“Yes, that’s all right,” I said abstractedly.

Schmidt bent over Tony, lifted one arm, and peered down into his face. “Did you learn anything from Hoffman’s papers, mein Freund?”

“No,” Tony muttered. Schmidt let go of his arm, which dropped with force enough to make Tony grunt. “There’s nothing there,” I said.

Tony sat up. “So that’s why you were here. Can’t you trust me to do a job right?”

“No,” I said coldly. “Damn it, there goes a fingernail. Take your own damned clothes off.”

“Such language does not become a lady,” Schmidt remarked.

“I don’t give a—”

“Nothing?” Schmidt picked up handful of papers and began looking through them. “Nothing at all? No maps, no keys for storage lockers, no code messages?” Neither Tony nor I felt it necessary to dignify this question with a reply. Schmidt went on, “But what is this? Ach, Gott, it is a love letter! ‘To my adored, my own Helen…’ Ha, but that is significant! There is no Helen in the case. Had this dignified old gentleman a mistress, then? She may know—”

I took the paper from Schmidt’s hand. “It’s to his wife,” I said. “There were only a few letters; I guess they weren’t often parted. But she kept them tied up with a blue ribbon.”

“Oh.” Schmidt’s eyes filled. “How touching. Her name was Helen?”

“No, it was Amelie. Helen was his pet name for her. He quotes Goethe and Marlowe—‘Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships…’ Oh, stop blubbering, Schmidt, or you’ll get me started. You’re a sentimental old—a sentimental fool.”

It wasn’t Schmidt’s easy tears that roughened my voice; it was the memory of the woman’s face in the photograph. There had been beauty in that lined face once, at least to the eyes of the man who loved her.

I gathered up the rest of the letters. “I’m going to burn these,” I said. “Friedl should have had the decency to do it, instead of handing them over to strangers.”

Schmidt approved. Tony did not express any opinion. He was still struggling with his boots when I left them.

I hadn’t brought a dress, since I had not expected to attend any formal social functions. I rather wished I had when I saw Elise dolled up in mink and four-inch heels, but the weakness was fleeting; competition on that level is something I avoid, all the more readily because I don’t own a mink coat. It did occur to me to wonder how Elise could afford one.

Dieter was sporting a Groucho Marx nose with attached mustache—a modest effort, for Dieter. When someone (me) objected, he said it was Weihnacht, and there would be other masked and costumed revelers in the crowd that evening. I doubted it; but Schmidt’s face assumed a wistful expression. He asked Dieter where he had procured the nose, and they entered into an animated discussion of costume and magic shops that sold ghastly props for practical jokers.

Schmidt, who loves parties and is generous to a fault, had reserved a table and ordered champagne. Tony said very little. He was still annoyed with me, and he didn’t care much for Elise. She appeared to be in a bad mood, too. Under her mink she was wearing a slinky black cocktail dress spattered with sequins—very inappropriate, in my opinion. Glancing at the unoccupied chair, she said disagreeably, “Is this for the skeleton at the feast?”