The two men who pushed their way into my office were genuine policemen, not honorary ones like Thomas. They wore long gray overcoats made of coarse, stiff wool, probably woven with wood pulp, and held their hats in their hands. They hesitated and then raised their arms, saying, “Heil Hitler!” I returned their salute and motioned them to the sofa. They introduced themselves: Kriminalkommissar Clemens and Kriminalkommissar Weser, from Referat V B 1, “Einsatz/Capital Crimes.” “In fact,” said one of them, possibly Clemens, by way of introduction, “we’re acting at the request of the Five A One, which is in charge of international cooperation. They received a request for legal assistance from the French police…”—“Excuse me,” I interrupted curtly, “can I see your papers?” They handed me their ID cards along with a mission order signed by a Regierungsrat Galzow, assigning them the task of replying to questions sent to the German police by the Prefect of the Alpes-Maritimes in the context of an investigation into the murders of Moreau, Aristide, and his wife, Moreau, Héloïse, formerly Frau. Aue, née C. “So you’re investigating my mother’s death,” I said, returning their documents. “How does that concern the German police? They were killed in France.”—“True, true,” said the second one, probably Weser. The first one pulled a notebook out of his pocket and leafed through it. “It was a very violent murder, apparently,” he said. “A madman, possibly, a sadist. You must have been very upset.” My voice remained dry and hard: “Kriminalkommissar, I am aware of what happened. My personal reactions are my business. Why are you coming to see me?”—“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Weser.—“As a potential witness,” Clemens added.—“A witness of what?” I asked. He looked me straight in the eyes: “You saw them at the time, didn’t you?” I too continued staring at him: “That’s right. You’re well informed. I went to visit them. I don’t know exactly when they were killed, but it was soon afterward.” Clemens examined his notebook, then showed it to Weser. Weser went on: “According to the Gestapo in Marseille, a travel pass was issued to you for the Italian zone on April twenty-sixth. How long did you stay at your mother’s house?”—“Just a day.”—“Are you sure?” Clemens asked.—“I think so. Why?” Weser again consulted Clemens’s notebook: “According to the French police, a gendarme saw an SS officer leaving Antibes in a bus on the morning of the twenty-ninth. There weren’t many SS officers in the sector, and they certainly weren’t traveling by bus.”—“I may have stayed two nights. I traveled a lot, at the time. Is it important?”—“It could be. The bodies were discovered on May first, by a milkman. They weren’t very fresh. The coroner estimated the time of death at sixty to eighty-four hours prior, that is sometime between the night of the twenty-eighth and the night of the twenty-ninth.”—“Well, I can tell you that when I left them they were very much alive.”—“So,” said Clemens, “if you left on the morning of the twenty-ninth, they would have been killed during the day.”—“That’s possible. I never asked myself the question.”—“How did you learn of their deaths?”—“I was informed by my sister.” “In fact,” said Weser, still leaning over to look at Clemens’s notebook, “she arrived almost right away. On May second, to be precise. Do you know how she learned the news?”—“No.”—“Have you seen her again since?” asked Clemens.—“No.”—“Where is she now?” asked Weser.—“She lives with her husband in Pomerania. I can give you the address, but I don’t know if they’re there. They often go to Switzerland.” Weser took the notebook from Clemens and jotted something down. Clemens asked me: “You’re not in touch with her?”—“Not very often,” I replied.—“And your mother, did you see her often?” asked Weser. They seemed systematically to take turns talking, and this little game was grating on my nerves. “Not much, either,” I replied as dryly as possible.—“So,” said Clemens, “you’re not very close to your family.”—“Meine Herren, I’ve already told you, I’m not about to talk to you about my inner feelings. I don’t see how my relations with my family can concern you.”—“When there’s murder, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Weser said sententiously, “anything can concern the police.” They really did look like a pair of cops from an American movie. But they probably acted that way on purpose. “This Herr Moreau was your stepfather by marriage, isn’t that right?” Weser continued.—“Yes. He married my mother in…1929, I think. Or maybe ’twenty-eight.”—“1929, that’s right,” Weser said, studying his notebook.—“Are you aware of his last will?” Clemens abruptly asked. I shook my head: “Not at all. Why?”—“Herr Moreau wasn’t poor,” said Weser. “You’ll probably inherit a tidy little sum.”—“That would surprise me. My stepfather and I didn’t get along at all.”—“That’s possible,” Clemens continued, “but he had no children, and no brothers or sisters. If he died intestate, you and your sister will share everything.”—“I hadn’t even thought about it,” I said sincerely. “But instead of pointlessly speculating, tell me: did they find a will?” Weser leafed through the notebook: “Actually, we don’t know that yet.”—“Well,” I declared, “no one has contacted me about it.” Weser scribbled a note in the notebook. “Another question, Herr Obersturmbannführer: there were two children at Herr Moreau’s house. Twins. Alive.”—“I saw those children. My mother told me they were a friend’s. Do you know who they are?”—“No,” Clemens grumbled. “Apparently the French don’t know, either.”—“Did they witness the murder?”—“They never opened their mouths,” said Weser.—“They might have seen something,” added Clemens.—“But they didn’t want to talk,” repeated Weser.—“Maybe they were shocked,” Clemens explained.—“And what’s become of them?” I asked.—“Actually,” Weser replied, “that’s the curious thing. Your sister took them with her.”—“We don’t really understand why,” said Clemens.—“Or how.” “What’s more, it seems highly irregular,” Weser commented.—“Highly,” Clemens repeated. “But at the time, the Italians were running things there. With them anything is possible.”—“Yes, absolutely anything,” Weser added. “Except an investigation by the rules.”—“It’s the same thing with the French, too,” Clemens went on.—“Yes, they’re the same,” Weser confirmed. “It’s no pleasure working with them.”—“Meine Herren,” I interrupted. “That’s all very well, but how does it concern me?” Clemens and Weser looked at each other. “You see, I’m very busy right now. Unless you have other specific questions, I think we can leave things there?” Clemens nodded; Weser leafed through the notebook and returned it to him. Then he got up: “Excuse us, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”—“Yes,” said Clemens, getting up in turn. “Excuse us. For now, that’s all.”—“Yes,” Weser went on, “that’s all. Thank you for your cooperation.” I held out my hand: “Not at all. If you have other questions, don’t hesitate to contact me.” I took some business cards from my stand and gave one to each. “Thank you,” Weser said, pocketing the card. Clemens examined his own: “Special representative of the Reichsführer-SS for the Arbeitseinsatz,” he read. “What is that?”—“That’s a State secret, Kriminalkommissar,” I replied.—“Oh. I’m sorry.” They both saluted and headed for the door. Clemens, who was a good head taller than Weser, opened it and went out; Weser paused on the threshold and turned around: “Excuse me, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I forgot one detail.” He turned around: “Clemens! The notebook.” He leafed through it again. “Oh yes, here it is: When you went to visit your mother, were you in uniform or in civilian clothes?”—“I don’t remember. Why? Is it important?”—“Probably not. The Obersturmführer in Marseille who issued the travel pass thought you were in civilian clothes.”—“That’s possible. I was on leave.” He nodded: “Thank you. If there’s anything else, we’ll call you. Forgive us for coming like this. Next time we’ll make an appointment.”