The entrance to the apartment, like the one on the floor above, was as big as a bus station. There was a silver tray for mail by the front door and an umbrella stand made out of an elephant’s foot. But it might just as easily have belonged to the large woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a pinafore and was supporting herself on a pair of crutches, having only one leg. “Who is it, Heini?” she asked.

“It’s the police, dear,” he said.

“The police?” She sounded surprised. “What do they want?”

I had been right after all. Clearly these people hadn’t reported anything to the police at Deutschmeister Platz, or anywhere else for that matter.

“I’m very sorry to disturb you,” I said. “But there’s been an incident in the apartment upstairs.”

“An incident? What kind of incident?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you too much at this stage,” I said. “However, I was wondering when you last saw Frau Warzok. And when you did, if she was with anyone. Or if you heard anything unusual from upstairs, perhaps.”

“We haven’t seen her in over a week,” said Heini, absently combing the hairs on his arms with his fingers. “And then just for a minute or two. I thought she was away. Her mail’s still there.”

The woman on crutches had maneuvered herself toward me. “We don’t really have much to do with her,” she said. “We say hello and good morning. A quiet woman.”

“When she’s around we never hear very much,” said Heini. “Just her piano, and then only when the window is open in summer. She plays beautifully. Used to give concerts before the war. When people still had money for that kind of thing.”

“It’s mostly children and their mothers who come to see her now,” said Heini’s wife. “She gives piano lessons.”

“Anyone else?”

They were quiet for a moment.

“There was someone, about a week ago,” said Heini. “An Ami.”

“In uniform?”

“No,” he said. “But you can tell, can’t you? The way they walk. Their shoes. Their haircuts. Everything.”

“What did this Ami look like?”

“Well dressed. Nice sports jacket. Well-pressed trousers. Not tall. Not short. Average height, really. Glasses. Gold watch. Quite tanned, too. Oh yes, and another reason I knew he was an American. His car was parked outside. An American car. A green one with white tires.”

“Thank you,” I said, retrieving the inspector’s business card. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“But what’s happened?” asked Heini’s wife.

“If anyone asks, I didn’t tell you,” I said. “I shouldn’t be saying anything at all. Not yet. But you’re respectable people, I can see that. Not the kind of people to go around spreading idle talk about something like this. Frau Warzok is dead. Murdered, probably.”

“Murdered! Here?” She sounded shocked. “In this building? In this district?”