The concierge behind the counter kept me waiting while he answered the phone and made busy work with piles of papers. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I was impressed. At close range, I understood why he was shivering in short sleeves; every move he made was shivering in short sleeves; every move he made was designed to show off his muscles. Biceps bulged, pectorals popped, and everything else undulated. He had tousled his brown hair in deliberate imitation of a popular American movie star, and his full lips were set in a pout derived from the same source. After he had snapped at the girl at the switchboard, for no reason I could see, he turned to me with what he obviously believed was an ingratiating smile.

“Your pardon, Fräulein; we are very busy today.”

Full pink lips and exaggerated pectorals happen to be the two male characteristics I most abhor. I didn’t hold them against him; what I held against him was the smirk on his face as he looked me over.

“Are you?” I said.

“You wish a room? We are booked, but perhaps there will be a cancellation….”

His hand—open, palm up—rested suggestively on the counter. I gave him a dazzling smile. His fingers curled like fat white worms exposed to the light.

“You weren’t here last year,” I murmured.

“No.” He shrugged, setting off an obscene upheaval of chest and shoulder muscles. “This is not my profession, you understand. I am helping a friend in her time of need. My name is Friedrich Sommers—but I hope you will call me Freddy. As for the room—”

“No, thanks. I’d like to see Herr Hoffman.”

Asking for the manager doesn’t make you popular, even in big hotels. Freddy’s smile wavered. “If there is a complaint, Fräulein—”

“Nothing like that. I just want to say hello to him.”

“I am sorry to inform you that Herr Hoffman is deceased.”

I had expected it, and, after all, I had scarcely known the man. But I didn’t have to feign distress. “I’m so sorry. When did it happen?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Was he ill long?”

“He was not ill. It was an accident. He was struck by a car.” Freddy’s smile had passed into oblivion. “Are you by chance…Are you a friend?”

“No. I stayed here last year. He was very kind to me.”

There was no obvious reason why I should have been so cagey, yet I found myself reluctant to give him my name. I didn’t like Freddy. I had not liked his face or his muscles or his smirk, and I liked his suspicious scowl even less.

“Perhaps you would like to speak with Frau Hoffman,” he suggested.

I had been about to ask if I might. The fact that it was Freddy’s suggestion made me wonder whether I really did want to. There was no retreating now, though, so I nodded and Freddy picked up the telephone. He raised one hand to his cheek when he spoke; it muffled his words to some extent, but my hearing is excellent.