“I think this man has suffered some kind of a seizure,” I told the frowning doorman, and dumped the cop’s body into a leather armchair. “Where are the house phones? I’ll call an ambulance.”

The doorman pointed around the corner of the front desk.

I loosened the cop’s tie for effect and behaved as if I were headed for the telephones. But as soon as I was around the corner, I walked through a service door and down some stairs before exiting the hotel through the kitchens. Emerging into an alley that gave onto Saarland Strasse, I walked quickly into Anhalter Station. For a moment I considered boarding a train. Then I saw the subway tunnel connecting the station with the Excelsior, which was Berlin ’s second-best hotel. No one would ever think to look for me in there. Not so close to an obvious means of escape. Besides, there was an excellent bar in the Excelsior. There’s nothing like knocking out a policeman to give you a thirst.

I WENT STRAIGHT INTO THE BAR, ordered a large schnapps, and hurried it down like it was the middle of January.

The Excelsior was full of cops, but the only one I recognized was the house detective, Rolf Kuhnast. Before the purge of 1933, Kuhnast had been with the Potsdam political police and might reasonably have expected to join the Gestapo except for two things: One was that it had been Kuhnast who had led the team detailed to arrest SA leader Count Helldorf in April 1932, following Hindenburg’s orders to forestall a possible Nazi coup. The other was that Helldorf was now the police president of Potsdam.

“Hey,” I said.

“Bernie Gunther. What brings the Adlon Hotel’s house detective into the Excelsior?” he asked.

“I always forget that this is a hotel. I came in to buy a train ticket.”

“You’re a funny guy, Bernie. Always were.”

“I’d be laughing myself but for all these cops. What’s going on here? I know the Excelsior’s the Gestapo’s favorite watering hole, but usually they don’t make it quite so obvious. There are guys with foreheads in here who look like they just walked out of the Neander Valley. On their knuckles.”

“We got ourselves a VIP,” explained Kuhnast. “Someone from the American Olympic Committee is staying here.”

“I thought the Kaiserhof was the official Olympic hotel.”

“It is. But this was a last-minute thing, and the Kaiserhof couldn’t put him up.”

“Then I guess the Adlon must have been full as well.”

“Take a flick at me,” said Kuhnast. “Be my guest. Those oxtails from the Gestapo have been flicking my ears all day. So some shit-smart fellow from the great Adlon Hotel coming around to straighten my tie for me is all I need.”

“I’m not taking a flick at you, Rolf. Honest. Here, why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

“I’m surprised that you can afford it, Bernie.”

“I don’t mind getting it free. A house bull’s not doing his job unless he’s got something on the barman. Drop by the Adlon sometime and I’ll show you how philanthropic our hotel barman can be when he’s been caught with his hand in the till.”

“Otto? I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to, Rolf. But Frau Adlon will, and she’s not as understanding as me.” I ordered another. “Come on, have a drink. After what just happened to me, I need something to tighten my bowels.”

“What happened?”

“Never you mind. Let’s just say that beer won’t fix it.”

I tossed the schnapps after the other one.

Kuhnast shook his head. “I’d like to, Bernie. But Herr Elschner won’t like it if I’m not around to stop these Nazi bastards from stealing the ashtrays.”

These apparently indiscreet words were guided by an awareness of my own republican-minded past. But he still felt the need for caution. So he walked me out of the bar, through the entrance hall, and into the Palm Court. It was easier to speak freely when no one could hear what we were saying above the Excelsior’s orchestra. These days the weather’s the only really safe thing to talk about in Germany.

“So, the Gestapo are here to protect some Ami?” I shook my head. “I thought Hitler didn’t like Amis.”

“This particular Ami is taking a tour of Berlin to decide if we’re fit to host the Olympic Games in two years’ time.”

“There are two thousand workers to the west of Charlottenburg who are under the strong impression we’re already hosting them.”

“It seems there’s a lot of Amis that want to boycott the Olympiad on the grounds of our government’s anti-Semitism. The Ami is here on a f act-finding mission to see for himself if Germany discriminates against Jews.”

“For a blindingly obvious fact-finding mission like that, I’m surprised he bothered checking into a hotel.”

Rolf Kuhnast grinned back. “From what I’ve heard, it’s a mere formality. Right now he’s up in one of our function rooms getting a list of facts put together for him by the Ministry of Propaganda.”

“Oh, those kinds of facts. Well, sure, we wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about Hitler’s Germany, now, would we? I mean, it’s not that we have anything against the Jews. But, hey, there’s a new chosen people in town.”

It was hard to see why an American might be prepared to ignore the new regime’s anti-Jewish measures. Especially when there were so many egregious examples of it all over the city. Only a blind man could have failed to notice the grossly offensive cartoons on the front pages of the more rabidly Nazi newspapers, the David stars painted on the windows of Jewish-owned stores, and the German Only signs in the public parks-to say nothing of the real fear that was in the eyes of every Jew in the Fatherland.

“Brundage-that’s the Ami’s name-”

“He sounds German.”

“He doesn’t even speak German,” said Kuhnast. “So as long as he doesn’t actually meet any English-speaking Jews, things should work out just fine.”

I glanced around the Palm Court.

“Is there any danger that he could do that?”

“I’d be surprised if there’s a Jew within a hundred meters of this place, given who’s coming here to meet him.”

“Not the Leader.”

“No, his dark shadow.”

“The Deputy Leader’s coming to the Excelsior? I hope you cleaned the toilets.”

Suddenly the orchestra stopped what it was playing and struck up with the German national anthem, and hotel guests jumped to their feet to point their right arm toward the entrance hall. And I had no choice but to join in.

Surrounded by storm troopers and Gestapo, Rudolf Hess marched into the hotel wearing the uniform of an SA man. His face was as square as a doormat but somehow less welcoming. He was medium in height; slim with dark, wavy hair; a Transylvanian brow; werewolf eyes; and a razor-thin mouth. Returning our patriotic salutes perfunctorily, he then bounded up the stairs of the hotel two at a time. With his eager air he reminded me of an Alsatian dog let off the leash by his Austrian master to lick the hand of the man from the American Olympic Committee.

As it happened, there was a hand I had to go and lick myself. A hand that belonged to a man in the Gestapo.