In the outside office the anaemic boy was reading a magazine. My eyes caught sight of the keys before I’d finished telling him that his boss required his presence: they were lying on the desk next to the telephone. He grunted and wrenched himself out of his seat. I hesitated at the door.

‘Oh, do you have a piece of paper?’

He pointed to the pad on which the keys were lying. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, and went into Jeschonnek’s office.

‘Thanks, I will.’ The key-ring was labelled ‘Office’. I took a cigarette case out of my pocket and opened it. In the smooth surface of the modelling clay I made three impressions — two sides and a vertical — of both keys. I suppose that you could say I did it on impulse. I’d hardly had time to digest everything that Jeschonnek had said; or rather, what he hadn’t said. But then I always carry that piece of clay, and it seems a shame not to use it when the opportunity presents itself. You would be surprised how often a key that I’ve had made with that mould comes in useful.

Outside, I found a public telephone and called the Adlon. I still remembered lots of good times at the Adlon, and lots of friends, too.

‘Hello, Hermine,’ I said, ‘it’s Bernie.’ Hermine was one of the girls on the Adlon’s switchboard.

‘You stranger,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ I said.

‘So’s the Führer, but he still manages to get around and wave to us.’

‘Maybe I should buy myself an open-top Mercedes and a couple of outriders.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘I need a small favour, Hermine.’

‘Ask.’

‘If a man telephones and asks you or Benita if there is an Indian princess staying at the hotel, would you please say that there is? If he wants to speak to her, say she’s not taking any calls.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does this princess have a name?’

‘You know the names of any Indian girls?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I saw a film the other week which had this Indian girl in it. Her name was Mushmi.’

‘Let it be Princess Mushmi then. And thanks, Hermine. I’ll be speaking to you soon.’