Deep, rhythmic breathing.

‘You can talk softly here. The children have a sound sleep, and my wife never hears anything that’s not meant for her ears.’

‘What are you doing up so late, Tredup?’ Stuff gestures to the dresser. ‘By the way—Herr Henning—Herr Tredup.’

‘I write addresses. For a publisher in Munich. Five marks per thousand. The Chronicle isn’t overly generous in what it pays, wouldn’t you agree, Stuff?’

‘I’m sorry about your article, Tredup. But I’ve got a better proposition here. That’s why I came to you with this gentleman, who’s passing through town. He’s a buyer of photographs for an illustrated magazine, and he’s interested in your pictures of the cattle confiscation. He would pay fifty marks for a picture.’

Tredup has listened to Stuff’s faintly awkward speech with a quiet smile on his lips. ‘I have no photographs of the cattle confiscation.’

‘Tredup! I know for a fact you do. It’s a lot of money for you!’

‘And I would take it, honestly I would! I’m not choosy. Yes, I was taking pictures. But they didn’t turn out. One of those bastard farmers knocked the camera out of my hands.’

‘I knew that, Herr Tredup,’ says Henning. ‘A little birdie. But you got off some pictures before that. One. Or maybe two.’

‘One.’

‘Very well, one. I’ll pay you for each picture, if you sell me the film and all prints, one hundred marks.’

Tredup grins. ‘That’s as much as twenty thousand addresses. One hundred and sixty hours of night work. But we unlucky bleeders miss out on good deals like that. The first picture is just fresh air.’

Stuff says imploringly: ‘Tredup . . . !’

Tredup smiles again. ‘Oh, you don’t believe me. You take me for a millionaire, who scribbles addresses for the fun of it. Well, I can fix that.’

He opens a drawer in the dresser and starts ferreting around in it.