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asked.
    â€œThe cat? What do you mean?” He rubbed his eyes, groped for the bedside light. He felt the cat on his feet. It was just curling up.
    â€œI heard it, I’m sure. Take a look.”
    He switched the light on. Hilde was lying flat on her back, the quilt up to her chin. She had raised her head and was looking at the bottom of his bed. “Put it in the basket,” she said. “You must get it out of that habit. It’s not healthy. That cat moults.”
    Scholten got out of bed, picked up the cat. “There now, Manny, back you go in your basket.” The cat purred loudly. He put it in the basket and tickled it under the chin a little. When he turned away the cat raised its head and looked at him. He wagged his finger. “You stay there like a good boy, or there’ll be trouble.”
    He got back into bed. “Bloody animal!”
    â€œYou shouldn’t swear!”
    â€œNo, all right.” He switched the light out.
    He lay on his side. After a few minutes he turned over on his back. He stared into the darkness. He was wide awake. It took him some time, but in the end he could make out the shape of the wardrobe. A faint reflection of light from the street lamp outside was shining in the mirror fitted to the middle door.
Scholten saw the chest of drawers too. The big mirror on top of it was in the dark, but its outlines too emerged more and more clearly.
    It takes you some time to see things in the dark.
    Perhaps Erika hadn’t even switched on the light at the top of the steps. And then there was the frost. But if she’d simply slipped in the dark – then was it an accident after all? And Wallmann’s alibi fitted that scenario. He couldn’t possibly have pushed her off the steps.
    But then why had Wallmann set that alibi up? You surely can’t foresee an accident?
    â€œHold on a moment,” Scholten told himself. “This is no good, Jupp Scholten. You’re going round in circles. With something like this you have to begin at the beginning and go through it all in the proper order.”
    He settled himself in bed, pulled up the quilt, pushed the pillow under his head. He listened for a moment. He could hear the faint, regular sound of Hilde’s breathing.
    Very well. Wallmann drove out of town on Monday last week. And Fräulein Faust didn’t come into the office at all. She was taking a week off for the christening. She said she was going to see her friend in Passau and stay till the weekend. Just the same time as Wallmann was allegedly going to be away on his own.
    â€œI’m going to take the boat out of its winter quarters, then I’ll spend a few days sailing on the lake. I need to relax and be on my own for once,” he had said. And that fool Büttgenbach had nodded earnestly, as if agreeing that Wallmann worked too hard and needed a rest.
    Erika had known exactly what to think of this sailing trip. On Thursday, when she came into the office, she had asked Scholten: “Has my husband called?”

    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œDidn’t he say he was going to?”
    â€œYes, he said he’d ring the office now and then, to find out what was going on.”
    â€œOh well, he’s probably very busy.” She had sat down at Wallmann’s desk and looked through the papers Scholten had found for her.
    Scholten had watched her for a while and then said: “Hasn’t he called you either, then?”
    â€œMe? What makes you think he’d call me?” She went on vigorously leafing through the papers. “He wouldn’t do that. I might ask questions.”
    Suddenly she had raised the papers in the air and slammed them back down on the desk. “That sh. . . that boat! It ought to be burned! Do you know what that thing cost, Herr Scholten? Twenty-four thousand nine hundred marks, and that’s before the extras he had fitted. A ‘nifty little cruiser’! Oh yes. I’d like to