Frowning slightly, he studied the last of the snapshots. I said casually, “Oh, that’s just the hotel where I stayed.”

“But who is this fellow? Wait, no, don’t tell me; I will remember in a moment. I never forget a face.”

“You’ve never seen this face. It’s the owner of the hotel.”

“He looks familiar,” said Schmidt.

“He does not. Come on, Schmidt, you’ve already scored, don’t overdo it.”

“I have seen him. I know I have seen that face somewhere. But I do not remember the hotel. In Garmisch, you say?”

“Uh—yes, that’s right.”

“What is his name, this man?”

“Hoffman.”

“Hoffman…Yes, there is something familiar….”

I thought he was showing off. If I had known he was telling the simple truth, I’d have changed the subject even faster than I did.

Schmidt wouldn’t go home. After polite hints had failed, I told him point-blank I was tired and wanted to hit the sack. He waved my complaint aside. “It is a holiday tomorrow; you can sleep late.”

“What holiday?”

“I have declared it,” said Schmidt, giggling. “For me. I must do my Christmas shopping. I am the director; I can make a holiday when I want. I make it for you, too, if you are nice. We will go to shop at the Kristkindlmarkt.”

“Depends on the weather,” I said. “I feel a little snuffly tonight; the cold I mentioned—”

“Fresh air is good for a cold,” said Schmidt. “Now let us open a bottle of wine and look at more photographs. Where are the ones you took of me at the Oktoberfest?”

I had not intended to take pictures of Schmidt at the Oktoberfest. I had intended to get an overall view of that giddiest and most vulgar of Munich holidays, not only for my own scrapbook, but to send home in the hope it would encourage my brother Bob to pay me a visit. Since my mother would see the pictures too, a certain amount of discretion was necessary; the snapshots had to be vulgar enough to entice Bob and restrained enough not to scandalize my mother. I never sent the photos. Schmidt was in every damned one of them. I believe his aim was to demonstrate the variety of things that can be done with a stein of beer—in addition, of course, to drinking from it.

I did not open a bottle of wine. At midnight Schmidt switched from coffee to Coke and demanded more snapshots.

At twelve-fifteen the telephone rang. This prompted a ribald comment from Schmidt, which I ignored. Some of my friends have no idea of time, but I had a premonition about the identity of this caller; and I was right.

“I understand you telephoned earlier,” said John brightly.

“I didn’t leave a message.”

“My heart told me it was you.”

“Your heart, and the fact that you never bothered to tell me—” I bit my lip. The cold fury in my voice had aroused the interest of my inquisitive boss; he turned to stare and I moderated my tone. “So what’s new?”