Read If the Dead Rise Not for Free Online

certificates from Kürfurstendamm Secretarial College. And before that, my school Abitur .”
    We reached the entrance hall, where the new desk clerk eyed us suspiciously. I steered the girl down another flight, to the basement.
    “I thought you were going to throw me out,” she said, glancing back at the front door.
    I didn’t answer. I was thinking. I was thinking, Why not replace Ilse Szrajbman with this girl? She was good-looking, well dressed, personable, intelligent, and, if she was to be believed, a good stenographer, too. Something like that was easy to prove. All I had to do was sit her down in front of a typewriter. And after all, I told myself, I could easily have gone to the Europa Haus, met the girl, and offered her a job, completely unaware of the way in which she chose to earn a little extra money.
    “Any convictions?”
    Most Germans thought whores were little better than criminals, but I’d known enough joy ladies in my life to recognize that many of them were much better than that. Often they were thoughtful, cultured, clever. Besides, this one wasn’t exactly a grasshopper. She was quite used to behaving herself in a big hotel like the Adlon. She wasn’t a lady, but she could pass herself off as one.
    “Me? None so far.”
    And yet. All my experience as a policeman told me not to trust her. Then again, my recent experience as a German told me not to trust anyone.
    “All right. Come to my office. I have a proposition for you.”
    She stopped on the stairs. “I don’t do a soup kitchen, mister.”
    “Relax. I’m not after one. Besides, I’m the romantic kind. At the very least I expect to be taken to dinner at the Kroll Garden. I like flowers and champagne and a box of chocolates from von Hövel. Then, if I like the lady, I might let her take me shopping at Gersons. But I have to warn you. It could be a while before I feel sufficiently comfortable to spend the weekend with you in Baden-Baden.”
    “You have expensive taste, Herr . . . ?”
    “Gunther.”
    “I approve. It coincides with my own, almost exactly.”
    “I had a feeling it would.”
    We went into the detectives’ office. It was a windowless room with a camp bed, an empty fireplace, a chair, a desk, and a washbasin. There were a razor and a shaving mug on a shelf above the basin, and an ironing board and a steam iron so that one could press a shirt and look vaguely respectable. Fritz Muller, the other house detective, had left a strong smell of sweat in the room, but the smell of cigarettes and boredom was all mine. Her nose wrinkled with disgust.
    “So this is life belowstairs, huh? No offense, mister, but by the standard of the rest of the hotel, it’s kind of crummy in here.”
    “By that standard, so is the Charlottenburg Palace. Now, about that proposition, Fräulein . . . ?”
    “Bauer. Dora Bauer.”
    “Your real name?”
    “You wouldn’t like it if I gave you another.”
    “And you can prove that.”
    “Mister, this is Germany.”
    She opened her bag to display several documents. One of them, in red pigskin, caught my eye.
    “You’re a Party member?”
    “Doing what I do, it’s always advisable to have the best documentation. This one turns away all sorts of unwelcome questions. Most cops leave you alone as soon as they see a Party card.”
    “I don’t doubt it. What’s the yellow one?”
    “My Reich Chamber of Culture card. When I’m not typing or selling mouse, I’m an actress. I figured being a Party member might get me a few parts. But not so far. Last play I had was Pandora’s Box at the Kammerspiele on Schumannstrasse. I was Lulu. That was three years ago. So I type for Herr Weiss at Odol and dream of something better. So what’s the pitch?”
    “Only this. We get a lot of businessmen here at the Adlon. Quite a few of them need the services of a temporary stenographer. They pay well. Much more than the going rate in an office. Maybe not as good as what you’d make on your back in an hour, but a