It wasn’t easy. But as far as I was able to determine, I had been set up as the prime suspect in two murders, most probably by the CIA. The American with the green car described by Frau Warzok’s neighbor could only have been Major Jacobs. But as to the true identity of the woman who had come to see me in my offices in Munich, purporting to be Frau Warzok, I had no idea. The real Frau Warzok was dead, murdered by Jacobs, or some other agent of the CIA. Very likely I had been given her address in order that I could be implicated in her murder. The same reason I had been given Vera Messmann’s address by Eric Gruen. Which meant that he and Henkell and Jacobs were all in it together. Whatever it was.

The cognac arrived with my cigarettes. I poured myself a glass and lit a cigarette. Already there were several girls gathered at the bar who were looking my way. I wondered if there was a pecking order, or if, as at a taxi stand, it would be whoever was next in line. I felt like a piece of fish in an alley full of cats. The band struck up with “Be a Clown,” which also seemed appropriate. I wasn’t much of a detective, that was certain at least. Detectives were supposed to notice things. Clowns, on the other hand, were supposed to be easily tricked, and to take the fall for the laughs. I had that part down pat. Back at the bar, two of the snappers were arguing. I supposed it was about which of them would have the dubious honor of picking me up. I hoped it would be the redhead. She looked like she had some life in her, and life was something I badly needed to be around. Because the more I thought about my situation, the more I wanted to blow my brains out. If I had owned a gun I might have considered it more seriously. Instead, I did some more thinking about the spot I was in, and how I had got there.