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As Taffy Sinclair enjoyed the strange mixture of black Russia tea and a plate of small weisswürst, he relaxed to the strains of Ketalby’s “In a Persian Market,” played by the group of musicians on the stand. It was their last performance of the evening. All the players were seated save for their leader, a tall man with close-cropped hair and wearing impeccable evening dress. He stood in the shadows of the curtain and played the violin with extraordinary beauty and skill. When Begg tipped the waiter heavily and put a folded note on the plate, Sinclair thought his friend was asking for one of his favorite sentimental tunes, such as “The Gypsy” or “The Merry Widow Waltz,” but neither of these was played before the musicians brought their performance to an end.

Sinclair was surprised when the tall violinist, having replaced his instrument in its case, strolled over to their table. Then, when the albino removed his dark glasses, Sinclair realized with a shock that he sat across the table from Sir Seaton Begg’s cousin and archenemy, the notorious Count Zodiac, wanted for countless daring crimes throughout the Empire. More than once the two had crossed swords on the Continent and only a few months earlier Count Zodiac had been thwarted by Begg in his daring attempt to rob the New York–bound aerial express. In London, where Zodiac commanded an almost fanatical loyalty from the crooks of Smith’s Kitchen, the most notorious den of thieves in Christendom, they had fought many times. A year earlier Zodiac had succeeded in stealing the British Crown Jewels, only to have them snatched back by Begg as he tried to make his underwater escape from the city.

The red-eyed albino had a charming, crooked smile. “So, gentlemen, you have discovered how I earn my living, these days. . . .”

Begg grinned almost boyishly at this. “Good evening, Count Zodiac. Perhaps I am too familiar with your aliases. The Tarot Tea Orchestra rather betrayed you? But I hear you work for Heinrich Himmler now. . . .”

For a split second Zodiac’s expression changed to one of anger. Then again he was all urbane affability. “Is Himmler claiming that? Scum like him can’t employ me, Sir Seaton.” He sat back in his chair, lighting a pungent, black cigarette. “However, you might find that Himmler and the others have all been playing my game. . . .” He chuckled with deep pleasure.

Sinclair, who had been up for too long and drunk too much schnapps, lost his usual discretion then. He leaned across the table. “Look here, Count von Bek, did you kill Geli Raubal? You seem to be the only one who had the opportunity, if not the motive! You are the mysterious SS man, eh?”

“Captain Zeiss,” said Begg.

Zodiac drew a deep, ennui-ridden sigh. Ignoring Sinclair, he addressed Begg directly, reaching across the table and handing him a pasteboard card. “I was at this address until yesterday. You might find it interesting. Even useful.” He turned, bowing, to Sinclair. “We all work in the ways which best suit our temperaments, I think, Mr. Sinclair? Who is to say in our good or our evil intentions we unknowingly serve the causes of law or chaos?”

With that, the albino turned on his heel, picked up his violin case, and disappeared into the night.

Sinclair, stunned for a moment, leapt to his feet and pursued the albino, but he soon returned, shaking his head: lost him. Begg continued to sip his tea, studying the card. “We don’t need to follow him, Taffy. He has left us his most recent address.”

Begg frowned down at the card in his hand. “Do you feel like making a visit to the Hotel Rembrandt? It’s just around the corner. We can walk.”

“Oh, good heavens, Begg! This is unbelievable!” Taffy Sinclair was staring aghast at a handful of papers and photographs. He had just opened the writing bureau in Room 25. Count Zodiac’s room at the Hotel Rembrandt looked as if it had been hastily vacated.

Sir Seaton Begg was inspecting the wardrobe. He picked up and put back a black Mauser rifle with a telescopic sight. “There’s our red herring. Zodiac was no doubt trying