It seemed to make sense, their decorating the place. They probably did it every year, instead of spring cleaning. I ran my hand over an art-deco bronze of a leaping salmon that occupied the middle of a great round table. I might have enjoyed its tactile smoothness if the thing hadn’t been covered in dust. I turned, grimacing, as the black cauldron waddled back into the hall. She grimaced back at me and then down at my feet.

‘You see what your boots has gone and done to my clean floor?’ she said pointing at the several black marks my heels had left.

I tutted with theatrical insincerity.

‘Perhaps you can persuade her to buy a new one,’ I said. I was certain she swore under her breath before telling me to follow her.

We went along the same hallway that was a couple of coats of paint above gloomy, to the double doors of the sitting-room–office. Frau Lange, her chins and her dog were waiting for me on the same chaise longue, except that it had been recovered with a shade of material that was easy on the eye only if you had a piece of grit in there on which to concentrate. Having lots of money is no guarantee of good taste, but it can make the lack of it more glaringly obvious.

‘Don’t you own a telephone?’ she boomed through her cigarette smoke like a fog-horn. I heard her chuckle as she added: ‘I think you must have once been a debt-collector or something.’ Then, realizing what she had said, she clutched at one of her sagging jowls. ‘Oh God, I haven’t paid your bill, have I?’ She laughed again, and stood up. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, watching her go to the desk and take out her cheque-book.

‘And I haven’t yet thanked you properly for the speedy way in which you handled things. I’ve told all my friends about how good you were.’ She handed me the cheque. ‘I’ve put a small bonus on there. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to have done with that terrible man. In your letter you said that it appeared as if he had hanged himself, Herr Gunther. Saved somebody else the trouble, eh?’ She laughed again, loudly, like an amateur actress performing rather too vigorously to be wholly credible. Her teeth were also false.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ I said. I didn’t see any point in telling her about my suspicion that Heydrich had had Klaus Hering killed with the aim of expediting my re-joining Kripo. Clients don’t much care for loose ends. I’m not all that fond of them myself.