It took him a moment to recognize little Franz. The boy had been leaning up against a mound of cleared earth. “I thought it was you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” Franz said as he approached.

Hoffner stood there, waiting for his heart to slow. He stepped away from the ladder. “You startled me, Franz.”

The boy looked genuinely surprised. “Did I? Then I wish I’d brought a towel for you.”

Hoffner remembered this morning’s episode at the washbasin. “Fair enough.” He noticed how threadbare the boy’s coat had become, and how exposed his little neck was without a scarf. Franz, however, was showing no signs of the cold. Tough little man, thought Hoffner. “What are you doing here, Franz?”

“What you told me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Following Herr Kvatsch.”

Hoffner understood at once. He peered over at the ladder, then back at the boy. “When did he get here?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“He received a telephone call?”

Franz had grown accustomed to the accuracy of Hoffner’s guesses. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Where?”

“Reese’s Restaurant.”

“With anyone?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner nodded. Kvatsch’s star was rising: he was being permitted a firsthand account this time round. Someone wanted the story on the front page, not the fourth. That, however, was not the boy’s concern. “So,” said Hoffner, switching gears as he pulled out his cigarettes. “Any interesting names on the list?” He lit one up and watched as Franz stared eagerly at the ember. The boy continued to gaze as Hoffner exhaled a wide plume of smoke. “All right,” said Hoffner reluctantly. He reached into his pocket and offered one to Franz. The boy took two. “You’d do better to get yourself a scarf, Franz,” said Hoffner as he watched the boy slip the extra one into his pocket. Franz nodded curtly, then placed the cigarette in his mouth. He waited while Hoffner lit it.

“Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener,” said Franz. “Over lunch.” Smoke streamed from his small nose. “They were together maybe five minutes. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying.”

A little obvious, thought Hoffner, but why not? The question remained, Was Groener clever enough to have had a reason to leak the story? Spite hardly seemed a sufficient motive. Hoffner said, “The next time they meet, you come and get me. All right?” The boy nodded. “Good. Now get yourself back to the Alex. You can leave the list on my desk.” Hoffner would have liked to have had Franz wait around and trail after Kvatsch for the rest of the night, but the boy had been out in the cold long enough for one day. Then again, from the way Franz was working the cigarette, Hoffner might just have been underestimating him; Fichte could have taken lessons. “And stay at the Alex,” Hoffner added with a bit more grit. “No slipping out tonight, all right?” For a moment Franz looked as if he might play the innocent; instead, he nodded.

Hoffner walked back with him until they were halfway up the ramp. He had a sudden impulse to pat the boy on the shoulder, but the gesture seemed wrong. Luckily, Franz gave him no time to consider it; with a strangely knowing nod, the boy darted up the remaining few meters and out through the entryway.

Hoffner watched him go. The patrolman was busy elsewhere and took no notice; the dog kept his gaze on the site. Its barking, however, had become hoarser. Hoffner could almost hear a desperation in its throaty growls, as if the dog knew that the measure of its time was spent the moment its last salvo came to an end: it was holding on for as long as it could. Hoffner continued to watch as Franz-once more a ten-year-old boy-crept up to within a few meters of the dog and let go with a howl of his own. The dog responded with a sudden and renewed vigor; Franz howled again and raced off. The patrolman spun around and shouted after Franz, but the boy was already lost to the shadows. The dog, however, had regained full pitch. Franz had given him new life. Hoffner turned and headed back into the pit.

The climb down was shorter than he expected. The Rosenthaler Platz site had been a good twenty meters deep; here it was, at best, ten to twelve, which made the air less thick, though the smell of decaying flesh was no less present. It was also a less complex layout than before. There were no spokes or distant caverns to navigate, just a long tunnel, dimly lit by a series of string lights hung from above. Various air pumps with ventilation hoses sat silent along the dirt floor, but it was clear that this station was still under construction: the wood slats along the walls were freshly cut, the steel beams still had a shine to them, and the piles of shovels and picks were placed for easy retrieval. From the cigarette butts strewn about, Hoffner was guessing that a crew had been here as recently as yesterday afternoon, maybe even this morning. The supply lines were back up and running.

A sudden flash of light drew his attention to the far end of the tunnel. He began to make his way toward it as the din of conversation grew more distinct.

“. . completely in the buff,” came a voice. “I’m telling you. And she wasn’t shy, either.”

The men laughed. One of them caught sight of Hoffner and his expression hardened at once.

“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he drew up with his badge held at eye level. “Quite a little gathering.” There were four of them: a Schutzi sergeant, his patrolman lackey, a man with a camera, and, of course, Herr “Detective” Kvatsch. They were standing to the side of a woman’s dead body. Hoffner returned the badge to his coat pocket. “I see we’ve already started in on the group photos.”

There was a stiffness to the quartet now that Hoffner had arrived. The sergeant was unsure how to respond. He went with what he knew best. “We found her about an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar-”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in. “Your man upstairs filled me in on the details.” It was clear from the sergeant’s expression that the man upstairs had been told to give more than just the details when the Kripo arrived: a little warning would have been nice. Another botched job from the halfwit, Hoffner imagined. “How fortunate that our friends from the BZ arrived so quickly to keep you company.”

Kvatsch said, “As always, one step ahead of the Kripo, Herr Detective.”

“Or one phone call,” said Hoffner. He waited a moment, then added, “I hear the bean soup was particularly nice at Reese’s tonight.” Hoffner watched as Kvatsch’s lips shifted into double time. Hoffner then turned to the sergeant. “I’m assuming you’ve got my cut, Herr Wachtmeister.” The sergeant looked almost relieved. He began to reach into his tunic; Hoffner’s gaze soured instantly. “Greedy and stupid, eh, Sergeant?” Again, the man was at a loss. “That’s a dangerous combination, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, Hoffner reached over and took the camera from the fourth member of the party. He opened the back cover and removed the film.

“Excuse me, Detective,” said Kvatsch, now with an edge to his voice, “but I paid for that,” as if anything he said mattered down here.

Hoffner said, “Well, then, that was a bad investment, wasn’t it, Herr Kvatsch?” Hoffner crumpled the film in his fist and handed the camera back to the man. The photographer seemed wholly indifferent; Kvatsch had evidently already paid him for his services. “Who made the call?” said Hoffner.

Kvatsch said, “I thought you’d have that figured out by now, Detective. Wasn’t that the promise?”

Hoffner smiled stiffly. “Someone’s leading you around by the nose, and you don’t even realize it, do you?”

“We’ll see who’s leading whom.”

Hoffner nodded. “I thought newspapermen were supposed to track down stories, Kvatsch, not have them spoon-fed to them.”

Kvatsch was not biting. He answered coolly, “You want a name. I need a photograph. That seems a fair trade.”