‘And how is Berlin?’ he asked quietly, offering us a cigarette from his box. His own smoke he fitted into a rosewood holder that was more like a pipe and which held the cigarette vertically, at a right-angle to his face.

‘Things are quiet,’ I said. ‘But that’s because everyone is holding their breath.’

‘Quite so,’ he said, and waved at the newspaper on his desk. ‘Chamberlain has flown to Bad Godesberg for more talks with the Fuhrer.’

Korsch pulled the paper towards him and glanced at the headline. He pushed it back again.

‘There’s too much damned talk, if you ask me,’ said Martin.

I grunted non-committally.

Martin grinned and laid his square chin on his hand. ‘Arthur Nebe tells me that you’ve got a psychopath stalking the streets of Berlin, raping and cutting the flower of German maidenhood. He also tells me that you’ve a mind to take a look at Germany’s most infamous psychopath and see if they might at least be holding hands. I refer of course to that pig’s sphincter, Streicher. Am I right?’

I met his cold, penetrating gaze and held it. I was willing to bet that the general was no altar boy himself. Nebe had described Benno Martin as an extremely capable administrator. For a police chief in Nazi Germany that could have meant just about anything up to, and including, a Torquemada.

‘That’s right, sir,’ I said, and showed him the Der Stürmer front page. ‘This illustrates exactly how five girls have been murdered. With the exception of the Jew catching the blood in the plate of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But you haven’t ruled out the Jews as a possibility.’

‘No, but — ’

‘But it’s the very theatricality of this same mode of killing that makes you doubt that it could be them. Am I right?’

‘That and the fact that none of the victims has been Jewish.’

‘Maybe he just prefers more attractive girls,’ Martin grinned. ‘Maybe he just prefers blonde, blue-eyed girls to depraved Jewish mongrels. Or maybe it’s just coincidence.’ He caught my raised eyebrow. ‘But you’re not the kind of man who believes much in coincidence, Kommissar, are you?’

‘Not where murder is concerned, sir, no. I see patterns where other people see coincidence. Or at least I try to.’ I leant back in my chair, crossing my legs. ‘Are you acquainted with the work of Carl Jung on the subject, sir?’

He snorted with derision. ‘Good God, is that what Kripo gets up to in Berlin these days?’

‘I think he’d have made rather a good policeman, sir,’ I said, smiling affably, ‘if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Spare me the psychology lecture, Kommissar,’ Martin sighed. ‘Just tell me which particular pattern you see that might involve our beloved Gauleiter here in Nuremberg.’