Herr Koch led the way into the flat that had been Harry’s. In the little dark hall there was still the smell of cigarette smoke – the Turkish cigarettes that Harry always smoked. It seemed odd that a man’s smell should cling in the folds of a curtain so long after the man himself had become dead matter, a gas, a decay. One light, in a heavily beaded shade, left them in semi-darkness, fumbling for door handles.

The living-room was completely bare – it seemed to Martins too bare. The chairs had been pushed up against the walls; the desk at which Harry must have written was free from dust or any papers. The parquet reflected the light like a mirror. Herr Koch opened a door and showed the bedroom: the bed neatly made with clean sheets. In the bathroom not even a used razor blade indicated that a few days ago a living man had occupied it. Only the dark hall and the cigarette smell gave a sense of occupation.

‘You see,’ Herr Koch said, ‘it is quite ready for a newcomer. Ilse has cleaned up.’

That she certainly had done. After a death there should have been more litter left than this. A man can’t go suddenly and unexpectedly on his longest journey without forgetting this or that, without leaving a bill unpaid, an official form unanswered, the photograph of a girl. ‘Were there no papers, Herr Koch?’

‘Herr Lime was always a very tidy man. His waste-paper basket was full and his brief-case, but his friend fetched that away.’

‘His friend?’

‘The gentleman with the toupée.’

It was possible, of course, that Lime had not taken the journey so unexpectedly, and it occurred to Martins that Lime had perhaps hoped he would arrive in time to help. He said to Herr Koch, ‘I believe my friend was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Herr Koch’s cordiality was snuffed out by the word. He said, ‘I would not have asked you in here if I had thought you would talk such nonsense.’

‘Why should it be nonsense?’

‘We do not have murders in this zone.’

‘All the same, your evidence may be very valuable.’

‘I have no evidence. I saw nothing. I am not concerned. You must leave here at once, please. You have been very inconsiderate.’ He hustled Martins back through the hall; already the smell of the smoke was fading a little more. Herr Koch’s last word before he slammed his own door was, ‘It’s no concern of mine.’ Poor Herr Koch! We do not choose our concerns. Later, when I was questioning Martins closely, I said to him, ‘Did you see anybody at all on the stairs, or in the street outside?’