He would have liked his work under any regime, but the brisk methods of the present lot suit him down to the ground. “Don’t get sentimental,” he sometimes tells newcomers. “We have certain objectives. The way we get there doesn’t matter.”

No, the old Jewess doesn’t bother the inspector at all—he doesn’t have any of that sentimentality in him.

But this boy here, Hitler Youth leader Persicke, is cramping his style a bit. He doesn’t like outsiders present at any action; you never know how they’ll react. This one, admittedly, seems to be the right sort, but you really only know for sure when the job’s done.

“Did you notice, Inspector,” asks Baldur Persicke keenly—he tries to ignore the sounds coming from the kitchen, that’s their affair!—“did you notice she wasn’t wearing her Jewish star?”

“I noticed more than that,” the inspector says. “I noticed, for instance, that the woman’s shoes are clean, and it’s horrible weather outside.”

“Yes.” Baldur Persicke nods uncomprehendingly.

“So someone in the building must have been keeping her hidden since Wednesday, if she really hasn’t been up to her flat for as long as you say.”

“I’m fairly certain,” says Baldur Persicke, a little confused by the thoughtful gaze still being leveled at him.

“Fairly certain means nothing, my boy,” says the inspector contemptuously. “There’s no such thing.”

“I’m completely sure, then,” says Baldur quickly. “I am willing to testify on oath that Frau Rosenthal has not set foot in her flat since Wednesday.”

“All right, all right,” says the inspector, a little dismissively. “You must know, of course, that by yourself you couldn’t possibly have kept the flat under observation since Wednesday. No judge would take your word on that.”

“I have two brothers in the SS,” says Baldur Persicke eagerly.

“All right.” Inspector Rusch is content. “It’ll all take its course. But what I wanted to say to you is that I won’t be able to have the apartment searched till tonight. Perhaps you would continue to keep the place under observation? I take it you have keys?”

Baldur Persicke assures him happily that he’ll be delighted. His eyes shine with joy. Well, now—this was the other way, didn’t he know it, all perfectly legal and aboveboard.

“It would be nice,” the inspector drawls on, looking out of the window again, “if everything was left lying around like it is now. Of course, you’re not responsible for what’s in wardrobes and boxes, but other than that…”

Before Baldur can get out a reply, there is a high, shrill scream of terror from inside the apartment.

“Damn!” says the inspector, but he makes no move.

Pale, Baldur stares at him. His knees feel like jelly.

The scream is stifled right away, and now all that can be heard is Friedrich cursing.

“What I wanted to say…” the Inspector begins again.

But his voice trails off. Suddenly there’s very loud cursing in the kitchen, footfalls, a running hither and thither. Now Friedrich is yelling at the top of his voice, “Will you keep still! Will you!”

Then a loud scream. Worse cursing. A door is yanked open, boots thud across the hall, and Friedrich yells into the room, “Well, what do you say to that, Inspector? I had just got her to the point of talking sensibly, and the bitch goes and jumps out the window on me!”

The inspector slaps him across the face. “You goddamned fool, I’ll have your guts for garters! Run, move!”

And he plunges out of the room, races down the stairs…

“In the yard!” Friedrich shouts after him. “She fell in the yard, not on the street! There won’t be no trouble, Inspector!”

He gets no answer. All three are running down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible on this quiet Sunday morning. The last of them, half a flight behind the others, is Baldur Persicke. He had the presence of mind to shut the Rosenthals’ door after him. He is still in shock, but at least there is the consolation that he has all those beautiful things in his keeping. Nothing had better get lost!

The three go running past the Quangels’ flat, past the Persickes’, past retired judge Fromm’s. Two more flights, and they’re in the courtyard.

Otto Quangel had got up and washed, and was watching his wife make breakfast in the kitchen.