“Ah, Miss Simpson,” said the voice, suddenly syrupy. “How nice of you to come all this way. Do come in.” A buzzer sounded, the gate clicked unlocked, and Jean pushed her way into a lovely front garden. She walked the four steps that separated the gate from the front door and before she could knock she heard the sound of latches being undone on the other side. In another second the door swung open and there stood a woman who could not have been more than a few years older than Jean. She had blond hair fading to gray, square shoulders, and kind blue eyes. She smiled broadly at Jean—the smile of a sister or a long-lost cousin.

“What a lovely surprise,” she said, and Jean found that, for the moment at least, she could not be angry. Even her curiosity had ebbed. Ingrid Weiss had a presence that did more than put Jean at ease—it made her feel a comfort and safety akin to what she felt curled up on the couch in her childhood home reading a good book while her mother made soup in the kitchen. She could not resist smiling but could find no words to say.

Ingrid reached out and took Jean’s hand, pulling her gently toward the door. “Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”

Since they had spotted her standing in front of Ingrid’s house ringing the bell, Dietrich and Eva decided they had better pretend they had changed their minds and followed Jean Simpson all day. Ingrid might not like the story, but it would be better than, We spent the afternoon at the Hotel Amba and just happened to notice Miss Simpson standing on your doorstep as our taxi pulled up.

“That is her, right?” said Eva as Dietrich paid for the taxi.

“Absolutely,” said Dietrich. “Unless there’s another American woman in that outfit wandering around Munich.”

“You don’t think she came all the way here just to say thank you to Ingrid?”

“Not a chance,” said Dietrich. “We’d better go in the back way.”