“Not if you’re Vera Messmann,” I said. “You’ll need some form of identity to prove who you are at the bank of course. Bankers are rather less trusting than detectives.” I smiled. “Especially banks like Spaengler’s. It’s in Dorotheengasse. In the International Zone.”

“Look, Herr Gunther, if this is a joke,” she said, “it’s not a very funny one. Twenty-five thousand to someone like me. To anyone. That’s serious money.”

“I can leave now, if you’d prefer,” I said. “You won’t ever see me again.” I shrugged. “Listen, I can understand you being nervous about me coming here like this. Maybe I’d be nervous if I were you. So perhaps I should go, anyway. But just promise me you’ll come to the bank at three. After all, what have you got to lose? Nothing.”

I turned and reached for the door handle.

“No, please don’t leave yet.” She turned on her heel and walked into the living room. “Take off your hat and coat and come on through.”

I did what I was told. I like doing what I’m told when there’s a half-decent woman involved. There was a baby grand with the lid up and a piece by Schubert on the music stand. In front of the French window was a pair of silver gilt dolphin side chairs with blue tufted upholstery. Against one of the walls was a gilt-trimmed floral-design settee with roll arms. There were a couple of blackamoor pedestals that didn’t seem to feel the cold, and a big carved cabinet with cupid heads on the door. There were plenty of old pictures and an expensive-looking Murano wall mirror that showed me up looking about as out of place as a wild boar in a toy shop. There was a French marble clock with a bronze fop reading a book. I guessed it wasn’t a book by Agatha Christie. It was the kind of room where books were discussed more often than football, and women sat with their knees together and listened to plangent zither music on the radio. It told me that Vera Messmann didn’t need the money as much as she needed the glasses. She put them on again and faced a neat little drinks table underneath the mirror.

“Drink?” she said. “I have schnapps, cognac, and whiskey.”

“Schnapps,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Please smoke if you want. I don’t smoke myself but I enjoy the smell of it.” She handed me my drink and steered us to the blue chairs.

I sat down, took out my pipe, looked at it for a moment, and then slipped it back into my pocket. I was Bernie Gunther now, not Eric Gruen, and Bernie Gunther smoked cigarettes. I found some Reemtsmas and began a roll-up with the pipe tobacco.

“I love to watch a man make one of those,” she said, leaning forward on her chair.