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upstairs. On a chair in a corner, with Padelin looming over her, sat an elderly lady in a neat black uniform and a cleanly pressed and starched apron. Her hair was grey, tied up behind her head in a bun. She swallowed a sniff as he came into the kitchen and rose quickly to her feet, did a little curtsy. Reinhardt watched her the whole time, saw the fear shoved back in watery little eyes at the sight of him, but the urge he once had to reach out and calm people like her was long gone, quashed deep inside him. It only ever confused them anyway; people did not expect sympathy and understanding from people like him, not anymore.
    He looked questioningly at Padelin, who looked down impassively at the maid. She shook her head, not able to look up at him and whispered something into a crumpled handkerchief.
    â€˜She has told me what she knows.’
    â€˜I look forward to hearing it,’ said Reinhardt. He glanced around the kitchen again. It was neat, tidy, smelling of polish and a faint smell of spices. The only thing drawing his eye was a padlock hanging from a tall cupboard door by the stairs. ‘Just ask her one thing, if you would. Does she know where her mistress kept an address book?’ Padelin rapid-fired a question at the maid, who peered at him over the ripple of her knuckles. She looked at Reinhardt as she replied, gesturing upstairs. She sniffed as Padelin answered for her, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two of them, hands clenched hard around her handkerchief.
    â€˜Upstairs in the study. A red leather book.’
    â€˜It would seem it’s gone.’
    As the two of them went out into the hallway, Claussen came downstairs. Padelin looked hard at him, and then at Reinhardt. ‘Who is this?’
    â€˜This is Sergeant Claussen. He is assisting me.’ Claussen nodded cordially at Padelin.
    â€˜What were you doing up there?’
    â€˜Checking the top floor. There’s nothing there, sir,’ he said to Rein­hardt. ‘All the rooms have been closed up for a while. Sheets over the furniture. It hasn’t been cleaned in a while. My boots left marks in the dust, and mine were the only tracks up there.’
    Padelin said nothing, only stared at Claussen. Claussen, unfazed, stared back. ‘And the ground floor, Inspector? What do we have down here?’
    The detective turned his eyes slowly from Claussen. ‘Downstairs was the father’s apartments. The parents were divorced, said the maid. Father and daughter lived here. But he was killed last year by Četniks, and the maid said these rooms have not been used since then.’ He turned and went back outside.
    Reinhardt and Claussen exchanged glances. ‘Sergeant, quickly, go upstairs and have a look at the bodies. Just look at them. I’ll ask you later what you think.’ Claussen nodded, and then Reinhardt followed Padelin out, holding back when the detective began talking to three uniformed policemen. Hueber was hovering nearby, and Reinhardt motioned to him to listen to what was being said while he went back over to theircar.
    Padelin gave a flurry of orders to his men, then came over to Rein­hardt’s car. Reinhardt offered him a cigarette, which he again refused. Lighting his own, he waited for the detective to tell him what the maid had said.
    â€˜The last time the maid saw Vukić was Saturday morning. She was asked to prepare food and drinks for Vukić and a guest. A man. She does not know who the man was, but she’s positive it wasn’t to be your officer. Hendel, she knew. This other one, she didn’t.’ Reinhardt took a deep pull on his cigarette and nodded for him to continue. ‘She has Sunday off. She came in this morning, found the bodies, and called the police. According to her, when Vukić wasn’t travelling, she kept a busy social agenda. Lots of parties and outings. People coming and going.’
    â€˜Very good. So we need to find some of