“That’s him, all right,” said the driver. “They don’t come much bigger. And they sure don’t come any tougher.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.

At this the big guy grabbed the cigarette out of my mouth, opened the window and threw it out, then pushed me toward the cool night air rushing past the car. “You need some fresh air is all,” he said. “You’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Is he all right?” The driver glanced around nervously. “I don’t want him throwing up in this car.”

“He’s all right,” said the big man. He unscrewed a hip flask and poured some more brandy into my mouth. “Aren’t you, tough guy?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” said the bowler hat. “We’re here.”

The car stopped. “Where’s here?” I asked.

They got me out of the car and dragged me into a well-lit doorway where they propped me up against a pile of bricks. “This is the state hospital,” said the big man. “At Bogenhausen. You rest easy awhile. Someone will find you in a minute, I expect. Get you fixed up. You’ll be all right, Gunther.”

“Very thoughtful,” I said, and tried to collect my thoughts, enough to focus on the registration number of the car. But I was seeing double and then, for a moment, nothing at all. When I opened my eyes again the car was gone and a man with a white coat was kneeling in front of me.

“You’ve been hitting it rather hard, haven’t you, mister?” he said.

“Not me,” I said. “Someone else. And the ‘it’ was me, Doc. Like I was Max Schmeling’s favorite punch bag.”

“You sure about that?” he asked. “You do stink of brandy.”

“They gave me a drink,” I said. “To make me feel better about cutting off my finger.” I waved my bloody fist in his face by way of an affidavit.

“Mm-hmm.” He sounded like he had yet to be convinced. “We get a lot of drunks who injure themselves and come here,” he said. “Who think we’re just here to clean up their mess.”

“Look, Mr. Schweitzer,” I whispered. “I’ve been beaten to a pulp. If you laid me flat on the ground you could print tomorrow’s newspaper on me. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

“Maybe. What’s your name and address? And just so I won’t feel like an idiot when I find the bottle in your pocket, what’s the name of the new chancellor?”

I told him my name and address. “But I have no idea what the name of our new chancellor is,” I said. “I’m still trying to forget the last one.”

“Can you walk?”

“Maybe as far as a wheelchair, if you can point one out.”