At four o’clock there was a telephone call from Frankfurt. “George Strümpfli, artist, was born in Basle in 1885, and lived at the address indicated from January 1st to December 10th last year. He has now gone abroad, his whereabouts being unknown. In the records he is entered as of Swiss nationality, and he is a married man.” From the register of the town inhabitants Wenk learnt that Cara Carozza was described as follows: “Maria Strümpfli, formerly Essert, known as Cara Carozza, dancer, born in Brunn, May 1, 1892, arrived in Munich from Copenhagen.” Wenk wondered how the pronunciation of “Georsh” instead of George could have arisen, for both these people were South Germans by speech, and “Georsh” was only heard in North Germany. He went again to see the dancer, who was now in a prison cell. “I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said in a harsh voice to Wenk. “You say you are going to help me, and yet you put me in prison.” “It was not I: that is a mistake on your part. It is the examining counsel, as I told you at once. I am only here to clear up one difficulty in the case, and that is the name you called out. That is the point at issue.” “Indeed! you seem rather concerned about the verdict.” “Yes, of course we are. If you were prepared to help us we might get over the difficulty. Let me see, you said your husband’s name was Carl ... Carl Strümpfli, wasn’t it?” “In case you forget it again, his name is George.” “He is a Swiss?” “You have evidently been inquiring about him.” “Certainly,” said Wenk. “And so he is called George. Now tell me, although you may think it a foolish question, had you any special name for him?” “No.” “You never called him anything but....” “George. No, only George. When can I get away from here?” “Ah, that depends upon the examining counsel.” “Well then, he ought to be here. It is shameful that a well-known artiste like me should....” “You see, unfortunately everything must take its prescribed course. ‘Without respect of individuals,’ as the legal phrase runs. I cannot promise you any more than my own help.” “You are going away again? And without me?” “For the moment I cannot do anything else.” The dancer turned away. Wenk went to the scene of the crime. He had previously studied the list of those living in its vicinity, and especially those in the Finkenstrasse. He took two plain-clothes policemen with him, one of them being the constable who had pursued the criminals as far as the park wall. They examined the wall by daylight; it showed scratches from the tips of shoes, and on the top was a trace of blood. Possibly someone had been lifted up who grasped the top with his hands. In the clear February day the light fell pitilessly on that trace of the murdered Hull.