“Yes, yes, I think I have heard that name before. But it wasn’t in connection with Britta Warzok. A few months ago, a man turned up at my house in Garmisch. I think his name might have been Gunther. He said he was a private detective and that he was looking for a witness who might assist in the appeal of another old comrade I used to know. A fellow named von Starnberg. He’s currently serving a sentence for war crimes in Landsberg Prison. What does your Bernhard Gunther look like?”

“We don’t know,” admitted the cop with the scar. “But from what you’ve told us, he’s the man we’re looking for all right. A private detective, based in Munich.”

“Can you tell us anything about him?” asked the other.

“Yes, but look here, do you mind if I sit down? I’ve had a bit of a shock.”

“Please.”

They followed me to a big leather sofa where I sat down. I took out the pipe and started to fill it, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” said the hat. “It will help get rid of the smell.”

“He wasn’t very tall,” I said. “Well dressed. A bit too fastidious, you might say. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not from Munich, I’d say. Somewhere else, probably. Hamburg maybe. Berlin, possibly.”

“He’s from Berlin,” said the scar. “He used to be a policeman.”

“A policeman? Yes, well, he did strike me a bit that way. You know. Full of himself. A bit officious.” I hesitated. “No offense, gentlemen. What I mean is, he was very correct. I must say he didn’t strike me as the type to murder anyone at all. If you don’t mind my saying so. I’ve met a few psychopathic personalities during my years as a doctor, but your Herr Gunther wasn’t one of those.” I settled back on the sofa and puffed at my pipe. “What makes you think it was he who killed her?”

“We found his business card on the mantelpiece,” said the hat. “There was blood on it. We also found an initialed handkerchief with blood on it. His initials.”

I remembered using my own handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from the stump of my little finger. “Gentlemen, she was strangled,” I said, carefully. “I don’t see that a bit of blood proves anything.”

“The handkerchief was on the bathroom floor,” said the scar. “We figure that she might have hit him before she died. Anyway, we phoned the murder in to the IP on Kärntnerstrasse. It seems the Amis have a file on this Gunther. There’s an Ami on his way here now. From the Stiftskaserne. Matter of fact, we thought you might be him until we heard you call out for Frau Warzok. And saw the bag.”