The barman at the Adlon made the best cocktails in Berlin. He was fond of cucumbers, too. He put pickled cucumbers on the tables and slices of fresh cucumber in some of the drinks favored by Americans. A large uncut cucumber lay on the bartop. Looking for a knife, I’d had my eye on it for a while. I don’t care for anything in my drink except ice, but I liked the look of that cucumber. Besides, my gun was in the glove box of my car.

I dislike hitting a man when his back is turned. Even with a cucumber. It goes against my inherent sense of fair play. But since Ricci Kamm didn’t have a sense of fair play, I hit him hard, on the back of the hand holding the broken bottle. He yelped and dropped it. Then I struck him with the cucumber on the side of his head, twice. If I’d had some ice and a slice of lemon, I’d probably have hit him with those as well. An exclamation tiptoed around the room, as if I’d made a rabbit disappear from inside a top hat. The only trouble was, the rabbit was still there. Ricci sat down heavily, holding his ear. Teeth bared, nose twitching, he reached inside his coat. I didn’t think he was looking for his wallet. I saw a little black hippo’s head peeking out from a holster, and then a Colt automatic appeared in Ricci’s hand.

It was a good, firm cucumber, hardly ripe at all. Springy, with plenty of heft, like a good blackjack. I put a lot of weight into it. I had to. Ricci didn’t move his head more than an inch. He didn’t try to block the cucumber. He was hoping to fire the gun before that happened. He took it across the nose, jerked back on the chair, dropped the gun, and lifted both hands to the blood-spattered center of his face. Figuring I might never get a better chance to do it, I cuffed both of his wrists before he even knew what was happening.

I let Ricci groan for a while before handing him a bar towel to press against his nose and hauling him by the cuffs to his feet. Acknowledging a round of applause from some of the other guests in the hotel bar, I pushed Ricci in the direction of two uniforms and then tossed the gun after him.

Frieda moved in on the redhead. “Time to go, lovely,” she said, taking hold of a bony elbow.

“Take your hands off me,” said the redhead, trying to wrest her arm away, but the elbow stayed held in Frieda’s strong fist. Then she laughed and gave me a languorous north-to-south look. “That was really something, what you did just now, comrade. Like a Christmas gift from the kaiser. Wait until people hear about this. Ricci Kamm got himself arrested by a johann armed with just a cucumber. He’s never going to live it down. Leastways, I hope he doesn’t. That bastard’s hit me once too often.”

Frieda steered her firmly toward the door, leaving me with the man from IGF. He was tall, thin, and gray. As full of Prussian good manners as Berlin’s Herrenklub, he bowed gravely.

“That was admirable,” he said. “Quite admirable. I’m very grateful to you, sir. I don’t doubt that thug would have seriously injured me. Perhaps worse.”

The IGF man had his wallet out and was pressing his business card on me. It was as thick and white as his shirt collar. His name was Dr. Carl Duisberg and he was one of the I. G. Farben’s directors, from Frankfurt.

“May I know your name, sir?”

I told him.

“I see the international reputation of Berlin’s police force is well deserved, sir.”

I shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can do with a cucumber,” I said.

“If there’s anything I can do for you in return,” he said. “To show my gratitude. Name it, sir. Name it.”

“I could use some information, Dr. Duisberg.”

He frowned, slightly puzzled. He hadn’t been expecting this. “Of course. If it’s in my power to give it.”

“Does the Dyestuff Syndicate have anything to do with drug companies?”

He smiled, and looked slightly reassured, as if the information I was seeking was common knowledge. “I can tell you that very easily. The Dyestuff Syndicate has owned Bayer since 1925.”

“You mean the company that makes aspirin?”

“No, sir,” he said proudly. “I mean the company that invented it.”

“I see.” I did my best to look impressed. “I guess I ought to be grateful, considering the number of hangovers your company has helped me cope with. So what’s next in line, Doc? What’s the new wonder drug your people are working on now?”

“It’s not my field, sir. Not my field at all. I’m a chemical engineer.”

“Whose field is it?”

“You mean one person?”

I nodded.

“My dear Commissar, we have dozens of research scientists working for us, all over Germany. But mainly in Leverkusen. Bayer is based in Leverkusen.”

“Leverkusen? Never heard of it.”

“That’s because it’s a new town, Commissar Gunther. It’s made up of several small villages on the Rhine. And a number of chemical factories.”

“It sounds perfectly charming.”

“No, Commissar. Leverkusen is not at all charming. But it is making money. It is making money.” The doctor laughed. “But why do you ask, sir?”

“Here in Berlin, we have an Institute for Police Science, in Charlottenburg,” I said. “And we’re always on the lookout for new experts we can call upon to help us with our inquiries. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, of course.”

“I met this doctor who’s handling some very sensitive clinical trials at the state hospital in Friedrichshain here in Berlin. I think he said he was working for Bayer. And I was wondering if he might be the kind of discreet and reliable fellow who might help us out once in a while. From all accounts he’s a very gifted man. I heard him described as the next Paul Ehrlich. You know? The ‘magic bullet’?”

“Oh, you must mean Gerhard Domagk,” said Duisberg.

“That’s him,” I said. “I just wondered if you might be able to vouch for him. As simple as that, really.”

“Well, I haven’t actually met him myself. But from what I hear, he’s very brilliant. Very brilliant, indeed. And very discreet. He has to be. Much of our work is highly confidential. I’m sure he would be delighted to help the Berlin Police if it was within his power to do so. Was there something specific you wanted to ask him?”

“No. Not yet. Perhaps in the future.”

I pocketed the IGF man’s card and let him get back to the rest of his lunch party. That let Frieda get back to me. She looked flushed and very grateful, which is the way I like my women.

“You handled that cucumber like a professional,” she said.

“Didn’t you know? Before I joined the Berlin polenta, I was a green-grocer, in Leverkusen.”

“Where the hell is Leverkusen?”

“Didn’t you know? It’s a new town, on the Rhine. The center of the German chemical industry. What do you say we go there for the weekend and you can show me how grateful you are?”

Frieda smiled. “We don’t have to go that far to go that far,” she said. “We only have to go upstairs. To room 102. That’s one of our VIP suites. Empty right now. But Charlie Chaplin once slept in room 102. So did Emil Jannings.” She smiled again. “But then neither of them had me around to help keep them awake.”

IT WAS AROUND FOUR-THIRTY when I got back to the Alex. On my desk was a box of cucumbers. I waved one in the air as several of the KRIPO men in the detective room cheered and clapped. Otto Trettin, one of the best cops in the department and a specialist in criminal rings like the Always True, came over to my desk. There was a half-cucumber in his shoulder holster. He took it out, pointed it at me, and made a noise like a pistol shot.

“Very funny.” I grinned and removed my jacket, then hung it on the back of my chair.

“Where’s yours?” he asked. “Your gun, I mean.”

“In the car.”

“Well, that explains the cucumber, I suppose.”

“Come on, Otto. You know how it is. When you wear a gun, you have to keep your jacket buttoned, and in this warm weather we’ve been having…”