“How big is your trial group?” I asked.

“Really we’ve only just started. So far we’ve given protonsil to approximately fifty men and about half as many women-there’s a separate clinic for them, of course, at the Charite. Some of our test cases have only just caught a venereal disease and others have had one for a while. It’s intended that over the next two or three years we shall test the drug on as many as fifteen hundred to two thousand volunteers.”

I nodded, almost wishing I had thought to bring Illmann with me. At least he might have asked some pertinent questions; even a few impertinent ones.

“So far,” continued Kassner, “the results have been very encouraging.”

“Might I see what the drug looks like?”

He opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle and then emptied some little blue pills onto my gloved palm. These looked exactly the same as the little pill I’d found near Anita Schwarz’s dead body.

“Of course, it won’t look like that when the trial is over. The German medical establishment is rather conservative and prefers its pills white. But they’re blue for the moment, to help distinguish them from anything else we’re using.”

“And your study group notes? Might I see one case file?”

“Yes, indeed.” Kassner turned to face one of the wooden filing cabinets. There was no key. He drew up the tambour front and then pulled open the top drawer. “This is a summary file containing brief notes on all of the patients who’ve been treated with protonsil to date.” He opened the file and handed it over.

I took out my father’s pince-nez. A nice touch, I told myself, and pinced them on the bridge of my nez. This was my list of suspects, I told myself. With these names I might very well have solved the case in less time than it took to cure a dose of jelly. But how was I going to get hold of this list of names? I could hardly memorize it. Nor could I ask to borrow it. One name caught my eye, however. Or rather not the name-Behrend-so much as the address. Reichskanzlerplatz, in the west end of the city, near the Grunewald, was undoubtedly one of the most exclusive addresses in the city. And for some reason it appeared familiar to me.

“As you probably know,” Kassner was saying, “the problem with salvarsan is that it is only slightly more toxic for the microbe than the host. No such problems have presented themselves with protonsil rubrum. The human liver deals with it quite effectively.”

“Excellent,” I murmured, as I glanced further down the list. But when I saw two Johann Mullers, a Fritz Schmidt, an Otto Schneider, a Johann Meyer, and a Paul Fischer, I began to suspect that the list might not be all I’d hoped it was. These were five of the most common surnames in Germany. “Tell me something, Doctor. Are these real names?”

“To be honest, I don’t know,” admitted Kassner. “We don’t insist on seeing identity cards here, otherwise they might never volunteer for the clinical trial. Patient confidentiality is an important issue with moral diseases.”

“I suppose that’s especially true since the National Socialists started talking about a cleanup of morals in this city,” I said.

“But all of those addresses are real enough. We do insist on that so that we might correspond with our patients over a period of time. Just to keep a check on how they’re all doing.”

I handed back the file and watched as he placed it in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

“Well, thank you for your time,” I said, standing up. “I’ll certainly be making a favorable interim report to the Dyestuff Syndicate on your work here.”

“I’ll walk you to your car, Herr Doktor.”

We went outside. Carl Mirow threw away his cigarette and opened the heavy car door. If Dr. Kassner had harbored any doubts about who I was, they were banished by the sight of a uniformed chauffeur and a limousine as big as a Heinkell.

Carl drove to Dragonerstrasse and dropped me in front of my building. He was glad to see the back of me. And especially glad to see the back of Dragonerstrasse, which wasn’t anywhere to bring a chauffeur and a Mercedes-Benz 770. I went up to my apartment, put on some normal clothes, and went out again. I got into my car and headed toward the West End. I had an itch I suddenly wanted to scratch.

Number 3 Reichskanzlerplatz was an expensive, modern-looking apartment building in just about the richest, leafiest suburb in Berlin. A little farther to the west lay Grunewald racecourse and the athletics stadium, where some Berliners hoped that the Olympics might be staged in 1936. My late wife had been especially fond of this area. To the south of the racecourse was the Seeschloss restaurant, where I had asked her to marry me. I parked the car and went over to a kiosk to get some cigarettes and, perhaps, some information.

“Give me some Reemtsmas, a New Berliner, Tempo, and The Week,” I said. I flashed my warrant disc. “We had a report of some shots fired in this area. Anything in it?”

The vendor, who wore a suit, an Austrian hat, and a little mustache like Hitler’s, shook his head. “Car backfire probably. But I’ve been here since seven this morning and I haven’t heard a thing.”

“I figured as much just looking around,” I said. “Still, you have to check these things out.”

“There’s never any trouble around here,” he said. “Although there could be.”

“How do you mean?”

He pointed across Reichskanzlerplatz, to where it intersected with Kaiserdamm. “See that car?” He was pointing at a dark green Mercedes-Benz parked right in front of number three.

“Yes.”

“There are four SA men sitting in that car,” he said. Pointing north, up Ahornallee, he added: “And another truckload of them over there.”

“How do you know they’re SA?”

“Haven’t you heard? The ban on uniforms has been lifted.”

“Of course. It’s today, isn’t it? Some cop I am. I didn’t even notice. So who lives around here? Ernst Rohm?”

“Nope. Although he does visit on occasion. I’ve seen him going in there. To the ground-floor apartment on the corner of number three. Owned by Mrs. Magda Quandt.”

“Who?”

The vendor grinned. “For a bull who takes as many newspapers as you do, you don’t know much.”

“Me? I just look at the pictures. So go ahead and educate me.” I handed over a five. “And while you’re at it, keep the change.”

“Magda Quandt. She got married last December to Josef Goebbels. I see him every morning. Comes out and buys all the papers.”

“It gives the clubfoot some exercise, I suppose.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I shrugged. “Well, I can see why he married her. Nice building like that. Wouldn’t mind living here myself.” I shook my head. “Thing is, I can’t for the life of me see why she married a little fritz like him.”

I tossed the papers in the car, crossed over to the other side of the square, and glanced in the window of the car parked out front of number three. The vendor was right. It was full of Nazi brown shirts, who eyed me suspiciously as I went by. Apart from some clowns I’d seen fooling around in an old Model T at the circus one Christmas, it would have been hard to have seen more obvious stupidity in one car. It was all coming back to me now. Why the address had jogged my memory in Kassner’s office. One of the other Homicide teams at the Alex had been obliged to check an SA man’s alibi with Goebbels a month or two before.

The building had its own doorman, of course. All the nice apartment buildings in the West End had a doorman. Probably there was an armed SA man somewhere inside the lobby, keeping him company. Just to make sure Goebbels was well protected. He probably needed it, too. The Communists had already made several attempts on Hitler’s life. I didn’t doubt they wanted to assassinate Goebbels. I wouldn’t have minded taking a poke at the little satyr myself.

Naturally, I’d heard the rumors. That despite his cloven hoof and his diminished size, he was really quite a ladies’ man. The word around the Alex was that it wasn’t just Goebbels’s foot that looked like a club; that while he may have been short of stature, he was outsized on the butcher’s counter; that Goebbels was what Berlin’s line-boys would have called a Breslauer, after a large sausage of the same name. Much as I disliked him, however, I was still finding it hard to imagine Joey the Crip taking the risk of an open trip to the jelly clinic in Friedrichshain. Unless, of course, he’d gone in as a private patient, after hours, when no one else was about.