Liesl was looking at Paul expectantly from across the room. What did she want? Another order for beer, a roll in the hay, a marriage proposal? Paul turned back to Webber. “I will admit you were right, Otto. I am something more than a sportswriter.”

“If you are a sportswriter at all.”

“I have a proposal.”

“Fine, fine. But let us talk among four eyes. You understand the meaning? Just the two of us. There’s a better place to speak and I need to deliver something.”

They drained their beers and Paul left some marks on the table. Webber picked up a cloth shopping bag with the words KaDeWe – the World’s Finest Store printed on the side. They escaped without saying good-bye to Liesl.

“Come this way.” Outside they turned north, away from downtown, from the shops, from the fancy Metropol Hotel, and plunged into the increasingly tawdry neighborhood.

There were a number of nightclubs and cabarets here but they’d all been boarded up. “Ach, look at this. My old neighborhood. It’s all gone now. Listen, Mr. John Dillinger, I will tell you that I was very famous in Berlin. Just like your mobs that I read about in the crime shockers, we had our Ringvereine here.”

Paul was not familiar with the word, whose literal translation was “ring association,” but, with Webber’s explanation, decided it meant “gang rings.”

Webber continued. “Ach, we had many of them. Very powerful. Mine was called after your Wild West. We were the Cowboys.” He used the English word. “I was president of it for a time. Yes, president. You look surprised. But we held elections to choose our leaders.”

“Democracy.”

Webber grew serious. “You must remember, we were a republic then, our German government was. It was President Hindenburg. Our gang rings were very well run. They were grand. We owned buildings and restaurants and had elegant parties. Even costume balls, and we invited politicians and police officials. We were criminals, yes, but we were respectable. We were proud and we were skillful too. Someday I may boast to you of my better cons.

“I don’t know much about your mob, Mr. John Dillinger – your Al Capone, your Dutch Schultz – but ours began as boxing clubs. Laborers would meet to box after work and they began protection rings. We had years of rebellion and civil unrest after the War, fighting with the Kosis. Madness. And then dreadful inflation… It was cheaper to burn banknotes for heat than to spend them on wood. One of your dollars would buy billions of marks. Times were terrible. We have an expression in our country: ‘The devil plays in the empty pocket.’ And all of our pockets were empty. It’s why the Little Man came to power. And it’s how I made myself a success. The world was barter and the black market. I bloomed in such an atmosphere.”

“I can imagine,” Paul said. Then he nodded at a boarded-up cabaret. “And the National Socialists have cleaned everything up.”

“Ach, that’s one way to put it. Depends on what you mean by ‘cleaned up.’ The Little Man isn’t right in the head. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t like women. Or men. Watch how he holds his hat over his crotch at rallies. We say he’s protecting the last of Germany’s unemployed!” Webber laughed hard. Then the smile faded. “But it’s no joke. Thanks to him, the inmates have taken over the prison.”

They continued in silence for a time. Then Webber stopped and pointed proudly to a decrepit building.

“Here we are, my friend. Look at the name.”

The faded sign read in English, The Texas Club.

“This used to be our headquarters. Of my gang ring, the Cowboys, I was telling you. It was far, far nicer then. Watch your step, Mr. John Dillinger. There are sometimes men sleeping off hangovers in the entryway. Ach, did I lament already how times have changed?”

Webber had delivered his mysterious shopping bag to the bartender and collected an envelope.

The room was filled with smoke and stank of garbage and garlic. The floor was littered with cigarette and cigar butts, smoked down to tiny nubs.

“Have only beer here,” Webber warned. “They can’t adulterate the kegs. They come sealed from the brewery. As for everything else? Well, they mix the schnapps with ethyl and food extract. The wine… Ach, do not even ask. And as for food…” He nodded at sets of knives, forks and spoons chained to the wall next to each table. A young man in filthy clothing was walking around the room rinsing the used ones in a greasy pail. “Far better to leave hungry,” Webber said. “Or you might not leave at all.”

They ordered and found seats. The bartender, staring darkly at Paul the whole time, brought beers. Both men wiped the lips of the glasses before drinking. Webber happened to glance down and then frowned. He lifted his solid leg over his opposite knee and examined his trousers. The bottom of his cuff had frayed through, threads dangling.

He examined the damage. “Ach. And these trousers were from England! Bond Street! Well, I’ll get one of my girls to fix it.”

“Girls? You have daughters?”

“I may. Sons too perhaps. I don’t know. But I am referring to one of the women I live with.”

“Women? All together?”

“Of course not,” Webber said. “Sometimes I’m at one’s apartment, sometimes at another’s. A week here, a week there. One of them is a cook possessed by Escoffier, one sews as Michelangelo sculpted, one is a woman of considerable experience in bed. Ach, they’re all pearls, each in her own way.”

“Do they…”

“Know of each other?” Webber shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. They don’t ask, I don’t say.” He leaned forward. “Now, Mr. John Dillinger. What can I do for you?”

“I am going to say something to you, Otto. And you may choose to stand up and leave. I’ll understand if you do. Or you can stay and hear me out. If so, and if you can help me, there will be some very good money in it for you.”

“I’m intrigued. Keep talking.”

“I have an associate in Berlin. He just had a contact of his do some research on you.”

“On me? I’m flattered.” And he truly seemed to be.

“You were born in Berlin in 1886, moved to Cologne when you were twelve and back here three years later after your school expelled you.”

Now Webber frowned. “I left voluntarily. The story is often misre-ported.”

“For theft of kitchen goods and a liaison with a chambermaid.”

“ She was the seductress and-”

“You have been arrested seven times and served a total of thirteen months in Moabit.”

Webber beamed. “So many arrests, such short sentences. Which attests to the quality of my connections in high places.”

Paul concluded: “And the British are none too happy with you because of that rancid oil you sold their embassy cook last year. The French, as well, because of the horsemeat you passed off as lamb. They have a notice posted not to deal with you anymore.”

“Ach, the French,” he sneered. “So you are telling me that you wish to make sure you can trust me and that I am the clever criminal I purport to be, not a stupid criminal like a National Socialist spy. You are merely being prudent. Why would I be insulted at this?”

“No, what you may be insulted about is that my associate has arranged to make some people in Berlin aware of you, some people in our government. Now, you’re free to choose to have nothing more to do with me. A disap pointment but understandable. But if you do decide to help us, and you betray me, these people will find you. And the consequences will be unpleasant. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bribery and threat, the cornerstones of trust in Berlin, as Reggie Morgan had said.

Webber wiped his face, lowered his gaze and muttered, “I save your life and this is how you treat me?”

Paul sighed. Not only did he like this improbable man but he saw no other way to get any wire on Ernst’s whereabouts. But he’d had no choice in having Morgan’s contacts look into Webber’s background and to make arrangements to ensure he didn’t betray them. These were precautions that were vital in this dangerous city. “So, I suppose we finish our beers in silence and go our separate ways.”