“Well, no,” said Fichte, unwilling to concede the point entirely. “We took them because we thought they’d lead us to whoever planned the escape.”

“I’m not questioning why you took them, Hans. I’m just making sure I know what we have. Finding the people who helped him only matters once we’ve got Wouters in hand.”

Fichte thought a moment and nodded. He was about to answer, when his eyes lit up. “There was something else,” he said as he moved to the cabinet and began to rummage through the papers. “Van Acker mentioned a few things he’d put together himself-interviews, a few last year, two or three the year before, and some drawings.” Fichte found the packet. “Here it is.”

“Drawings,” said Hoffner. He took the packet, placed it on the desk, and began to leaf through as Fichte drew up to his side. “When it’s a case that revolves around designs and patterns, Hans, you might want to mention drawings a little earlier on.” Hoffner stopped when they came to the sheets with Wouters’s scribblings.

There were four pages, each one filled with perhaps twenty lines of intricately drawn lace patterns. The sketches were all the same size, but what was most striking was the patterning of the rows themselves. Each one was made up of seven drawings of exactly the same design; the next row, another design and another set of replicas. Had Hoffner simply been glancing at them, he might have thought that each line was an exercise in perfecting the single designs. He quickly realized, however, that with each subsequent rendering, Wouters was bringing something new to the original drawing. The shapes, the lines, the contours might have been identical, but Hoffner knew there was something different in each one. He stood over the pages and stared, trying to find it, until, almost twenty minutes in, he saw the deviation. It was in the stroke of the pen. Each replica began at a different point of the design and moved through the lines of the pattern on its own distinct course: identical sketches, yet each one uniquely drawn. He had no idea what it meant.

“It’s in how he draws it,” he said out loud as he began to flip through the pages. He was hoping to find something resembling the diameter-cut. There was nothing.

The sudden break in silence momentarily startled Fichte. “An exercise, you mean?”

“Maybe.” Hoffner stared a moment longer. “I don’t know.” He then took the pages and grabbed his coat. “Friday night,” he said as he slipped his arm through the sleeve. “The only place that handles this kind of lace and that stays open past six is KaDeWe, yes?”

“The shops I tried wouldn’t be open this late,” said Fichte. “KaDeWe. Maybe Tietz. But KaDeWe definitely.”

“Good,” said Hoffner as he grabbed his hat. “Then I’m guessing our friend there is going to be able to tell us more about Herr Wouters than you, I, van Acker, or any doctor ever could.”

KaDeWe was packed. The revolution was now a distant memory, and capitalism had wasted no time in calling its faithful back to the teat. If any of the store’s clientele had seen this morning’s BZ, they were showing little concern. After all, there was a special on scarves, and someone had heard that a bit of perfume from Paris had finally made its way through. They were in the west, deep in the west. No one killed in the west.

Hoffner and Fichte sidestepped their way through the crowds and over to the glove counter, where, for some reason, things were less frantic. A placard on top of the glass explained:

We regret any inconvenience, however this department will be closing at five-thirty this evening. All inquiries may be taken up at the information desk. Thank you for your patience.

Hoffner checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He moved across the aisle to lady’s handkerchiefs, where a line of three or four women was waiting for the clerk. Hoffner stepped up to the glass. “The gentleman who handles the gloves,” he said bluntly. “Herr Taubmann. Where does he change before leaving the store?”

The clerk turned slowly at the interruption as the woman started talking quietly among themselves. “Mein Herr,” he said through two stiff lips, “as you can see, there are other customers waiting-”

Hoffner pulled out his badge; he had no time for this tonight. “My apologies. Where can I find him?”

The man’s sneer became a weak smile. “Is there something the matter, mein Herr?” The man was doing his best not to rattle the ladies. “Surely this is a mistake?”

“Yes, that’s what this is,” said Hoffner abruptly. “A mistake. Just tell me where he changes.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner was leading Fichte through the maze of underground employee corridors in search of Room 17. It was eerily quiet, given the mayhem they had just come from on the main floor.

Herr Taubmann was sitting alone on a long bench, tying his shoe, when Hoffner and Fichte stepped into the cold room; evidently heat was not a necessity for KaDeWe’s workers. Hoffner noticed that the walls were in need of a bit of replastering, as well.

Taubmann’s suit hung in a locker directly across from him. It was perfectly placed, the creases exact on the hanger. Hoffner saw the open bottle of rosewater placed on a shelf just below the cuffs to keep it fresh: a perfect touch for the man, he thought.

Taubmann looked up, his surprise instantaneous. It was the first time Hoffner had realized how birdlike Taubmann was. “Herr Hoffner,” Taubmann said nervously. His head tweaked from side to side as he glanced from Hoffner to Fichte. “This is a restricted area.” He seemed unsure what to say next. “Your order has not yet come in.” Even Taubmann recognized the absurdity of what he had just said.

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in reassuringly. “I’m not here about the gloves, Herr Taubmann.” He calmly produced his badge. “It’s Inspector Hoffner. I just need to ask you some questions about. . lace designs.”

Taubmann was still trying to process the badge. “Inspector?”

“Yes. You’ve been so helpful in the past. I hope that’s all right?”

Taubmann struggled to find an answer. “Questions about lace?”

“Yes.” Hoffner needed to move this along. “I know you have an appointment tonight, but this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Taubmann’s nervousness turned to shock. “How do you know about my appointment?” he said tensely.

Hoffner raised a hand. “I don’t,” he said in his most pacifying tone. “I merely assumed. There was a note at your counter. You were closing early.”

Taubmann’s relief was immediate. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. The note. I–It’s a dinner for my mother. Once a year. We celebrate her birthday. I always leave a few minutes early. Saves an enormous amount of time back here. You can’t imagine. Half an hour at least.”

It amused Hoffner to see how much information the innocent were willing to volunteer. “Of course,” he said. “How nice for you. But could I steal just a few minutes of your time?”

Taubmann was again running through the last half-minute in his head. “You still want the gloves from Bruges, yes?” The salesman was returning.

Hoffner smiled. “Of course.”

“Good.” Taubmann was recovering beautifully. “That’s good. And this is. .?”

Hoffner turned to Fichte. “My partner. Detective Fichte. Herr Taubmann.”

Fichte offered a quick nod.

“Oh, yes,” said Taubmann. “I trust your doctor’s visit was a success?”

Naturally, Taubmann would have remembered that. Fichte nodded again, with a forced smile.

“Very good,” said Taubmann. He was slightly less efficient out of his perfect suit. He seemed aware of it himself as he motioned for Hoffner to take a seat. Hoffner did so, and pulled out the pages from van Acker’s files.

“If you can,” said Hoffner, “I’d like to know what these are.”

Still not sure what was going on, Taubmann took the sheets. “All right,” he said tentatively. He brought the pages up to his face. As with the gloves, his expression changed instantly. His head began to dart from row to row as he studied the sketches with great intensity. After nearly two minutes he said, “This is marvelous work. Really. Not another aunt, is it, mein Herr?”