“I’ll tell you what happened,” Schumann said.

“Yes, yes, you may talk in a minute. Janssen, contact headquarters. Have someone there get in touch with the American embassy. Ask about this Robert Taggert. Tell them he’s in possession of a diplomatic identity card. Say nothing about his death at this time.”

“Yes, sir.” Janssen located the phone, which Kohl noted was disconnected from the wall, a common sight nowadays. The Olympic flag on the building, unaccompanied by the National Socialist banner, told him the place was owned or managed by a Jew or someone else in disfavor; the phones might be tapped. “Call from the wireless in the DKW, Janssen.”

The inspector candidate nodded and left the room again.

“Now, sir, you may enlighten me. And please spare me no details.”

Schumann said in German, “I came over here with the Olympic team. I’m a sportswriter. A freelance journalist. Do you-?”

“Yes, yes, I am familiar with the term.”

“I was supposed to meet Reggie Morgan and he’d introduce me to some people for the stories. I wanted what we call ‘color.’ Information about the livelier parts of the city, gamblers, hustlers, boxing clubs.”

“And this Reggie Morgan did what? As a profession, I mean.”

“He was just an American businessman I’d heard about. He’d lived here for a few years and knew the place pretty well.”

Kohl pointed out, “You came over with the Olympic team and yet theyseemed unwilling to tell me anything about you. That’s curious, don’t you think?”

Schumann laughed bitterly. “You live in this country and you ask me why anyone would be reluctant to answer a policeman’s questions?”

It is a matter of state security…

Willi Kohl allowed no expression to cross his face but he was momentarily embarrassed at the truth of this comment. He regarded Schumann closely. The American appeared at ease. Kohl could detect no signs of fabrication, which was one of the inspector’s particular talents.

“Continue.”

“I was to meet with Morgan yesterday.”

“That would have been when? And where?”

“Around noon. Outside a beer hall on Spener Street.”

Right next to Dresden Alley, Kohl reflected. And around the time of the shooting. Surely, if he had something to hide, he would not place himself near the scene of the killing. Or would he? The National Socialist criminals were by and large stupid and obvious. Kohl sensed he was in the presence of a very smart man, though whether he was a criminal or not, the inspector could not tell. “But, as you contend, the real Reginald Morgan did not show up. It was this Taggert.”

“That’s right. Though I didn’t know it at the time. He claimed he was Morgan.”

“And what happened at this meeting?”

“It was very brief. He was agitated. He pulled me into this alley, said something had come up and I was supposed to meet him later. At a restaurant-”

“The name?”

“The Summer Garden.”

“Where the wheat beer was not to your liking.”

Schumann blinked, then replied, “Is it to anyone’s liking?”

Kohl refrained from smiling. “And you met Taggert again, as planned, at the Summer Garden?”

“That’s right. A friend of his joined us there. I don’t recall his name.”

Ah, the laborer.

“He whispered something to Taggert, who looked worried and said we ought to beat it.” A frown at the literal German translation of what would be an English idiom. “I mean, leave quickly. This friend thought there were some Gestapo or something around, and Taggert agreed. We slipped out the side door. I should’ve guessed then that something wasn’t right. But it was kind of an adventure, you know. That’s just what I was looking for, for my stories.”

“Local color,” Kohl said slowly, reflecting that it is so much easier to make a big lie believable when the liar feeds you small truths. “And did you meet this Taggert at any other times?” A nod toward the body. “Other than today, of course?” Kohl wondered if the man would admit going to November 1923 Square.

“Yes,” Schumann said. “Some square later that day. A bad neighborhood. Near Oranienburger Station. By a big statue of Hitler. We were going to meet some other contact. But that guy never showed up.”

“And you ‘beat it’ from there as well.”

“That’s right. Taggert got spooked again. It was clear something was off. That’s when I decided I better cut things off with the guy.”

“What happened,” Kohl asked quickly, “to your Stetson hat?”

A concerned look. “Well, I’ll be honest, Detective Kohl. I was walking down the street and saw some young…” A hesitation as he sought a word. “Beasts… toughs?”

“Yes, yes, thugs.”

“In brown uniforms.”

“Stormtroopers.”

“Thugs,” Schumann said with some disgust. “They were beating up a bookseller and his wife. I thought these men were going to kill them. I stopped them. The next thing I knew there were a dozen of them after me. I threw some clothes away, down the sewer, so they wouldn’t recognize me.”

This is a wiry man, Kohl thought. And clever.

“Are you going to arrest me for beating up some of your Nazi thugs?”

“That doesn’t interest me, Mr. Schumann. But what does very much interest me is the purpose of this whole masquerade orchestrated by Mr. Taggert.”

“He was trying to fix some of the Olympic events.”

“Fix?”

The American thought for a moment. “To have a player lose intentionally. That’s what he’d been doing here over the past several months, putting together gambling pools in Berlin. Taggert’s colleagues were going to place bets against some of the American favorites. I have a press pass and can get close to the athletes. I was supposed to bribe them to lose on purpose. That’s why he was so nervous for the past couple days, I guess. He owed some of your gang rings, he called them, a lot of money.”

“Morgan was killed because this Taggert wished to impersonate him?”

“That’s right.”

“Quite an elaborate plot,” Kohl observed.

“Quite a lot of money was involved. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Another glance at the limp body on the floor. “I noted that you said you decided to end your relationship with Mr. Taggert as of yesterday. And yet here he is. How did this tragic ‘fight,’ as you call it, transpire?”

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was desperate for the money – he’d borrowed a lot to place the bets. He came here today to threaten me. He said they were going to make it look like I killed Morgan.”

“To extort you into helping them.”

“That’s right. But I said I didn’t care. I was going to turn him in anyway. He pulled that gun on me. We struggled and he fell. It seems he broke his neck.”

Kohl’s mind instinctively applied the information Schumann had provided against the facts and the inspector’s awareness of human nature. Some details fit; some were jarring. Willi Kohl always reminded himself to keep an open mind at crime scenes, refrain from reaching conclusions too quickly. Now, this process happened automatically; his thoughts were deadlocked. It was as if a punch card had jammed in one of the DeHoMag sorting machines.

“You fought to save yourself and he died in a fall.”

A woman’s voice said, “Yes, that is exactly what happened.”

Kohl turned to the figure in the doorway. She was about forty, slim and attractive, though her face was tired, troubled.

“Please, your name?”

“Käthe Richter.” She automatically handed her card to him. “I manage this building in the owner’s absence.”

Her papers confirmed her identity and he returned the ID. “And you were a witness to this event?”

“I was here. In the hallway. I heard some disturbance from inside and opened the door partway. I saw the whole thing.”

“And yet you were gone when we arrived.”

“I was afraid. I saw your car pull up. I didn’t want to get involved.”

So she was on a Gestapo or SD list. “And yet here you are.”