“That’s quite a walk,” I said, glancing back at the enormous drawing room. Engelbertina was already stuffing a cushion behind my back. That was when I noticed the tattoo on the top of her left forearm. Which went a long way to explaining how it was her hands were so tough. The rest of her must have been pretty tough, too. But for now I put it out of my mind. I was trying to get away from things like that. Besides, something good was cooking in the kitchen and, for the first time in weeks, I felt hungry. Another woman appeared in the doorway. She was attractive, too, in the same older, larger, slightly worn way that I was attractive myself. Her name was Raina, and she was the cook.

“Herr Gunther is a private detective,” said Henkell.

“That must be interesting,” said Gruen.

“When it gets interesting, that’s usually the time to reach for a gun,” I said.

“How does one get into that line of work?” asked Gruen, relighting his pipe. Engelbertina didn’t seem to like the smoke and waved it away from her face with the flat of her hand. Gruen ignored her and I made a mental note not to, and to smoke outside for a while.

“I used to be a cop in Berlin,” I said. “A detective with KRIPO. Before the war.”

“Did you ever catch a murderer?” she asked.

Normally I’d flick a question like that off my lapel. But I wanted to impress her. “Once,” I said. “A long time ago. A strangler called Gormann.”

“I remember that case,” said Gruen. “That was a famous case.”

I shrugged. “Like I said. It was a long time ago.”

“We shall have to watch our step, Engelbertina,” said Gruen. “Otherwise Herr Gunther will know all our nastiest little secrets. I expect he’s already started sizing us up.”

“Relax,” I told them. “Truth is, I never was much of a cop. I have a problem with authority.”

“That’s hardly very German of you, old boy,” said Gruen.

“That’s why I was in the hospital,” I said. “I got warned off a case I was working on. And the warning didn’t take.”

“I suppose you have to be very observant,” said Engelbertina.

“If I was, maybe I wouldn’t have got myself beaten up.”

“Good point,” agreed Gruen.

For a minute he and Engelbertina discussed a favorite detective story, which was my cue to switch off, briefly. I hate detective stories. I glanced at my surroundings. At the red-and-white-checked curtains, the green shutters, the hand-painted cabinets, the thick fur rugs, the two-hundred-year-old oak beams, the four-poster fire-place, the paintings of vines and flowers, and—no Alpine home was complete without one—an old ox harness. The room was big but I still felt as cozy as a slice of bread in an electric toaster.