After he hung up, he informed me that Frau Hoffman would see me, and indicated where I was to go. I remembered the corridor; it led to the room where Hoffman and I had spent such a pleasant evening a year ago. I must admit I felt a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

Freddy must have been under the impression that I didn’t understand German. That was stupid of him. I had not used the language when I spoke with him, but if he knew who I was, he must be aware of my proficiency in the language of the country where I presently resided. And he knew who I was. What he had said was: “She is here. Yes, the one you told me to watch out for. She is at the desk at this moment, asking for the old man.”

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice is reported to have remarked.

The friend Freddy was helping in her time of need had to be Frau Hoffman. I would not have expected the sedate elderly woman in the photograph to hobnob with a character like Freddy, but people don’t always behave the way you expect them to. The Hoffmans were childless. Maybe Freddy had appealed to the widow’s frustrated maternal instincts. Or maybe he had a kind heart under an unprepossessing exterior. Be fair, Vicky, don’t judge people by appearances.

A door at the end of the hall opened. Sunlight from the room behind the figure blurred its outlines; I was quite close to her before I realized she was not the woman in the photograph. She was much younger, probably in her twenties. Her face was vaguely familiar, though.

“Frau Hoffman?” I asked uncertainly.

“Yes.” She stood back and motioned me to enter. “And you are the—you are a friend of my late husband?”

“I hope I may call myself that, though I only had the pleasure of meeting your husband once. You were in the hospital at the time, I believe.”

I didn’t really believe it, because I had remembered where I had seen her before. She had been a waitress in the restaurant. Friedl. The name came out of nowhere, as it does sometimes; I had heard it repeated often enough. The customers were always yelling for Friedl, especially the male customers. From waitress to wife to widow in less than a year…Quick work, and nice work if you can get it.

The promotion had not improved her looks. The waitress’s uniform of tight-waisted dirndl and low-cut blouse had suited her slight but well-developed figure. She had had thick braids of brown hair that she wore coiled over her ears, and a fresh, pink-cheeked face. Now her hair was cut short and bleached almost white. She wore an ultrasuede suit that must have cost a bundle, but it was too tight across the chest and the apricot shade didn’t flatter her complexion. She was heavily made up, and her nails were blood-red, long, and pointed.