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“I heard nothing!” he cried.

Bauer gripped the man by his wool suit, pinning him against the wall. “Kubizek, I swear to God, I’ll put your head through this wall—”

“You’ve upstaged me enough!” Kubizek shouted.

“Upstaged?” Bauer didn’t understand. “You’re going to be a lot more than upstaged when I’m through with you—”

“No, no, I’m telling you what he said to her.” Kubizek began to falter. Bauer was now propping him up.

“Tell me word for word.”

Kubizek looked away, his body trembling, beads of sweat dripping down his face. “He said to her, ‘You’ve upstaged me enough for one evening.’”

18

THOMAS BAUER PUSHED HIS way through the double doors of the cabaret with a sigh, letting the brisk air splash his face. He didn’t get much from the owner, but he got what he needed, a missing link in a working theory.

He walked down the street, toward the tram on Rheinstraße that would take him back to the station. Across the street, the Obdachlosenheim München—one of the city’s homeless shelters, with its recognizable green awning—was turning people away, handing out blankets and cushions and small meal packets.

The sun had lowered behind the buildings, casting him in relative darkness. As he headed south, he heard a set of footfalls that seemed to match his, step for step.

Yes. He was sure of it. Someone was following him.

Bauer picked up the pace without being obvious. He reached an alley just short of Rheinstraße and turned and waited. He heard the footfalls pick up.

He counted down, waiting, senses at full alert, heartbeat kicking his chest, drawing his Walther PPK 9-millimeter.

A man turned down the alley. Bauer jumped him, tucking his arm under the man’s, bending his arm behind his back and driving him into a brick wall. He shoved the pistol into the man’s neck. “I’m police,” he hissed, “and if you make one move, you’re the next body I bring to the morgue.”

“I mean no harm, Inspector.”

“No? Sneaking up behind a cop just for laughs?” Bauer kicked the man’s feet to spread them apart. With his free hand, he patted him down. He removed a pistol from a holster clipped to the man’s belt, a crappy old six-shooter. He flipped open the cylinder and let each bullet fall from its chamber, clattering on the pavement. Then he took possession of the pistol.

“I have a license for that,” the man whined.

“Don’t we all.” Bauer spotted a bulge at the bottom of the man’s pant leg. “You got a second one down there?”

“Y-yes. An ankle holster. But I told you. I am no threat to you.”

“Pretty heavily armed for a guy who’s no threat to me, mister.” Bauer removed and pocketed the second firearm. “Now tell me your name.”

But already this was feeling wrong. This guy wasn’t muscle. He had some size, but he was soft, ill suited for combat. He wore glasses, an oversized wool coat, and a homburg hat—at least he had, before it had fallen off. No, this guy looked more like a professor than a thug.

“The name’s Fritz Gerlich,” the man said. “I’m a journalist.”

“If you’re lying to me, the only thing you are is a corpse.” His gun pressed into Gerlich’s neck, Bauer fished into the man’s pocket and produced a small case. He shook it and heard a rattle inside.

“That’s a rosary, Inspector.”

Bauer tried the other pocket and got Gerlich’s wallet. He flipped it open awkwardly with one hand and saw the man’s ID: Carl Albert Fritz Michael Gerlich, editor in chief, Der Illustrierte Sonntag.

“My God.” Bauer stepped back and took a long breath, the after-adrenaline filling him. “You have any idea how close you came to getting shot?”

“I do now, yes.” The man turned to face Bauer, straightening out his coat and dusting it off with his hands, fixing his glasses.

“So what the hell does a journalist want with me?”

“We can help each other. On the investigation into Geli Raubal’s death.”