Schmidt was hanging onto the drainpipe, obviously too terrified to make a move. At that moment, Steiner leaned out of the window and reached toward him. With a courage born of desperation, Schmidt jumped for the fire escape, his hand clawing the air.

His fingers seemed to find a hold and for a moment he hung there, and then he slipped and fell, his body twisting in midair so that he hit the cobbles headfirst.

Hardt gave a cry of horror and started forward, but Chavasse grabbed him by the arm and hustled him through the alley and out into the street. “We’ve got to think about the living,” he said. “If we don’t get away from here fast, Steiner will have half the Hamburg police force breathing down our necks.”

When they were safe in the Volkswagen and moving away through the deserted back streets of the city, Chavasse laughed shakily. “It was a pretty close thing back there. For a moment or two, I thought we weren’t going to make it.”

Hardt glanced across at him, his face white and strained. “The sound that poor devil’s head made when it hit the cobbles – I don’t think I’m ever likely to forget it.” He shuddered and turned his attention to the road.

“Steiner probably intended to get rid of him one way or another at some time in the future,” Chavasse said. “He knew too much.”

Hardt nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

It had stopped raining as they slowed to a halt outside Anna’s apartment house, and Hardt switched off the engine. In the silence that followed, he sat smoking a cigarette and nervously tapping his fingers against the rim of the steering wheel.

After a while, Chavasse said, “Well, what’s our next move?”

Hardt frowned and said slowly, “A visit to this clinic of Kruger’s at Blankenese, I suppose.”