censorship chat gpt Chatgpt (sold to microsoft)policies team delete the link to the page.!!!although they translated it well. American psycho isnt deleted.neither steven king!!!
chatgpt. Madonna riddle. in Rome centro storico. 1975. Sandra Wing series. only for hard boiled nerves. chapter in german and english by chatgpt.registered in copyright office , Library of congress usa .anex title. Jpg. See yourself my chapters been blocked https://chatgpt.com/share/673f4efc-8da8-8008-a013-a8f588aa18cb


German book
Here is the English translation of your text:
Your Sandra Wing crime trilogy presents a complex, darkly atmospheric series of investigative tales blending mystery,
high society intrigue, and macabre crimes, set against the evocative backdrop of 1970s-80s Europe.
The stories center around Sandra Wing, a sharp yet troubled sleuth, and her novelist companion Georg Tagt. Together, they navigate bizarre murders, hidden conspiracies, and twisted power dynamics while exploring themes of greed, betrayal, and societal corruption.

Nostalgic, richly described settings in Rome, Berlin, Munich, and the European countryside evoke an Art Deco and gothic aesthetic.Characters: Sandra is a pragmatic, determined sleuth, while Georg's tormented, romantic persona adds tension and depth. Wealthy elites, spurned lovers, and deranged scientists populate the cast.

Tone: A mix of noir, surrealism, and dark humor, featuring elaborate conspiracies and grotesque details.
Social Commentary: The stories critique greed, elitism, and moral decay, weaving a tapestry of suspenseful narratives and philosophical undertones.This trilogy is a dark, thrilling ride through a morally ambiguous world where mysteries and dangers lurk at every turn.

SANDRA WING searching appartment in ROME

“Hmm yes, yes, since Signora Veri… hmm, now the incident… eh, you know, the commotion… but I have to rent. You understand! Very unpleasant, this propaganda for me, good Signora!”

Sandra turned around to see a gray-haired, portly man in a Glen check-patterned suit that strained at its seams. He looked at Sandra, raised his hand as if in greeting. Several sparkling diamond rings glimmered in the darkness. The Signora flounced away, flattered. The man approached Sandra, grinned, and said:
“This is my house, I’m the owner! Do you want to work here? Hmm, or, eh, or is it just a visit, what?”


Of course, he immediately realized she was a foreigner. How annoying—it always irritated her somehow.
“Unfortunately, ah, unfortunately, I don’t have the key with me! Come with me, that’s best.”
He looked at her with an exaggerated expression, took her hand. Sandra leapt out of his grasp.
“Yes, that’s fine, I’ll go ahead. Second floor. And very cheap!” he added, running his hand through his hair. Now she noticed even more golden rings and a gold bracelet. Whether there was a watch on it, she couldn’t tell.

The staircase to the second floor lacked a railing. The floor was unfinished, raw construction, but not concrete—everything seemed to date back to the imperial era. Was this some decadent luxury of a bygone age? Despite her velvet jacket, she shivered.
“Brr, brr,” she muttered.
“Ecco, here.” Signor Zapalotti climbed up a ledge about three hands high. Sandra followed.

A four-meter-long corridor stretched ahead. The vaulted ceiling was made of large, unplastered stones. Sandra could see three doors made of green-painted wood with padlocks. A 10-watt lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, its black cable disappearing into a hole in the wall. She was overcome by an oppressive sense of human history pressing down on her. With a puffed-out chest, Signor Zapalotti turned to her.

“One moment,” he said, banging on the green door.
“Signora Casetti, hallo!” he banged again. “Hallo, this is Signor Zapalotti, just a small visit, no trouble, do you hear, hallo!” He banged again.

A hushed, eerie whispering began to fill the low-ceilinged corridor. Sandra clutched her white handbag. Signor Zapalotti grabbed her upper arm and whispered knowingly in her ear:
“The Signora has company!” He rolled his eyes heavenward. Then, as much as the dimness allowed, he looked Sandra up and down. She felt his gaze settle on her calves and remain there until the door finally opened.


“So, I’ll show you—something like the apartment on the first floor,” he began but was interrupted.
“Yes? What is it, Signor Zapalotti?” rasped a woman’s voice. She was wearing a wild-floral-patterned dressing gown, her black-dyed hair hanging stringy and limp over her chest.

“This Signorina here,” he said, suddenly taking Sandra’s right hand and examining it, “yes, yes, she wants to see—see what the apartment looks like!” As he spoke, he pushed the woman aside and barged in.

Sandra freed herself from his grasp and stood frozen in embarrassment. She liked the woman in the floral robe. At least she seemed to be enjoying herself, sleeping in until 10 or 11, and apparently had a lover. Signor Zapalotti surely knew everything about it. The woman’s eyes widened but looked kindly at Sandra. Is she a widow?
Sandra wondered.

“Come, come,” shouted the landlord.
Sandra followed, squeezing past the woman. The room in front of her had two altar-like stone platforms along the walls. Behind them, on the side with the window, was a small barred opening. An electric plastic rose bush cast a dim light, illuminating a muscular man of about fifty lying on one of the stone platforms in striped pajamas. A white, grayish cloth hung down from the sides. He stared at the ceiling. From the soot-blackened ceiling hung golden swirls.

“Do you like it?” the landlord asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued:
“Right in the centro storico. Very central, a very beautiful district.”

He was right, of course, but Sandra wondered if he really believed it. To him, it seemed obvious. A fascinating offer!
“Only a hundred and twenty thousand lire,” he whispered into her ear. It seemed incredible to her—after all, that was over two hundred marks.

“Come,” he said, squeezing through a doorless opening. Sandra followed, but to her surprise, the space ahead required her to crouch. Still no windows.
“Yes, Mars, Mars, Mars—day and night of equal length, isn’t that so, Signora! And in April, the sweet sleep, isn’t it so, Signora!” he chattered as he pressed along the stones, studying Sandra. His words were directed at Signora Casetti, who had remained in the doorway.

“Margerita, Margerita, leave the old man, come here immediately,” a voice called from the next room.

Three brown plastic suitcases were stacked in the left corner. Beside them stood a wooden table with two blood-red clothbound books. Two stools with tattered violet upholstery sat in front of it. On the right side, where a window should have been, a neon light glared from atop a mirrored dresser.

“Aren’t there any windows here?” Sandra couldn’t help asking.
“Of course! Didn’t you see the ones next door?”
“And where do those windows face? Is there no daylight?”
“Of course, the windows open into a shaft!” he lectured her, his brown eyes glancing adoringly at Signora Casetti, who still leaned in the doorway.

He seemed to think himself incredibly clever—so clever, in fact, that Sandra found it oddly charming. The stale, musty, damp air made her feel nauseated. She had to get out. Smiling politely, she said:
“This afternoon, then, I’ll come back to see the vacant apartment.” She thought to herself, Is this guy insane?

He smoothed his plump face, looking like a usurer from some historical drama. Whether it was the anonymity of glass palaces in Germany or this—she had to admit, choosing this man, slimy as he was, wouldn’t harm anyone.

Outside, she said goodbye. His gold rings pressed into her flesh.
“A half year or a full year,” she assured him. He beamed, delighted she might stay. She wondered if Signora Casetti also had to pay one hundred twenty thousand lire, but she didn’t ask. There was no law here anymore—everything had turned into culture. Only clinging to a long-lost epoch had saved her from abstraction so far.

The poorest in Germany were flaunting modernity at the moment, with dubious faith in machines and the militarized organization of the soul.

Signor Zapalotti loosened his tie and watched her walk away. The sun shone brightly on the cobblestones.
“I’ll be punctual!” he shouted after her. Sandra hesitated. Should she pick up Georg or turn right onto the Via del Corso?

It must have been noon, one of the rare times when light reached down. As she turned left toward the Campo de’ Fiori, deep in thought, she looked down. A collision made her look up.

A tall blonde man clung to her jacket for a moment.
“Scusi!” she said automatically. A sharp scent tickled her nose.
“Oh, it’s nothing!” he grinned mischievously.

Her right hand pushed off his body for only a moment…but he felt strangely hard, hard like—like an object! The fine blue suit he wore stood in stark contrast to his open face. Only the lines around his mouth hinted at hard labor. Rodeo in the middle of the city, perhaps? His accent was foreign.

Sandra almost reached the square but glanced back. The blonde man had just entered the same courtyard she had come from. She couldn’t shake the feeling of a connection to him—a contradictory resemblance.

The library at the Goethe Institute was closed for lunch. She was hungry, too. Her language studies at the Centre d’Études Saint-Louis-de-France on Largo Toniolo didn’t begin until 4 p.m.
Out of curiosity, she wanted to see the other apartment, the one on the first floor. She would have to leave promptly at 2 p.m.

The midday traffic noise was peaking. She crossed the Corso Vittorio Emanuele and, five minutes later, reached the guesthouse. At this time of day, the vegetable vendors were just clearing their stands at Campo de’ Fiori. Flowers and fruit lay on the ground. Dogs and cats roamed around, sniffing.
---

Let me know if any part of the translation needs refinement!

Apologies for the misunderstanding earlier. Here is a direct English translation of your provided text without any additions or interpretations:

UMBERTOMASTR in ACTION

The Glencheck suit glinted in the darkness as the owner squeezed through the opening. Just as he ran his hand over his disheveled gray hair, he felt the blonde man's hands around his throat. An American joke? When he tried to speak, no words came out.

“Grr ch ch chch drsiiiiuuu,” a faint rasp escaped his open mouth. Only once. On the second attempt, his tongue and muscles failed entirely.

The blonde man stood a head taller than Signor Zapalotti. From outside came the dull clatter of shoes. He grabbed him and laid him on the ground. The lifeless body rolled slightly to the right as Umberto moved in a single leap toward the door.

“Click,” went the lock. Just two seconds later, clattering footsteps approached.

“Is someone there? Hello, Signora Veri?” a high-pitched woman’s voice spoke through the door. “But she’s dead… Hello… is someone there? … I could swear I heard something fall!” she murmured more quietly, pressing her head against the door to listen.

Umberto wondered if the dim light of the Madonna might shine through the cracks to the outside. Probably not. He inspected the door. No, impossible—it was solid and securely fitted into the old masonry. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. Nearly one o’clock. No one had seen him. Earlier, luck had been on his side. Who would have thought the old man would already be wandering around the house?

Originally, he had planned to carry out the job at dawn. On the old man—well, he wasn’t really that old. His gaze lingered on the lifeless face, which now pressed against the uneven stone floor. Stone to stone, he thought.

If he had carried it out in his modern apartment, he would have needed his revolver. The job had come from Peterson in Germany. They had their fingers in everything, didn’t they? Tss, tss… the new assignment, where he had absolutely free rein—but had to work cleanly, elegantly—that suited him much better. Much better than group work in the past.

The woman’s voice tore him from his thoughts.

“Signora Veri, what happened? Who would want this? Not me. We didn’t mean you any harm. The Madonna can testify to that!” The woman’s voice broke into a sobbing wail.

Good grief, she just wouldn’t leave. Women could be so sentimental and persistent. Damn it. If he didn’t get out of this hole soon, he’d have to deal with her too. He looked at his freshly polished shoes and nudged the dead man’s cheek with his right foot. This inactivity—damn it all! He bent down and searched the man’s pockets. The diamond rings caught his attention.

Should he take them to make it look like a robbery-murder? The thought of twisting them off made him sick. Wait—he pulled out a charred object, and there was more! Three gold bracelets and a brooch emerged from the man’s pockets. What was he doing carrying around such things? People were strange these days.

He absolutely couldn’t forget to leave the evidence he was carrying here. Shame about the man, really. He had a soft spot for such peculiar types.

The woman outside the door babbled a prayer. Between words, he caught snippets of “Maria, Maria, and the Lord, the Lord be with you…” It was maddening. He thought of his mother, who had always prayed in secret before his father. Back then.

This time, he’d have to ask Peterson. So far, all he knew was that Zapalotti owned 15 properties in the historic center of the city. That had even been in the newspaper last week. Ha, finally, the woman rustled away from the door, her footsteps clattering as she left.

He picked up the man and carried him to the stone altar. There, he laid him directly in front of the Madonna and her bleeding plastic tube. The light flickered in rhythm with the artificial artery.

Now came the unpleasant part of the job. Sexual murder was always widely reported and sensationalized by the media.

So, to bring the poor man and his properties completely into disrepute, the press and television were essential. Afterward, Peterson would have an easy time with his speculations.

Umberto took a leather-bound knife from his jacket.
After unbuttoning the man’s trousers, he pulled out his genitals and cut off the penis.

Good thing he’d only had coffee and a sandwich this morning. And earlier, just an espresso.

He gagged as he looked at the mutilated remains of his fellow man. His inner voice urged him to hurry.

Some monstrous cables and channels were supposedly going to be installed in the ancient city center (and probably in other cities as well). Whenever he reached the peak of a job, the connections fell into place, as if scales were dropping from his eyes.

---
Let me know if you’d like further translation or adjustments!

SANDRA WING centro storico ROM

„ Hm ja , ja seit Signora Veri ... hmnun der Zwischenfall ... eh, Sie wissen das Aufsehen ... aber ich muss vermieten. Sie verstehen ! Sehr ungut diese Propaganda für mich gute Signora !"
Sandra drehte sich um, ein grauhaariger, feister Mann in einem glencheckartigen Anzug , der stark spannte. Er sah Sandra an, hob seine Hand. Wie zum Zeichen des Grußes. Einige Brilliantringe funkelten durch die Dunkelheit. Die Signora tänzelte geschmeichelt davon. Der Mann näherte sich Sandra , grinste und sagte:
„ Dies ist mein Haus, ich bin der Besitzer! Wollen sie hier arbeiten? Hm , oder ,eh, oder ein Besuch, was?"
Natürlich hörte er sofort, dass sie Ausländerin war. Zu dumm, irgendwie ärgerte sie sowas.
„ Leider, ah leider, ich habe den Schlüssel nicht dabei ! Kommen Sie am besten mit mir ."
Er sah sie schwülstig an, nahm ihre Hand. Sandra sprang aus dem Loch.
„Ja so ist gut, ich werde vorgehn. Zweiter Stock. Und sehr billig !" fügte er hinzu indem er sich über die Haare fuhr. Jetzt sah sie noch mehr goldene Ringe und ein Goldarmband . Ob eine Uhr daran war, sah sie nicht.
Die Treppe zum zweiten Stock war ohne Geländer. Der Boden unbearbeitet, Rohbau aber kein Beton sondern irgendwie alles aus Kaiserzeit. 0b das nicht gar tierischer Luxus von damals hier war? Trotz der Samtjacke fröstelte es sie.
„ Brrr , Brrr " entfuhr es ihr.
„ Ecco, hier ." Signor Zapalotti erklomm einen etwa drei Hand hohen Mauervorsprung,
Sandra folgte. Ein vier Meter langer Gang. Das Gewölbe bestand aus großen unverputzten Steinen. Drei Türen aus grün gestrichenem Holz mit Vorhängeschlössern konnte Sandra erkennen. Eine Glühbirne, von etwa 10 Watt, baumelte von der Decke. Das schwarze Kabel verschwand in einem Mauerloch. Ein beklommenes Gefühl von Mensch und Geschichte beschlich sie. Mit stolz geschwellter Brust wandte sich Signor Zapalotti an sie.
’’ Ein Moment" er bummerte gegen die grüne Tür.
„Signora Casetti, Halloo" er bummerte „ Hallo, hier ist Signor Zapalotti, nur ein kleiner Besuch, keine Umstände , hören Sie Hallooo" , er bummerte.
Ein wirres Getuschel begann gespenstisch das niedrige Gewölbe zu erfüllen. Sandra presste ihre weiße Tasche an sich. Signor Zapalotti griff ihr an den Oberarm und tuschelte mit wissendem Blick in ihr Ohr:
„ Die Signora hat Besuch ! " er rollte dabei mit den Augen gen Himmel. Dann sah er, soweit es in der Düsternis ging, Sandra von oben bis unten an. Sie spürte seinen Blick auf ihren Waden Halt machen. Bis sich die Tür öffnete blieb sein Blick auf ihren Beinen.
„ So, ich zeig Ihnen , so ähnlich wie die Wohnung im ersten Stock." er wurde unterbrochen. „Ja; was gibt es Signor Zapalotti, " krächzte die Stimme einer Frau in einem wildgeblümten Morgenmantel. Ihr Haar hing schwarzgefärbt und strähnig bis über den Busen .
„Die Signorina hier " er nahm Sandras rechte Hand unvermittelt und besah sie sich „ Ja, ja , also sie will sehen , sehen wie das Appartamento aussieht !" dabei schob er die Frau schon zur Seite und drängte sich hinein.
Sandra hatte sich losgemacht und blieb vor Scham stehen. Ihr gefiel die Frau im Geblümten. Die machte sich wenigsten seine gute Zeit schlief noch um 10 oder 11 und hatte einen Liebhaber, wie es schien. Signor Zapalotti musste über alles bestens informiert sein. Die Augen der Signora weiteten sich, blickten aber freundlich auf Sandra. Ob sie Witwe ist ? schoss es Sandra durch den Kopf.
„ Kommen Sie, kommen Sie“ schrie der Besitzer.
Sandra folgte zwängte sich ebenfalls an der Frau vorbei. Im Raum vor sich an den beiden Mauerseiten je ein emporeartiger Steinaltar . Dahinter zur Fensterseite hin, befand sich ein kleines vergittertes Loch . Ein elektrischer Plastikrosenstrauch gab ein dämmriges Licht, welches auf einen muskulösen, etwa fünfzigjährigen Mann fiel. Er lag auf einem der Steinaltäre in einem gestreiften Pyjama. Ein weißes, gräulich schimmerndes Tuch hing an den Seiten herab. Er stierte zur Decke. Von der rußgeschwärzten Decke hingen goldene Kringel.
„ Gefällt es Ihnen ? " fragte der Besitzer und ohne die Antwort abzuwarten, sagte er; „ Mitten im centro storico. Ganz Zentral , ein sehr schönes Viertel. “
Klar hatte er recht, aber sie fragte sich ob er es meinte. Ja, für ihn war es Sonnenklar. Ein faszinierendes Angebot! „Nur Hundert-zwanzig-tausend Lire ", hatte er ihr ins Ohr getuschelt. Unfassbar schien ihr sowas , das waren immerhin über zweihundert Mark.
„Kommen Sie." er zwängte sich gerade durch ein türloses Loch. Sandra folgte , doch zu ihrem erstaunen ging es hier nur gebückterweise weiter. Wieder kein Fenster. „Ja, Mars Mars, Mars , Tag und Nacht von gleicher Länge. Nicht wahr; Signora! Und im April, der süße Schlaf, nicht wahr Signora!“ geschäftig schob er sich an den Steinen entlang und musterte Sandra. Die Ansprache hatte er an Signora Casetti gehalten , die in der Türöffnung stehen geblieben war.
„Margerita, Margerita, lass den Alten , komm sofort her “ ,ertönte es von Nebenan. Drei braune Plastikkoffer standen aufeinander gestapelt links in der Ecke. Daneben stand ein Holztisch, auf dem zwei Bücher, mit blutrotem Leineneinband lagen . Davor standen zwei Hocker mit einem zerfetztem violetten Bezug. Auf der rechten Seite im Winkel. Dort wo ein Fenster hätte sein sollen , leuchtete eine Neonröhre an einer Spiegelkommode.
„ Gibt es hier keine Fenster ? “ konnte sich Sandra nicht enthalten zu fragen.
„ Selbstverständlich , haben Sie nicht gesehen, nebenan.“
„ Und wohin gehen die Fenster? Gibt es kein Tageslicht?"
„ Natürlich , die Fenster führen in einen Schacht !" belehrte er. Seine braunen Augen blickten hündisch zu Signora Casetti die immer noch an der Öffnung lehnte.
Er kam sich ungeheuer schlau vor, so schlau ,dass sie es originell fand. Die stickige Luft hier , muffig und feucht verursachte ihr Übelkeit. Bloß raus. Sie lächelte ihm freundlich zu und setzte an:
„ Heute Nachmittag also, kann ich das freie Appartamento sehn." bei sich dachte sie- ob der Typ geistesgestört ist-.
Er strich sich grad über sein feistes Gesicht. Wie der Wucherer aus einem historischen Stück. Ob nun die Anonymität von Glaspalästen in Deutschland oder dies hier. Die Entscheidung für diesen hier, in seiner wenn auch schmierigen Art , musste sie sich eingestehen, schadete sicher niemand.
Unten verabschiedete sie sich. Seine goldenen Ringe drückten sich in ihr Fleisch. „ Ein halbes oder ein ganzes Jahr " versicherte sie. Er schielte beglückt, wolle sie bleiben. Ob Signora Casetti auch hundertzwanzigtausend Lire zahlen musste? Aber das wollte sie jetzt nicht fragen. Hier gab es keinen Staat mehr, alles war zu Kultur geworden. Nur der Halt an eine längst untergegangene Epoche, hatte sie bis heute vor dem Abstraktum gerettet. Die Ärmsten in Deutschland protzten im Moment mit Neuzeit. Zweifelhafte Glaubensbekenntnisse an Maschinen und militärische Organisation des Seelenlebens.

Signor Zapalotti lockerte sich die Krawatte und sah ihr hinterher. Die Sonne strahlte intensiv herab auf das Kopfsteinpflaster. „Ich werde pünktlich da sein !" schrie er ihr noch mal hinterher. Sandra zögerte . Sollte sie Georg abholen oder rechts zur Via del Corso abbiegen. Zwölf Uhr Mittags musste es sein. Eine der wenigen Zeitpunkte in denen Licht herabfiel . Während sie sinnierend links abbog um zum Campo di Fiori zu streben, sah sie zu Boden. Ein Zusammenprall ließ sie Aufblicken. Der große Blonde klebte für Sekunden an ihrem Jackett.
„ Scusi !" entfuhr es ihr automatisch. Eine herbe Duftnote kitzelte ihre Nase.
„ Oh , macht nichts !" grinste er verschmitzt.
Ihre rechte Hand stützte sich von seinem Körper ab, für Sekunden nur... aber merkwürdig hart, hart so wie ,wie ein Gegenstand ! Der feine, blaue Tuchanzug den er trug stand in absolutem Widerspruch zu seinem freien Gesicht. Nur die Kerben um den Mund, zeugten von einer gewissen härteren Arbeit. Vielleicht Rodeo mitten in der Stadt ? Sein Akzent war ausländisch. Fast hatte sie den Platz erreicht, blickte Sandra sich um. Der Blonde betrat soeben den gleichen Hof aus dem sie gekommen. Ein Gefühl der Verwandtschaft mit ihm wurde sie nicht los. Eine widersprüchliche Ähnlichkeit.
Die Bücherei im Goethe-Institut hatte über Mittag zu. Hunger hatte sie ebenfalls. Ihr Sprachstudium, an den Centre Detudes Saint Louis de Francesi am Largo Toniolo, begann erst um 16 Uhr. Aus Neugier wollte sie unbedingt die andere Wohnung ansehn. Die im ersten Stock. Genau um 14 Uhr müsste sie sich auf den Weg zurück machen. Der Verkehrslärm ebbte seinem mittäglichen Höhepunkt zu. Sie überquerte die Corso Vittorio Emanuelle und in weiteren fünf Minuten erreichte sie die Pension. Um die Zeit räumten die Gemüsefrauen grad ihre Stände ab Campo di Fiori, Blumen und Obst lagen am Boden. Hunde und Katzen strolchten umher und schnüffelten .

UMBERTO MASTER killer in ROM
Chapter 2: Centro Storico

Bram Stoker: Dracula's Guest

"The dead woman rose for a moment, even as the flames began to lick her body, and her desperate cries of agony were drowned only by the ensuing thunderclap."



"My name is Umberto Master!" the blonde man said to Signor Zapalotti.

"Aha, so, an Italian?"

"No, my mother!" Umberto admitted.

Signor Zapalotti scrutinized him. There was nothing outwardly objectionable, but why was he here? Did he have a Donna visiting—or worse? No, he wouldn't tolerate anything of that sort in his house. After all, he owned other properties. Even some new constructions. He feverishly considered if there might be a vacancy elsewhere. The German woman earlier had mentioned she was single—he always asked such things straight away.

"Are you alone, Signor Master?" he asked, looking him over intently.


"Certainly," Umberto replied. Reassuring himself, he patted his jacket. His sunglasses were tucked in the outer pocket.

"And you're planning to live here yourself? Or...?" Zapalotti pressed on. Something about this man didn’t sit right. His instincts, usually sharp, were nervous around Signor Master.

Even downstairs, Zapalotti had sensed a strange tension. Yet business and partnerships shifted daily. The blonde man held his head low as they stood before the green door on the first floor.
The thick, 30-centimeter walls swallowed any noise from the street below. Perhaps he should annoy the old man a bit.

"For now, sure," he answered casually.

"No, no! The lease is strictly for the tenant! Only the tenant, do you understand? This is the historic quarter! All these buildings are protected under heritage regulations—established by the government centuries ago. Yet, despite it all, prices are soaring, soaring!" Zapalotti wagged his finger theatrically toward the blonde man’s face, more to dispel his own sudden fear than to lecture. Was it because he hadn’t eaten lunch yet?

He had lied earlier, of course. Yes, he already had the key to the first floor. He had only wanted to search the place. Who knew what might be hidden beneath the shabby furniture—gold, money? Nowadays, you could never be sure! Ever since the unfortunate death on the first floor, the local press had taken an interest. But well, that’s how it was. They clung to anything just to fill their pages.

Not that he could be accused of any wrongdoing. Modest as he was, he did everything himself. Only Signorina Fausto had been working for him at a pittance for twenty years.
Computers and all that dreadful technology? He didn’t need it. Whenever he asked, she reliably unearthed personal and family details. Irreplaceable! Still, he had started to wonder lately what he’d do if something happened to her. Ghastly thought.

Hiring one of those young trainees from trade schools? Sure, it might be amusing to pat their behinds. But they’d demand the latest equipment in the office.

He pulled the key from his pocket. Earlier, he had found something valuable.

“Please, come in! And how long do you plan to stay in Rome?”

“Ouch!” Master exclaimed, clutching the back of his head.

“Let’s say for a while,” he replied, with an air of nonchalance that irritated him. The low ceiling was aggravating enough. He was used to far tougher situations. What had Peterson been thinking with this nonsense? Ridiculous! He was supposed to meet him by the sea near Ostia next week.

“Oh, so you’re looking for work,” Zapalotti blurted.


"Yes, I study and work on the side," Master replied. Immediately, he regretted it. Zapalotti’s gaze turned suspicious.

“So, you study? And where, may I ask?” Zapalotti’s voice rose. His gut told him this man wasn’t a student—whatever that meant.

The blonde man pitied him. Zapalotti seemed harmless. As usual, it was always the innocent ones who got caught in the crossfire. Every job had its pitfalls—especially the well-paying ones. The higher the salary, the bigger the risks.

“Signor Zapalotti, I’m taking a course at the stock exchange. The Roman stock exchange. Up and down, up and down.”

“Wwuii...wuiiii wui wuiii!”
Zapalotti waved his arms in exaggerated waves. He understood that. It calmed him.

“See, women’s business. Faith, that’s what it is. Why not?” he grinned.

The blonde man felt queasy. Before him was a sort of stone deathbed, adorned with grimy nylon lace. Behind it, in a stone alcove, stood a Madonna with a bleeding heart. A red lamp pulsed in the exposed heart, its light flowing through a plastic tube to form a pool of blood at the feet of her blue robe.

“Maria Verkündigung” was inscribed on a gold plaque above the brown-haired figure’s head.

“Ts, ts, ts,” Zapalotti muttered. “Women!”

The blonde man stared into the room. He turned toward the door. Was it ajar or locked?

“Come, there’s another room. Very spacious, look!” Zapalotti crawled through a hole in the wall.

Curiosity and fascination wrestled with the blonde man’s simmering anger. Nothing was spared in this line of work. Should he carry out his mission here? Or perhaps in front of the Madonna? The Madonna would make for better headlines. He collected such things. And it was undeniably more dramatic.

He took pride in his work. No cowardice, no shirking! His thoughts drifted to Luana waiting for him at the hotel. Would she be sprawled out again in her seductive lingerie? A whisper of red lace, a teasing slit in her panties. Her white breasts spilling from her bra as she reached for his legs.


“Are you still there, Signor Master? Hello?” Zapalotti’s voice echoed from the adjoining crypt.

“Yes, I’m coming. Just a small heart attack, that’s all!”

“What? You’re joking, surely!”

Zapalotti was rummaging beneath a pillowcase, searching for money or gold. His efforts paid off—he held a charred relic in his hands. Intuitively, he sniffed it. Hmm, such things could fetch money. He was well-versed in this trade. He had found similar items before. But this one stank to high heaven.

Santo, Santa—he couldn’t decipher the name of the saint to whom the bone belonged.

The blonde man watched as Zapalotti, engrossed, sniffed the object before slipping the charred piece into his pocket.

“Ah, there you are. Now, this is the second room!”

“It’s a bit low for a desk, don’t you think?” Umberto remarked irritably.

“Oh no, you’ll be sitting while studying. And when you go out, you’re right in the heart of things. A steal at 150,000 lire!”

“Yes, fine. I have an appointment now. I’ll let you know tomorrow,” Umberto said, climbing out of the hole and returning to the room with the Madonna.

UMBERTO IN ACTION

Apologies for the misunderstanding earlier. Here is a direct English translation of your provided text without any additions or interpretations:
The Glencheck suit glinted in the darkness as the owner squeezed through the opening.
Just as he ran his hand over his disheveled gray hair, he felt the blonde man's hands around his throat.
An American joke? When he tried to speak, no words came out.

“Grr ch ch chch drsiiiiuuu,” a faint rasp escaped his open mouth. Only once. On the second attempt, his tongue and muscles failed entirely.


The blonde man stood a head taller than Signor Zapalotti. From outside came the dull clatter of shoes. He grabbed him and laid him on the ground. The lifeless body rolled slightly to the right as Umberto moved in a single leap toward the door.

“Click,” went the lock. Just two seconds later, clattering footsteps approached.

“Is someone there? Hello, Signora Veri?” a high-pitched woman’s voice spoke through the door. “But she’s dead… Hello… is someone there? … I could swear I heard something fall!” she murmured more quietly, pressing her head against the door to listen.
Umberto wondered if the dim light of the Madonna might shine through the cracks to the outside. Probably not. He inspected the door. No, impossible—it was solid and securely fitted into the old masonry. He glanced at his gold wristwatch. Nearly one o’clock. No one had seen him. Earlier, luck had been on his side. Who would have thought the old man would already be wandering around the house?


Originally, he had planned to carry out the job at dawn. On the old man—well, he wasn’t really that old. His gaze lingered on the lifeless face, which now pressed against the uneven stone floor. Stone to stone, he thought.

If he had carried it out in his modern apartment, he would have needed his revolver.
The job had come from Peterson in Germany. They had their fingers in everything, didn’t they? Tss, tss… the new assignment, where he had absolutely free rein—but had to work cleanly, elegantly—that suited him much better. Much better than group work in the past.

The woman’s voice tore him from his thoughts.

“Signora Veri, what happened? Who would want this? Not me. We didn’t mean you any harm. The Madonna can testify to that!” The woman’s voice broke into a sobbing wail.
Good grief, she just wouldn’t leave. Women could be so sentimental and persistent. Damn it. If he didn’t get out of this hole soon, he’d have to deal with her too. He looked at his freshly polished shoes and nudged the dead man’s cheek with his right foot. This inactivity—damn it all! He bent down and searched the man’s pockets.
The diamond rings caught his attention.

Should he take them to make it look like a robbery-murder? The thought of twisting them off made him sick. Wait—he pulled out a charred object, and there was more! Three gold bracelets and a brooch emerged from the man’s pockets. What was he doing carrying around such things? People were strange these days.

He absolutely couldn’t forget to leave the evidence he was carrying here. Shame about the man, really. He had a soft spot for such peculiar types.

The woman outside the door babbled a prayer. Between words, he caught snippets of “Maria, Maria, and the Lord, the Lord be with you…” It was maddening. He thought of his mother, who had always prayed in secret before his father. Back then.

This time, he’d have to ask Peterson. So far, all he knew was that Zapalotti owned 15 properties in the historic center of the city. That had even been in the newspaper last week. Ha, finally, the woman rustled away from the door, her footsteps clattering as she left.

He picked up the man and carried him to the stone altar. There, he laid him directly in front of the Madonna and her bleeding plastic tube. The light flickered in rhythm with the artificial artery.

Now came the unpleasant part of the job. Sexual murder was always widely reported and sensationalized by the media.

So, to bring the poor man and his properties completely into disrepute, the press and television were essential. Afterward, Peterson would have an easy time with his speculations.

Umberto took a leather-bound knife from his jacket.
After unbuttoning the man’s trousers, he pulled out his genitals and cut off the penis.

Good thing he’d only had coffee and a sandwich this morning. And earlier, just an espresso.

He gagged as he looked at the mutilated remains of his fellow man. His inner voice urged him to hurry.


Some monstrous cables and channels were supposedly going to be installed in the ancient city center (and probably in other cities as well). Whenever he reached the peak of a job, the connections fell into place, as if scales were dropping from his eyes.

The dark, unsettling air of the story suggests deeper layers of intrigue, betrayal, and violence, characteristic of a thriller set in Rome's historic labyrinth. Would you like a continuation or analysis of this passage?

chapter historisches viertel Rom
Der Glencheckanzug blitzte in der Düsternis, als sich der Besitzer aus der Öffnung drängte .Grade als er sich über die verstrubbelten grauen Haare fuhr, spürte er die beiden Hände des Blonden an seiner Gurgel. Ein amerikanischer Scherz ? Beim Ansatz zum Sprechen brachte er kein Wort hervor .
„ Grr ch ch chch drsiiiiuuu", dröselte es hauchdünn aus seinem geöffneten Mund. Nur einmal ! Beim zweiten Versuch lahmte Zunge und Muskulatur ins Aus.
Der Blonde überragte Signor Zapalotti um einen Kopf. Von draußen hörte er dumpfes Geklapper von Schuhen. Er packte ihn und legte ihn zu Boden. Der leblose Körper rollte ein wenig nach rechts als sich Umberto in einem Satz zur Tür bewegte.
„Klick " machte das Schloss. Schon zwei Sekunden darauf, näherten sich klappernde Schritte.
„Ist da jemand? Hallo Signora Veri " eine helle Frauenstimme sprach durch die Tür. „ Sie ist doch tot... Hallo..ist da jemand ?. ..sowas ich könnte schwören , was fallen gehört zu haben!" murmelte sie leiser ihren Kopf an die Tür lauschend gelegt.
Umberto überlegte ob die schummerige Beleuchtung der Madonna durch die Ritzen nach außen dringen würde. Wohl kaum. Er blickte die Tür ab. Nein , unmöglich die war solide und festgefügt im alten Mauerwerk. Er blickte auf seine goldene Armbanduhr. Bald dreizehn Uhr. Gesehn hatte ihn sowieso niemand. Vorhin. Der Zufall war ihm zu Hilfe gekommen. Wer hätte gedacht , dass der Alte schon im Haus umher lief .
Ursprünglich wollte er den Auftrag im Morgengrauen ausführen. Und zwar bei dem Alten, na so alt war er eigentlich gar nicht. Sein Blick heftete sich auf sein lebloses Gesicht welches sich dem unebenen Steinfußboden zuneigte. Stein zu Stein, dachte er.
Also bei ihm in seiner Neubaubleibe, na da hätte er halt seinen Revolver gebraucht. Der Auftrag von Peterson kam aus Deutschland. Wo die überall ihre Finger drin haben. Tss Tsss ..... die neue Tour , wo er absolut freie Hand hatte... aber dafür sauber , na also elegant arbeiten musste, entsprach ihm mehr. Mehr, mehr als die Gruppenarbeit früher. Die Stimme der Frau riss ihn aus seinen Gedanken.
„ Signora Veri, was ist nur passiert? Wer wollte das , ich nicht. Wir wollten Ihnen nichts Böses. Die Madonna kann es bezeugen!" die Stimme der Frau ging in ein klagendes Schluchzen über.
Meine Güte , die blieb und blieb. Die Weiber sind aber auch sowas von sentimental und hartnäckig. Verdammt noch mal. Wenn er nicht bald aus dem Kabuff kam, musste er sie auch noch umlegen. Er blickte auf seine frischpolierten Schuhspitzen und stieß mit dem rechten Fuß in des Toten Wange. Diese Untätigkeit, verdammt noch mal ! Er bückte sich und betastet die Hosentaschen des Mannes. Die Brilliantringe fielen ihm auf.
Sollte er sie abnehmen um Raubmord glaubhaft zu machen. Es ekelte ihn sie abzudrehn. Halt, er zog einen verkohlten Gegenstand heraus und da war noch was ! Drei Goldarmbänder und eine Brosche zog er aus des Mannes Hosentasche. Wozu er sowas mitschleppte? Also die Leute waren ja auch skurril heutzutage. Auf keinen Fall durfte er vergessen die Indizien die er bei sich trug hier zulassen. Eigentlich schade um den Mann .
Er hatte was übrig für so urige Typen. Die Signora vor der Tür brabbelte ein Gebet. Zwischendrin verstand er nur immer wieder „Maria, Maria und der Herr, der Herr sei mit dir...!" Es war zum Haare ausraufen. Ihm fiel seine Mutter ein die betete meist heimlich vor dem Vater. Damals.
Dieses Mal würde er Peterson fragen. Bis jetzt wusste er nur das dieser Zapalotti 15 Häuser im inneren historischen Kern der Städte besaß. Das stand sogar in der Zeitung letzte Woche. Ha endlich , die Frau raschelte an der Tür und klapperte davon .
Er hob den Mann auf und trug ihn zu dem Steinaltar . Dort legte er ihn direkt vor die Madonna und ihren blutenden Plastikfaden. Das Licht zuckte der Aorta gemäß auf und ab. Nun kam der unangenehme Teil seines Auftrags.
Sexualmord wurde äußerst mannigfaltig und langwierig von den Medien verbreitet.
Also um den armen Mann und seine Häuser vollends in Verruf zu bringen, brauchte man die Presse und das Fernsehen. Danach würde Peterson für seine Spekulationen leichtes Spiel haben.
Umberto entnahm seinem Jackett ein in Leder gehülltes Messer. Nachdem er dem Mann die Hose geöffnet, zog er dessen Geschlechtsteil heraus und schnitt den Penis ab. Ein Glück hatte er nichts außer Kaffee und ein Sandwich zu sich genommen. Bereits um 8 Uhr früh. Und vorhin eh nur einen Espresso.
Ein Würgen überkam ihn angesichts des entmannten Geschlechtsgenossen.
Seine innere Stimme sagte ihm , dass er sich jetzt beeilen müsse. Irgendwelche monströsen Kabel und Kanäle sollten im antiken Kern dieser Stadt (und wahrscheinlich auch anderer Städte) installiert werden.
Immer wenn er den Höhepunkt eines Auftrags erklomm, fielen ihm die Zusammenhänge wie Schuppen von den Augen.
____________________
SANDRA WING
Key Elements of the Trilogy:

1. Madonna Death Riddle
Sandra investigates the gruesome murder of a man found mutilated beneath a Madonna statue in Rome. Falsely implicated, she flees to Berlin, uncovering dark conspiracies involving genetic research, financial manipulation, and a morally bankrupt elite. Twists include coded interviews, a bleeding heart left as evidence, and high-stakes media propaganda. The story culminates in her struggle to survive amidst betrayal and chaos.
2. Wood Design Murder
Set in Munich, this mystery revolves around a Frankenstein-like fugitive, secretive wood plantations, and a string of murders tied to a luxurious villa. Sandra prevents a child’s poisoning, unravels twisted family secrets, and exposes corrupt financiers while encountering bizarre crimes

such as bodies hidden in coffins and mysterious artwork depicting societal decay.
3. Factory Death Riddle
Sandra delves into the sinister workings of a global Social Spy Network (SSN), encountering mind-control propaganda and corporate-driven genetic brain alterations. From Venice to New York, she faces conspiracies tied to viral research, culminating in harrowing escapes and chilling revelations. Georg becomes an obsessive antihero, while Sandra risks everything to untangle corporate corruption and deadly revenge plots.

Themes & Style:

Locations: Nostalgic, richly described settings in Rome, Berlin, Munich, and the European countryside evoke an Art Deco and gothic aesthetic.

Characters: Sandra is a pragmatic, determined sleuth, while Georg's tormented, romantic persona adds tension and depth. Wealthy elites, spurned lovers, and deranged scientists populate the cast.

Tone: A mix of noir, surrealism, and dark humor, featuring elaborate conspiracies and grotesque details.

Social Commentary: The stories critique greed, elitism, and moral decay, weaving a tapestry of suspenseful narratives and philosophical undertones.This trilogy is a dark, thrilling ride through a morally ambiguous world where mysteries and dangers lurk at every turn.


CAIRO REBELL book

books
3. Factory Death Riddle


MADONNA Riddle
chapter 12 BERLIN
at a turn-of-the-century construction. Ornate consoles and two massive mirrors completed the scene.

On the fourth floor, Walter pressed his ear to the wide apartment door. A polished brass nameplate read M. Weber. The Jugendstil-style brass handle was adorned with a delicate vine design. Walter lifted the handle, and a distant chime echoed inside the apartment.

Nothing moved. The faint creak of floorboards could be heard. On a whim, Walter whispered, “Annegret Sauer wants to speak with you. Hello!”

Sandra looked at Walter, confused. He gave her that same look again, as if he wanted something from her.

Xxxxx

Walter strained to listen in the silence. The faint sound of doors slamming echoed from below. Louder this time, he repeated the sentence:

“Sauer, Annegret is waiting for you downstairs!”

He instinctively felt the presence of someone behind the door.

“Who are you?” a sharp whisper came from within.

“Annegret is scared of the police!” Walter murmured through the door.

The door creaked open just a tiny crack, held by a security chain. The sound of its latch clicking into place confirmed it. Through the gap appeared a messy tuft of unkempt hair, streaked with gray amidst black.

“She should come up! Ring three long and one short when you’re back. Is she far from here? Bailiff Pätzold was here this morning! They won’t show up again before tomorrow morning. She doesn’t need to worry. Is something wrong with her?” she asked, her curiosity evident.

“I don’t know exactly. We’ll be here in five minutes,” Walter assured her.

“Tell her someone broke into my place! Can you imagine? It happened while I was working in the storeroom!”* she confided.

Walter wasn’t entirely sure what she meant but nodded politely.

“You’re not from here, I can tell,” she added, her green eyes darting nervously.

Walter nodded again.

“Up in the attic! Chemical equipment! And substances!” she continued, sounding defensive.
“I’ll get Annegret. She’s waiting,” Walter replied.
“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me,” she apologized.
Ten minutes later, Walter returned with Sandra. Together, they climbed the stairs, whispering at the door once again. Mrs. Weber opened it after they rang as instructed.
“Oh, how lovely to see you again!” Mrs. Weber exclaimed.
A strange musty smell filled the entryway. Sandra noticed that Mrs. Weber was wearing the same outfit as last time—a tattered black twinset and a houndstooth skirt. The skirt’s hem appeared to have been hastily mended.
“Is that Renaissance?” Walter asked, gesturing to a two-meter-tall gilded mirror framed with ornate gold foliage. A pile of Leitz folders towered on the marble console below it, their frayed, yellowed pages spilling out haphazardly.


“My lawsuit against Penzberg!” she declared proudly, pointing to the folders. “I just haven’t had time to organize. Otherwise, I’d have brought him down by now!” She bent down to pick up three sweaters from the floor and placed them on the stack of folders.


“I’ve been trying to reach you for ten days!” Sandra said, irritation creeping into her voice. “I stayed in Berlin specifically to talk to you. With that minister—you know who I mean. Who knows what I could achieve!”


“Oh, you see, at the moment...” Mrs. Weber hesitated, crouching to clear a small gilded stool near the mirror. As she did, a stack of leather hides, scattered file folders, and white cotton underwear tumbled to the floor.

“Forgive me... I can’t get to anything... this silver-footed chair,” she said, gesturing to the now-cleared seat. “Please, have a seat.”

Sandra sat down.

“Silverfoot deceived me!” Mrs. Weber blurted abruptly.

Walter subtly sniffed the air and noticed a plastic bucket partially hidden by an antique velvet curtain near a doorway. Inside, a mildewed rag lay crumpled.

“This morning, I had to escape down the back stairs!” Mrs. Weber confided to Sandra. She shook her head conspiratorially in Sandra’s direction, as though sharing a secret.

Interrupting the moment, Walter asked, “You still haven’t called Viva? Is your phone still out of service?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But tomorrow!” Mrs. Weber said firmly.

Turning to Sandra, Walter added, “This Enrico must leave Berlin immediately. Viva—well, I offered her one of my addresses in Milan. He can go underground there. He’ll be safe in Milan.”

“Yes, yes, I already met him at Bussinger’s. You know how Italians whine,” Sandra replied curtly, casting him a brief glance.

Walter’s eyes sparked with that peculiar, desirous look, but Mrs. Weber interrupted.

“If you don’t mind, let’s go to the salon. Though I haven’t had a chance to tidy up in the past six months... over there...” She trailed off, rummaging in the drawer of a small antique telephone table. The drawer was full of keys, but she eventually found the right one.

She unlocked the wide white double doors, pushing them open. “Please, come in!” she called from the hallway.

Walter and Sandra exchanged glances before following.

They stepped into an enormous room where a golden, palace-like chandelier hung from the ornately stuccoed ceiling. A shimmering French fabric draped from the chandelier, which was over a meter in diameter. The candlesticks on it were at least 60 centimeters tall, likely gas lamps in the past, as gas valves were still visible beneath the gold embellishments.

“Fantastico, mamma mia, maestoso!” Walter exclaimed in awe.

Mrs. Weber looked flattered, her unease over the clutter fading.

Sandra nearly tripped over a pile of files stacked on a Persian rug. Walter caught her just in time, though the incident caused a box leaning against a round inlaid table to topple to the floor. Typewritten sheets mixed with old shellac records spilled onto the herringbone parquet.

Mrs. Weber let out a short scream. “Oh dear, pardon! Leave it, or I won’t be able to find anything anymore. No, no, don’t touch it!” she cried as Walter bent to help.

Mrs. Weber removed two fur coats and three evening gowns from the velvet-covered armchairs, laying them on the large gentleman’s desk near the wide windows leading to a loggia.

“My custom dresses from the old days,” she murmured.

Sandra, seizing the moment, pressed on, “Dear Mrs. Weber, you mentioned a minister before. I didn’t quite catch that. But what really interests me is the claim you made about Dr. Berger being a murderer. Do you remember telling me that?”

Mrs. Weber, now seated daintily on one of the chairs around the exquisite round table, crossed her legs. Running her hand over the antique inlay, she suddenly shouted, “Scratches everywhere—terrible! I’m no sycophant!”

Sandra paused, then continued, “About this media installation... where did it all begin?”

“Where? Here!” Mrs. Weber tapped the table. “This is where they met!”

“Have you lived in this apartment for so long?” Sandra asked.

“Of course! Berger didn’t start producing magnetic heads—factories, production halls, all of that—until later. No, magnetic tape heads. They made billions off it! The government issued reconstruction loans for business development back then. And Penzberg—he… well, the connections are as follows: first, through his political ties, they secured the loans. Then they manufactured just enough to mask their real operations. Something entirely different. Something no one knew about. They even mocked Mrs. Frey here—she was just a music teacher, confused but harmless. She wasn’t ‘refined’ enough for them. And they laughed at Frau Limpf, a worker’s daughter, right here in my apartment!”

Xxxxxxx

"And what?" she asked.

"Dr. Berger said to her, 'Miss Limpf, have you been sitting in the shadows too long? You look so yellow! Well, then, put her in the light,' he said. And you know what Berger said next? 'Man, she'll turn green then.' And Serger replied, 'Even better.'"

Sandra jumped to her feet. She knew Dr. Serger all too well. She had fled to New York because of him. Dr. Serger had been found murdered shortly after the last time she had seen him. For almost a year, rumors spread that she was the killer, until the real perpetrator revealed himself in his will after his own death. A twist of justice that had allowed Sandra to return to Germany back then.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" Margarete asked.

"Yes."

"Across the hall, through the passage, then to your left," Margarete directed. "I'll find the files for you so you can believe what I'm telling you!" she called after Sandra.

Margarete turned to Walter. "A single day without controlling this massive flock of sheep, and everything collapses," she said. "That's what they said. I even have it recorded—on vinyl, no less. They cut it themselves as a joke after working in the lab. Now, they don’t even enter labs anymore. They just oversee things. Do you understand?"

She walked over to a glass-fronted, classicist cabinet. "They collect the profits while Penzberg, with his spotless reputation, manages the international connections."

"It's a shame you’re no longer working in your field," Walter remarked.

"Penzberg was the mastermind behind the factory where I worked," Margarete said. "He pulled the strings for Dr. Eck and that Luhm character—they were just his puppets. It was all a conspiracy. I was so naïve back then. They took full advantage of me."

After some searching, she returned to the table with two pink file folders. Sandra entered the room just then.

"Ah, there you are! Did you find it?"

"Yes."

"But since you’re from Munich and planning to go there, I’d like to give you a new contact: Werner Baum," Margarete said, looking at them as if they already knew whom she was talking about. Sandra’s expression revealed recognition.

"If you could give me his address, I’d be very grateful," Sandra urged.

"He doesn’t have a fixed address right now. He usually stays at the Hotel Splendid—or was it..." She opened the folder. "Here you go!" She slid some papers across the inlaid table.

"I need to be careful not to scratch the table any more," she said. "These are the shell companies they used to launch their inventions—radio firms, then electronics companies, then media organizations. Back then, they categorized everything so much more specifically. Just pay attention to the sequence."

Sandra studied a summary of corporate origins and their products.

"By the way," Margarete said, "Werner Baum could tell you a lot about Penzberg today. I’m sure of it! He publicly called Penzberg a murderer."

Walter began to warm up to the conversation. He found the old woman intriguing. What she had to say was relevant to his interests as well.

"You mentioned a break-in. Did you know I’ve been hearing about similar cases lately? Break-ins aimed at making dangerous documents accessible to certain people," Walter said.

"You’re speaking my language! Hardly anyone understands me these days. Yes, yes, they say I’m crazy. My electrolytic research back then would be banned today! Believe me!" Margarete said, growing emphatic. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her black twinset jacket. "Can I offer you something?" she asked.

"Oh, you know, we still have to visit a friend—he’s in a bit of trouble," Walter said.

"A fellow countryman of yours?"

"Yes, you could say that. A simple craftsman," he replied.

"I don’t need to know more," Margarete said. "We might run into each other in Munich. I have a crucial court date there!" Her green eyes sparkled with friendliness and a touch of nervousness. "Where are you staying in Munich?" she asked Sandra. Sandra returned her focus to the papers. What could she say? Giving Daniela’s address would only create unnecessary complications while she was still wanted by the police. Explaining this to Margarete Weber was pointless. "Maybe we’ll all meet at the Hotel Splendid," she said lightly. Margarete nodded. "Good. You mean you plan to stay there because of your book? Your work, yes. I’d like to speak with Werner Baum too. He should testify in my case against Penzberg. A huge scandal—no wonder they’re scared. Oh, that would be lovely," she said, looking at Walter. "Will you be staying at the Hotel Splendid as well? Good comfort, not too expensive. I remember it has excellent service," she mused. "My publisher has my address. You know, in the next two months, I need to keep a low profile. Some corporate managers approached me to write a book about medieval financial systems. But, as you know, I want to write about the powerful people who drain human strength and mislead them. They decide who gets to live and distribute licenses for how much energy people can use for themselves versus what they must give to corporations!" "Very interesting! Was the idea yours?" Margarete asked.

"Not entirely," Sandra said, brushing her short, sandy-colored hair.

Walter glanced at her. Was he even thinking about Jutta Allera anymore? Viva had said he’d come to Berlin because of her. Meanwhile, Margarete returned with a bottle of Russian slivovitz and a box of Mozartkugeln.

Walter leaned closer to Sandra. What did he want from her? So far, he hadn’t said a word about his activities. Typical, just as Bastiano had warned: "An Italian!" Walter’s hand wandered toward her chest. Sandra smirked.

Margarete excused herself to fetch glasses from a nearby cabinet. Walter, seizing the moment, leaned in closer to Sandra, his shaggy hair tickling her until she sneezed softly.

"Hatschi," she stifled.

Walter kissed her ear. Silence. Then, the doorbell rang—long and drawn out.

Margarete was still by the glass cabinet. Sandra motioned for Walter to stay calm. Walter took advantage of the moment to drape himself over her. His scruffy hair brushed against her, and she suppressed a sneeze again.

After about 15 minutes and the fading of the bell's echo, Margarete tiptoed back toward them. When she saw Walter practically draped over Sandra, she said, "Oh, pardon me! I didn’t mean to interrupt."

"I’d like to leave through the back exit, Mrs. Weber. I can’t afford delays—financially or otherwise!" Sandra said firmly.

"Of course," Margarete said. "And when are you planning to be in Munich?"
"Next week," Margarete replied. "If I can get away. I’ll travel at night. I’m afraid—Berger is likely behind the break-in in the attic! He’s been trying to erase his past for years. Many, many ordinary people—those who had collected incriminating material against him—were found dead. Often under mysterious chemical circumstances that remain unresolved to this day. Bribery! Everyone was bribed, and Berger himself is bribed by Penzberg. Quietly and subtly, Penzberg operates in the background," she said, trembling as she gripped Sandra’s hand.
Moved, Sandra promised she would ensure Margarete’s safety.
After sipping slivovitz from hand-cut glasses that Margarete insisted they listen to for their delicate tone, she led them to the back exit through a large, white-tiled kitchen and a servant’s staircase. The exit led through a backyard with a derelict lot to another building. From there, they could leave through the front entrance.

Madonna murder riddle chapter 12

Chapter: Berlin - Margarete Weber

Margarete Weber

Former scientific prodigy, now a merchant in Berlin.


The Madonna Murder Mystery

A crime thriller.
Main Characters:

Sandra Wing: Former advertising model, now a reporter and author.
Georg Tagt: Once a successful author, now resigned but searching for new inspiration.


Umberto Master: An American hitman operating in Europe.
Luana Kerman: Umberto's lover from North Dakota.


Dr. Ludwig Leopold Berger: Scientist and manager at Serger Corporation (N.Y.), based in Munich-Grünwald.
Herbert Peterson: Liaison for special assignments from New York.


Margarete Weber: Former scientist, now a merchant in Berlin.
Bert Bussinger: Arranges East-West congresses, shady yet helpful, based in Berlin.


Viva: Makeup artist turned courier, based in Berlin.
Bastiano Truffa: Italian security specialist and handyman, a ladies' man and former shipyard worker.


Signor Zapalotti: Real estate and stock owner in Rome.
Goldstein: Dealer and patent buyer, based in Berlin.

Otto Penzberg: Former minister, now a consultant for Serger Corporation.

Marcel Huska: Parisian director of international finance pools, a gourmet and aesthete.

Olga Huska: His nymphomaniac sister.

Petra Malzer: Seamstress from Munich.

Norbert Van Heren: Former publishing professional, now head of a governance promotion committee in Paris.
Walter Bersaglio: Milanese spy for Media Pax; provides Georg with a covert contact list.
Frau Kolz: Staff at Hotel Splendid.
Inspector Puller: Based in Munich-Schwabing.
Xaver Sacher: Field investigator who believes in evidence.
Peter Bachmeister: Young detective assistant with a high school diploma.
Werner Baum: Heir to an opera-producing dynasty, now researching viruses in London.
Sergio, Enrico, Pablo Pino, et al.: Georg's former friends.
Albert Höcht: Cognac lover and sales strategist, now a Media Raum tracker.