“I’m from Prenzlau, north of Berlin.”

I glanced at him sideways. His dutiful, hurt face. His neatly parted hair. His beige anorak. His shining rayon pants and light gray loafers. I’d rather have bought him something to wear than tell him about Klara. But I could see there was no way to avoid it.

“How long will you be in Mannheim? How about dropping by next Sunday? But give me a little space till then.”

He nodded. “Will four o’clock do?”

We agreed on four. We pulled into the Richard-Wagner-Strasse. He got out and hurried over to my side to open the door.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you feel better soon.”

I stayed in bed all day. Turbo curled up on my legs and purred. At noon Brigitte dropped by with some chicken soup. In the evening I got a call from Philipp. His conscience was bothering him that he hadn’t sent me home on Sunday. Had my heart been up to all this? Nägelsbach was doing well enough; I could visit him on Wednesday. It would be good for the three of us to talk. “The police didn’t come by today. Can you imagine us staying out of the fray? I can’t.”

But it seemed that we were staying out of the fray. Welker was the only one questioned by the police. He told them about Gregor Samarin’s Russian origin, his trips to Russia, the six months he spent there, his shady contacts, and his attempts to deposit large amounts of cash at Weller & Welker for supposed Russian investors. The police found the gun with which Gregor had been shot, a Malakov, in a trash can in the Luisenpark near the entrance by Werderstrasse. Samarin was found wearing a straitjacket; he had been shot in the back. An execution. People living near the park had heard shots, car doors slamming, cars driving away-a gang affair.

The Tuesday edition of the Mannheimer Morgen sported the headline EXECUTION IN LUISENPARK, and the Wednesday edition GANG WAR IN MANNHEIM. A few days later the papers wondered whether the Russian Mafia had taken hold in Mannheim ’s and Ludwigshafen ’s underworld. But by then it was only a small item.

Philipp and I sat by Nägelsbach’s hospital bed and were strangely diffident, like boys who played a prank they have gotten away with, but for which someone else had to pay the price. The boys hadn’t intended that. But it was too late to fix things. Probably Welker should be sentenced. Probably Nägelsbach and Philipp should be disciplined. Probably I should be charged with reckless something or other.

“Damn it all!” Philipp said. “In fact, I grow more optimistic every day that the police won’t come looking for us. Today I’m twice as optimistic as I was on Monday, and by tomorrow I’ll be four times as optimistic.” He grinned.

“I’m not sure you’ll see eye-to-eye with me,” Nägelsbach said, looking at us apologetically, “but I don’t want to keep the police out of this. I’ve always been on the level in matters concerning me or the law. It’s true I discussed my cases with Reni, which I shouldn’t have. But she’s discretion personified, and I’ve had a case or two in my time that I couldn’t have cracked without her help. But this is something else. Welker has to be charged. What Samarin did to him is no doubt an extenuating circumstance, but at the end of the day a judge must decide whether Welker is to serve a few years, end up on parole, or be acquitted.”

“What does your wife think?” Philipp asked.

“Her view is…” He blushed. “She says it’s a matter of my soul, that she and I can handle the consequences, and that she’s prepared to go out and work if it comes to that.”

“A matter of your soul?” Philipp said, looking at Nägelsbach as if he had gone mad. “What about my soul?”

Nägelsbach looked at him despondently. “I’ve spent my life making sure that people are called to account for their actions. I can’t suddenly-”

“The law doesn’t expect you to go to the police or see to it that Welker is charged,” I cut in. “You can be on the level with the law if you don’t go.”

“But you know what I mean,” Nägelsbach replied.

Philipp got up, hit his palm against his forehead, and left the room.

Nägelsbach doesn’t play chess, so I had brought along my Othello board game.

“Shall we play?” I asked him.

We sat down and laid out the double-sided pieces along the grid, flipping them from their white sides to their black sides and back. When that game was over, we played a second game in silence, and then another.

“I do see your point,” I told Nägelsbach. “I also see what your wife is saying. There is, by the way, another good reason to go to the police: Do you remember the man who came to your retirement party unannounced and wanted to talk to me? He’s been watching us, and there’s a good chance he might be out to blackmail us-though probably Welker rather than you, Philipp, or me.”

“I don’t remember seeing him at my party,” Nägelsbach said, smiling with a touch of embarrassment. “I admit I had a glass or two too many.”

“Of the three of us, I have the least to lose if you go to the police. Involuntary manslaughter, because we let Welker take Samarin’s pistol. We could explain the sequence of events, though I guess it would sound quite contrived. But unlike you or Philipp, I wouldn’t be facing disciplinary proceedings. Not to mention that for a private investigator our escapade would not generate negative publicity: quite the opposite. For a retired police officer, though, and for a surgeon at the municipal hospital, it’s another matter altogether. So don’t worry on my account. But three of us were involved in this-we planned it, set it up, and carried it out. So it’s only fair that we three come to a decision as to whether we will inform the police or not. I’d say you either have to convince Philipp that that’s the way to go or you’ll have to live with the fact that Welker won’t be charged.”

I waited, but Nägelsbach didn’t say anything. He lay there with his eyes shut.

“As for Welker’s justification for shooting Samarin,” I continued, “I think he’s right: Samarin would never have left him alone. In the long run, neither the police nor the law would have managed to protect Welker from Samarin. There’s no way they could have. You know that as well as I do.”

He slowly opened his eyes. “I’m going to have to give this some thought. I-”

“I want to say one more thing about the soul,” I said. “You won’t compromise your soul if, for once, you aren’t level in a matter concerning you and the law. If you’re always on the level, you don’t need a soul. We have a soul so we can look at ourselves in the mirror, even when we think we can’t. I don’t like corrupt policemen. But I know some who at one time or another didn’t stick to the book, and who then had a rough time of it but got over it, and precisely because of that became fine policemen. Policemen with a lot of soul.”

“I know such policemen, too. But I must admit I always looked down on them a little.” He propped himself up in bed and with a sweeping gesture pointed at the room, the empty space for a second bed, the TV, the telephone, and the flowers, and made a stab at a joke. “You see, I, too, am corruptible. I could never pay for all of this. Welker’s paying.”