Well, they found a petrol can in the garden, so I guess that seals it.’

‘Look, Wilhelm, would you mind if I just took a quick look around? It would save me having to fill out some forms. They’ll have to let me have a look sooner or later.’