Chapter Forty-eight
Franz Mannheim drove his late model BMW to one of several flats that he owned, parking one block away and carefully pausing several times to check for anyone following him. He was confident that no one replaced the tail that he had disposed of several weeks ago, but it was in his nature to be cautious. That was what had kept him alive in his native Germany during the war, and he saw no reason to break old habits.
Letting himself in the front door, he waited patiently in a dimly lit lounge room for his visitor to arrive. When he heard a light tapping, Mannheim sprang up, crossed to the front door, then opened it. ‘Good to see you, Phillip,’ Mannheim said, guiding the detective into the house and pouring a glass of Chivas Regal for each of them.
D’Ascenzio glanced arou
