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lot better than Odol. Plus, it’s honest, and above all, it’s safe. And it would mean you could come in and out of the Adlon quite legitimately.”
    “Are you serious?” There was real interest and excitement in her tone of voice. “Work here? At the Adlon? Really?”
    “Of course I’m serious.”
    “On the level?”
    I smiled and nodded.
    “You smile, Gunther, but believe me, these days there’s something dodgy about nearly all jobs a girl is offered.”
    “Do you think Herr Weiss would give you a reference?”
    “If I asked him nicely he’d give me anything.” She smiled vainly. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Gunther.”
    “Just don’t let me down, Dora. If you do—” I shook my head. “Just don’t, all right? Who knows? You might even end up marrying the minister of the interior. With what’s in your handbag I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
    “Hey, you’re one of the workers, do you know that?”
    “I wish I was, Dora, I wish to God I was.”

5
     
     
    T HE VERY NEXT DAY the guest in suite 114 reported a theft. This was one of the VIP corner rooms, right over the offices of North German Lloyd, and, accompanied by Herr Behlert, the hotel manager, I went along to interview him.
    Max Reles was a German American from New York. Tall, powerful, balding, with feet like shoe boxes and fists as big as two basketballs, he resembled a cop more than a businessman—at least, a cop who could afford to buy silk ties from Sparmann and his suits (assuming he didn’t pay attention to the Jewish boycott) from Rudolf Hertzog. He wore cologne and diamond cuff links that were almost as polished and shiny as his shoes.
    Behlert and I advanced into the suite, and Reles looked at him and then at me with eyes as narrow as his mouth. His bare-knuckle features seemed to wear a permanent scowl. I’d seen less pugnacious faces on a church wall.
    “Well, it’s about fucking time,” he said gruffly, giving me an up-and-down look as if I were the rawest recruit in his platoon. “What are you? A cop? Hell, you look like a cop.” He looked at Behlert with something close to pity and added, “God damn it, Behlert, what kind of flea circus are you chumps running here, anyway? Jesus Christ, if this is Berlin’s best hotel, then I’d hate to see the worst. I thought you Nazis were supposed to be tough on crime. That’s your big boast, isn’t it? Or is that just so much bullshit for the masses?”
    Behlert tried to calm Reles, but to no avail. I decided to let him sound off for a while.
    Through a set of tall French windows there was a large stone balcony, where, depending on your inclination, you could wave to your adoring public or rant about the Jews. Maybe both. I went over to the window, pulled aside the net curtain, and stared outside, waiting for him to cool off. If ever he cooled off. I had my doubts about that. He spoke excellent German for an American, although he sang his words a bit more than we Berliners do, a bit like a Bayer, which gave it away.
    “You won’t find the thief out there, fellow.”
    “Nevertheless, that’s probably where he is,” I said. “I can’t imagine the thief is still in the hotel. Can you?”
    “What’s that? German logic? God damn it, what’s the matter with you people? You might try and look a little more concerned.”
    He hurled a gas grenade of a cigar at the window in front of me. Behlert sprang forward and picked it up. It was that or let the rug burn.
    “Perhaps if you were to tell us what’s missing, sir,” I said, facing him squarely. “And exactly what makes you think it’s been stolen?”
    “What makes me think? Jesus, are you calling me a liar?”
    “Not at all, Herr Reles. I wouldn’t dream of doing that until I had ascertained all of the facts.”
    Reles’s scowl turned to puzzlement as he tried to figure out if I was being insulting or not. I wasn’t exactly sure about that myself.
    Meanwhile, Behlert was holding the crystal ashtray in front of Reles like