“Look here,” I said, a little desperate now. “I’m a detective. I could make it my business.”

“A detective? Really?” The derision continued unabated. “You’re not much of a detective if you don’t know who lives here.”

She had a point. I felt it keenly, as if the point was one that had been made by Vlad the Impaler.

“I spoke to you one night a few weeks ago. I gave you my name and my telephone number and asked you to ask Frau Warzok to call me. And since she did I presume that you and she are at least on speaking terms. And here’s another thing. It’s an offense to obstruct a policeman in the execution of his duty,” I said. I hadn’t actually said I was a cop. That was an offense, too.

“Just a minute, please.” She put the phone down somewhere. It sounded like someone hitting the bass key on a xylophone. I heard muffled voices, and there was a longish pause before the receiver was gathered up again and someone else came on the line. The well-spoken voice was a man’s. I half-recognized it. But from where?

“Who is this, please?” asked the voice.

“My name is Bernhard Gunther,” I said. “I’m a detective. Frau Warzok is my client. She gave me this number to get in touch with her.”

“Frau Warzok does not live here,” said the man. He was cool but polite. “She never did live here. For a while we collected messages for her. When she was in Munich. But I believe she has gone home now.”

“Oh? And where’s that?”

“Vienna,” he said.

“Do you have a telephone number where I can reach her?”

“No, but I have an address,” he said. “Would you like me to give it to you?”

“Yes. Please.”

There was another longish pause while, I presumed, whoever it was looked up the address. “Horlgasse forty-two,” he said, finally. “Apartment three, Ninth District.”

“Thanks, Herr . . . ? Look, whoever are you? The butler? The maid’s sparring partner? What? How do I know that address isn’t a phony? Just to get rid of me.”

“I’ve told you all that I can,” he said. “Really.”

“Listen, chum, there’s money involved. A lot of money. Frau Warzok hired me to track down a legacy. And there’s a substantial recovery fee. I can’t collect if I don’t get a message to her. I’ll give you ten percent of what I’m on if you help me out here with some information. Like—”

“Good-bye,” said the voice. “And please don’t call again.”

The phone went dead. So I called again. What else could I do? But this time there was no reply. And the next time the operator told me that the number was out of order. Which left me sitting in the ink and without a change of trousers.