“Absolutely, mein Herr.”

“You are here until-”

“Six o’clock, mein Herr.”

“Then I will be back before then.” Hoffner retrieved the package.

“Excellent, mein Herr.”

“Come, Reiner,” Hoffner said to Fichte with sudden determination. “We mustn’t keep your bowel doctor waiting.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner ordered two coffees before making his way over to a table and Fichte, who had settled in by one of the caf’s outdoor heaters: the long, iron-encased lamp was working at full capacity to create a pocket of toasted air. Ten or so other lamps littered the space under the wide awning; even so, most of the clientele had opted for seats inside. Hoffner, on the other hand, liked being out on the street; he liked the occasional spray of rain that seemed to defy all logic by attacking from the side and not from above; most of all, he liked that Fichte was getting the brunt of it. Across the avenue, KaDeWe loomed like an enormous troll.

“All right,” said Fichte. “So, now that we’re sitting down, why the performance, riveting as it was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” For the first time, the title seemed to carry less than its usual reverence: Hoffner liked the change. He tossed his hat onto an empty chair.

“Riveting?” he said. “You’re too kind.”

“Yes. My bowels and I are great aficionados.”

Hoffner laughed a nice full laugh. “Your expression was priceless.”

Fichte bowed his head once submissively. “I’m glad we could be so amusing.”

“Very. Actually, Victor once had his-” Hoffner stopped himself. He saw the anticipation in Fichte’s eyes. There was nothing threatening in it; still, Hoffner felt a moment’s betrayal. He waited, then explained, “The Polpo, Hans.” Hoffner took a napkin and began to wipe off the mud that had splattered onto his pant leg. “If I bring out my badge, our clerk can tell anyone nosing about that two Kripomen have been in there asking about a pair of gloves. We don’t need that kind of attention.”

“But the Polpo wasn’t interested in the gloves. If they were, they would have taken them.”

“True.” Hoffner was struggling with a particularly resilient stain. “Except they weren’t interested because they didn’t know about them.” Hoffner finished with the napkin and tossed it next to his hat. “I’ve had the gloves with me since we brought the body in yesterday.”

“You’ve had the gloves?” This was new information to Fichte. “Why?”

“Last night wasn’t the first time someone’s gone through our evidence.” The coffees arrived. “Don’t look so surprised, Hans.” Hoffner took a sip; he had expected better from a place like this, especially in this part of town: he could taste the chicory. “It just happened to be the first time they were caught.”

Fichte waited for the waiter to move off. “And you knew it was the Polpo?”

“No. I thought maybe the KD was getting anxious. I even thought you might have been putting in some extra hours, bizarre as that might sound.” Fichte ignored the comment. “Either one would have been preferable.” Fichte let this all sink in as Hoffner suffered through a few more sips. “It means,” said Hoffner, “that you’ll have to be just as careful this afternoon.” Hoffner looked for a sugar bowl. There was none to be found.

“This afternoon? What are we doing this afternoon?”

“We aren’t doing anything.” Hoffner settled on a spoonful of cinnamon: for some reason, cinnamon was making it through to Berlin in truckloads. “You are hunting down all the places in town that do business with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel.”

“All?” said Fichte.

“Relax, Hans. There can’t be more than ten in the entire city that handle this kind of lace.” Hoffner tried another sip; the combination of cinnamon and chicory was truly dreadful. “And I don’t want any of them thinking that someone from the Kripo has been asking them questions. Comprends?”

Fichte sat slightly amazed. “You want me to do this on my own?” Before Hoffner could answer, Fichte said, “I mean, of course I can do it on my own. I just want to make sure that’s what you meant.”

“Surprised, Hans? I would have thought your instinct would have seen this coming a long way off.”

Again, Fichte let the comment pass. “And what exactly will the Herr Kriminal-Kommissar be doing while I’m racing around town?”

Hoffner stood and placed a few coins on the table. “Mechlin Rseau. Write it down, Reiner.” He then picked up his hat, ducked under the awning, and stepped out into the rain.

Her last known address was a matter of record; it took Hoffner less than two hours to find it. Even so, Luxemburg had spent too many years in and out of prison to make anything completely verifiable: five out of the last seven, from what he had read. There was the flat on Cranachstrasse that she had shared with a Leo Jogiches, but the lease there had run out in June of 1911. She had reappeared later that year in police postal records for the South End section of town, but, given the war and recent events, it was anybody’s guess how often she had called Number 2 on the tree-lined Lindenstrasse her home. Probably better that way: less chance that someone might be taking an interest in Hoffner’s unannounced visit.

The building was typical for this part of town, five or six stories, a flat on each floor, comfortable bourgeois living. Hoffner had imagined Red Rosa in something grittier. In fact, he remembered how he and Martha had thought about this part of town for themselves, but had found it too expensive. Maybe he had chosen the wrong profession, he thought. Hoffner mounted the steps and rang the porter’s bell.

Characteristically efficient, the man had wasted no time in attending to the nameplate for the top-floor flat. A lone L and u were all that remained of the torn strip of paper.

The door opened and an older woman appeared from the shadows. She was painfully thin, and the wisps of her gray, bunned hair seemed to create a small halo above her head. She looked gentle enough, though the last weeks had evidently taken their toll. “Yes?” she said tentatively.

“So sorry to trouble you, Madame, but I was hoping to take a look at the top-floor flat. You are the landlady?”

“My husband is the porter. That flat is not available.” She started to close the door, when Hoffner reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his badge. He kept it close to his body as he showed it to her. Her discomfort grew. She stared at the badge, then up at Hoffner. For some reason, she brought her hand up to her neck. It seemed to calm her. “My husband isn’t here,” she said. “He said you wouldn’t be back for another few days.”

Hoffner showed no sign of surprise. “Other policemen were here this morning?” he said as he returned the badge to his pocket.

The woman looked confused. “No. A few days ago. I told them Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in weeks. We-” She stopped. “May I see your badge again?”

Hoffner reached into his pocket. “Of course,” he said, and handed it to her. She examined it closely. “Would it be better if I came inside?” he said. “Out of the rain?”

She seemed torn between apprehension and decorum. She quickly found what she was looking for and handed the badge back to Hoffner. “Forgive me,” she said. “Of course. Please come in.”

The hall had a few touches to liven it up-a small table by the stairs, a lamp with a colored glass shade-but it remained a rather bleak introduction to the building. Behind her, the door to her own flat stood ajar.

“So you say Frau Luxemburg hasn’t been here in several weeks,” said Hoffner.

“She was living closer in to town-near to where her newspaper was published, I think.” The hand returned to her neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know the address.” Her discomfort grew. “I told this all to the other men.”