it’s safe to leave them parked down some insalubrious backstreet. They’re great if you can’t afford a car, and in the summer of 1949, there were few people, other than Americans and the Baron von Starnberg, who could. Also, trams go exactly where you want them to go, provided you’re wise enough to choose a tram that’s going somewhere near where you’re going. I didn’t know where Wolfgang Stumpff was going, or where he was coming from, but I figured there was a better chance of seeing him on one of those trams instead of some others. Detective work doesn’t always require a brain the size of Wittgenstein’s. I rode the number six as far as Sendlinger-Tor-Platz, where I got off and caught a number eight going the opposite way. It went up Barer Strasse, to Schwabing and I rode this one as far as Kaiser-platz and the Church of St. Ursula. For all I knew, there were more sculptures by Ignaz Gunther in there, too, but seeing a thirty-seven coming along Hohenzollernstrasse, I hopped on that one.
I told myself there was no point in riding each tram to its terminus. My chances of spotting Wolfgang Stumpff were improved by riding them around the center of Munich, where there were many more people getting on and off. Sometimes being a detective involves playing statistician and figuring out the probabilities. I rode them on top and I rode them down below. Up top was better because you could smoke, but it meant you couldn’t see who was getting on and off inside, which was what people called that part of a tram that wasn’t upstairs. It was nearly all men on top because nearly all men were smokers, and if women did smoke they preferred not to do it on a tram. Don’t ask me why. I’m a detective, not a psychologist. I didn’t want to take a chance that Stumpff wasn’t a smoker, but I figured the baron’s daughter would never have seen Stumpff if he had been upstairs on a tram. Not from the window of a Porsche 356—it was too low. She might have seen him on the top deck if she had been in a cabriolet, but never from a coupe.
Why am I going into such detail? Because it was these little, routine things that made me remember what it was like to be a cop. Sore feet, some sweat in the small of my back and on the inside of my hat, and exercising my peeper’s eye. I had started to look at faces again. Searching apparently standard faces on the seat opposite for a distinguishing characteristic. Most people have one if you look hard enough.
I almost missed him coming downstairs. The tram had been full inside. He had intense dark eyes, a high forehead, thin mouth, chin dimple, and a canine nose that he carried in a way that made you think he was on the scent of something. He reminded me a lot of Georg Jacoby, the singer, and, for a brief moment I half expected him to break into “The Woman Who’s My Dream.” But Wolfgang Stumpff’s distinguishing characteristic was easy. He was missing an arm.
I followed him off the tram and into Holzkirchner railway station. There he caught a suburban train south to München-Mittersendling. So did I. Then he walked about a mile west along Zielstattstrasse to a pleasant, modern little villa on the edge of some trees. I watched the house for a moment and then saw a light go on in an upstairs room.
I didn’t care if Vincenz von Starnberg spent twenty years in Landsberg or not. I didn’t care if they hanged him in his cell with weights tied to his ankles. I didn’t care if his father died of a broken heart. I didn’t care if Stumpff was inclined to give his old university comrade a character reference or not. But I rang the doorbell all the same, even though I had told myself I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to make a pitch for the sake of SS Sturmbannführer von Starnberg, or for his father the baron. No, not even for a thousand marks. But I didn’t mind making a pitch for the sake of the peach. Being considered as some kind of angel in the pale blue eyes of Helene Elisabeth von
I told myself there was no point in riding each tram to its terminus. My chances of spotting Wolfgang Stumpff were improved by riding them around the center of Munich, where there were many more people getting on and off. Sometimes being a detective involves playing statistician and figuring out the probabilities. I rode them on top and I rode them down below. Up top was better because you could smoke, but it meant you couldn’t see who was getting on and off inside, which was what people called that part of a tram that wasn’t upstairs. It was nearly all men on top because nearly all men were smokers, and if women did smoke they preferred not to do it on a tram. Don’t ask me why. I’m a detective, not a psychologist. I didn’t want to take a chance that Stumpff wasn’t a smoker, but I figured the baron’s daughter would never have seen Stumpff if he had been upstairs on a tram. Not from the window of a Porsche 356—it was too low. She might have seen him on the top deck if she had been in a cabriolet, but never from a coupe.
Why am I going into such detail? Because it was these little, routine things that made me remember what it was like to be a cop. Sore feet, some sweat in the small of my back and on the inside of my hat, and exercising my peeper’s eye. I had started to look at faces again. Searching apparently standard faces on the seat opposite for a distinguishing characteristic. Most people have one if you look hard enough.
I almost missed him coming downstairs. The tram had been full inside. He had intense dark eyes, a high forehead, thin mouth, chin dimple, and a canine nose that he carried in a way that made you think he was on the scent of something. He reminded me a lot of Georg Jacoby, the singer, and, for a brief moment I half expected him to break into “The Woman Who’s My Dream.” But Wolfgang Stumpff’s distinguishing characteristic was easy. He was missing an arm.
I followed him off the tram and into Holzkirchner railway station. There he caught a suburban train south to München-Mittersendling. So did I. Then he walked about a mile west along Zielstattstrasse to a pleasant, modern little villa on the edge of some trees. I watched the house for a moment and then saw a light go on in an upstairs room.
I didn’t care if Vincenz von Starnberg spent twenty years in Landsberg or not. I didn’t care if they hanged him in his cell with weights tied to his ankles. I didn’t care if his father died of a broken heart. I didn’t care if Stumpff was inclined to give his old university comrade a character reference or not. But I rang the doorbell all the same, even though I had told myself I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to make a pitch for the sake of SS Sturmbannführer von Starnberg, or for his father the baron. No, not even for a thousand marks. But I didn’t mind making a pitch for the sake of the peach. Being considered as some kind of angel in the pale blue eyes of Helene Elisabeth von
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