‘You don’t act like someone who knows nothing,’ I said. ‘I think you’re scared of something.’

‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘Ever hear of the Queer Squad?’ He shook his head. ‘You might say they used to be colleagues of mine. I was thinking that if I found out you’d been holding out on me, I’d have a word with them. Tell them you were a smelly little para 175.’ He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and outrage.

‘Do I look like I suck lemons? I’m not queer, you know I’m not.’

‘Yes, but they don’t. And who are they going to believe?’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’ He grabbed my wrist.

‘From what I hear of it, left-handers don’t have too good a time of it in the K Zs.’ Neumann stared glumly into his coffee.

‘You evil bastard,’ he sighed. ‘A couple of hundred you said, and a bit more.’

‘A hundred now, and two more if it’s on the level.’ He started to twitch.

‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Herr Gunther. There’s a ring involved. They’d kill me for sure if they found out I’d fingered them.’ Rings were unions of ex-convicts, dedicated officially to the rehabilitation of criminals; they had respectable club names, and their rules and regulations spoke of sporting activities and social gatherings. Not infrequently, a ring would host a lavish dinner (they were all very rich) at which defence lawyers and police officials would appear as guests of honour. But behind their semi-respectable façades the rings were nothing more than the institutions of organized crime in Germany.

‘Which one is it?’ I asked.

‘The “German Strength”.’

‘Well, they won’t find out. Anyway, none of them are as powerful as they used to be. There’s only one ring that’s doing good business these days and that’s the Party.’

‘Vice and drugs may have taken a bit of a hammering,’ he said, ‘but the rings still run the gambling, the currency rackets, the black market, new passports, loan-sharking and dealing in stolen goods.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘Believe me, Herr Gunther, they’re still strong. You don’t want to get in their way.’ He lowered his voice and leaned towards me. ‘I’ve even heard a strong whisper that they canned some old Junker who was working for the Prime Minister. How do you like that, eh? The bulls don’t even know that he’s dead yet.’

I racked my brain and came across the name that I had copied from Gert Jeschonnek’s address book. ‘This Junker’s name; it wouldn’t have been Von Greis, would it?’

‘I didn’t hear no name. All I know is that he’s dead, and that the bulls are still looking for him.’ He flicked his ash negligently at the ashtray.

‘Now tell me about the nutcracker.’