“Oh, that won’t be for a long time,” I said firmly.

I gave him my card, and he promised to let me know when the Schrank was ready. Clara relented and allowed me to scratch her chin. I was almost at the door when Müller’s quiet voice stopped me.

“There is some reason why you came, isn’t there? Something beyond coincidence and kindness.”

“I don’t want…” I began.

“I don’t want either.” He grinned broadly. “At my age I have not the time or the strength for distractions. There is work I must finish before I die. But if there is a thing I can do for my friend, you must tell me.”

“I will tell you,” I said.

“That is good. Go with God, Fräulein. I hope you will not have need of His help.”

I hoped so, too, but the picture was looking blacker and blacker. Müller’s description of Hoffman’s death had shocked me badly. Hit and run? There was no evidence of anything more sinister, but it was, to say the least, an ugly coincidence that Hoffman had actually been on his way to mail the letter to me when he was struck down.

I was so distracted I almost walked past my car. Pausing, I heard my empty stomach protest; Herr Müller’s ham sandwich had reminded it that lunchtime was long past. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to eat in Bad Steinbach or drive on to Garmisch. Then I saw something that decided me. It was a familiar maroon Mercedes, parked, with unbelievable effrontery, only a short distance from my car.

I marched straight into the restaurant without going through the lobby; and there he was, at one of the best tables near the window. The table was piled with platters, some empty, some in the process of being emptied. He had been watching for me; he raised his hand and waved furiously.

“I saved you a place,” he announced, indicating a chair.

“A chair you have saved, but not a square inch on the table.” I sat down. “Don’t tell me you followed me, Schmidt, because I know you didn’t. How did you get here?”

Schmidt waved at the waitress. She responded a lot faster than she had done for me. “What will you have?” he asked. “The Bavarian burger is very interessant.”

“I’ll bet it is.” There was enough food left on the table to feed a platoon. I ordered beer, then changed it to coffee, and began browsing among Schmidt’s remaining entrees. He protested, but I told him it was for his own good. He ate too much anyway.

“So,” I said, reaching for a sausage. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He was so pleased with himself he didn’t bother bawling me out for trying to elude him. “Pure deduction,” he said, grinning greasily. “Sheer, brilliant detective work. Ratiocination of the most superb intellectual—”

“Specifically?” I suggested.

“I recognized the man in the photograph you showed me.” Schmidt snatched the sausage out of my hand. “I told you I had seen him before. You thought I boasted, but it was the truth. Never do I forget a face, or a name.”