“She’s a thief,” Reles said, flatly. “What the hell are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll put the matter into the hands of the police right away, sir, if that’s what you want.”

“You’re damn right I do. Just tell your old pals to swing by, and I’ll swear out a warrant or whatever you flatfoots do in this sausage factory you call a country. Soon as they like. Now, get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.”

At that I almost told him he’d have to keep his temper before he could ever lose it, and that while his parents might have taught him to speak good German, they certainly hadn’t taught him any good German manners to go with it. Instead I kept my mouth shut, which, as Hedda Adlon was fond of telling me, is a large part of running a good hotel.

The fact that it was now also a large part of being a good German was neither here nor there.

A COUPLE OF SCHUPOS wearing puttees and rubber macs against the driving rain were standing on duty by the main entrance of the Police Praesidium on Berlin’s Alexanderplatz. The word “praesidium” comes from the Latin meaning “protection,” but given that the Alex was now under the control of a bunch of thugs and murderers, it was hard to see who was protecting whom from whom. The two uniformed cops had a similar problem. Recognizing my face, they didn’t know whether to salute or batter me to the ground.

As usual, the main entrance hall smelled of cigarettes, cheap coffee, unwashed bodies, and sausage. I was arriving just as the local wurst seller had turned up to sell boiled sausage to those cops who were lunching at their desks. The Max-they were always known as Max-wore a white coat, a top hat, and, as was traditional, a little mustache he’d drawn onto his face with an eyebrow pencil. His mustaches were longer than I remembered and probably would continue to be that way while Hitler continued with a postage stamp on his own upper lip. But I often wondered if anyone had ever dared ask Hitler if he could smell gas, because that was what he looked like: a gas sniffer. Sometimes you saw these men fitting long pipes into holes in the road and then sniffing the open ends for escaping gas. It always gave them the same telltale smudge on the upper lip.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Herr Commissar,” said the Max. The large square metal boiler hanging from a strap around his neck looked like a steam-powered accordion.

“I’ve been away for a while. It must have been something I ate.”

“Very amusing, sir, I’m sure.”

“You tell him, Bernie,” said a voice. “We’ve got more than enough sausage at the Alex, but not nearly enough laughs.”

I looked around and saw Otto Trettin coming through the entrance hall.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” he asked. “Don’t say you’re another March violet.”

“I came to report a crime at the Adlon.”

“The biggest crime at the Adlon is what they charge for a plate of sausage, eh, Max?”

“Too right, Herr Trettin.”

“But after that,” I said, “I was planning to buy you a beer.”

“Beer first,” said Otto. “Then report the crime.”

Otto and I went across the road to the Zum, in the arches of the local S-Bahn station. Cops liked it there because with a train passing overhead every few minutes it was hard to be overheard. And I imagined this was especially important in Otto Trettin’s case, since it was generally known that he fiddled his expenses and, probably, was not averse to having his bread spread with some very dodgy butter. He was still a good cop, however, one of the Alex’s best from the days before the police purge, and although he wasn’t a Party member, the Nazis seemed to like him. Otto had always been a bit heavy-handed: he had famously handed out a beating to the Sass brothers, which, at that time, was a serious breach of police ethics, although they had certainly deserved it, and, doubtless, this was one of the reasons that had helped him to find favor with the new government. The Nazis liked a bit of rough justice. To that extent it was perhaps surprising I wasn’t working there myself.

“I’ll have a Landwehr Top,” said Trettin.

“Make that two,” I told the barman.

Named after Berlin ’s famous canal in which the water’s surface was often polluted with a layer of oil or gasoline, a Landwehr Top was a beer with a brandy in it. We hurried them down and ordered two more.

“You’re a bastard, Gunther,” said Otto. “Now that you’ve left, I’ve got no one to talk to. No one I can trust, that is.”

“What about your beloved coauthor, Erich?”

Trettin and Erich Liebermann von Sonnenberg had published a book together the previous year. Criminal Cases was little more than a series of stories cobbled together from a trawl through KRIPO’s oldest files. But no one doubted that the two had made money from it. Fiddling his expenses, ramping up the overtime, taking the odd back-hander, and now with a book already translated into English, Otto Trettin always seemed to know how to make money.

“Erich? We don’t see much of each other now that he’s head of Berlin KRIPO. Head’s up his arse with his own self-importance these days. You left me sitting in the ink, do you know that?”

“I can’t feel sorry for you. Not after I read your lousy book. You wrote up one of my cases and you didn’t even give me the credit. You gave the bracelets on that one to von Bachman. I could have understood it if he was a Nazi. But he’s not.”

“He paid me to write him up. A hundred marks, to make him look good.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. Not that it matters now. He’s dead.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Sure you did. You’ve just forgotten, that’s all. Berlin ’s like that these days. All sorts of people are dead and we forget about it. Fatty Arbuckle. Stefan George. Hindenburg. The Alex is no different. Take that cop who got murdered the other day. We’ve already forgotten his name.”

“August Krichbaum.”

“Everyone except you.” He shook his head. “See what I mean? You’re a good copper. You shouldn’t ever have left.” He raised his glass. “To the dead. Where would we be without them?”

“Steady on,” I said as he drained his glass a second time.

“I’ve had a hell of a morning. I’ve been to Plötzensee Prison with a load of Berlin ’s top polenta, and the Leader. Now ask me why.”

“Why?”

“Because his nibs wanted to see the falling ax in action.”

The falling ax was what we Germans quaintly called the guillotine.

Otto waved the barman back a third time.

“You’ve seen an execution, with Hitler?”

“That’s right.”

“There wasn’t anything about an execution in the newspaper. Who was it?”

“Some poor communist. Just a kid, really. Anyway, Hitler watched it happen and pronounced himself very impressed. So much so that he’s ordered twenty new falling-ax machines from the manufacturer in Tegel. One for every big city in Germany. He was smiling when he left. Which is more than I can say for that poor commie. I’ve never seen it before. Goering’s idea that we should, apparently. Something about us all recognizing the gravity of the historic mission we’ve set ourselves-or some such nonsense. Well, there’s a lot of gravity involved with a falling ax, let me tell you. Have you ever seen one at work?”

“Just once. Gormann the Strangler.”

“Oh, right. Then you’ll know what it’s like.” Otto shook his head. “My God, I’ll never forget it as long as I live. That terrible sound. Took it well, though, the commie. When the lad saw that Hitler was there, he started to sing the Red Flag. At least he did until someone slapped him. Now ask me why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because you enjoy scaring the shit out of people, Otto. You always were the sensitive type.”

“I’m telling you, Bernie, because people like you need to know.”