"Who was that?" "how did you open the door?" "did you find out where we are?" "can we get out of here?" "was she wearing a mantilla?" the questions came thick and fast as the other crowded round him, but the moon-faced Peter Lorre didn't know the answers; the door had been opened from the other side, it had been so brief and tantalising, and the woman had not said who she was – but The Kit Kat Klub was what she had said and he knew where that was – Berlin, for sure, though he thought it had been closed down by the SA but then the SA had been shut down themselves when Hitler murdered his old friend Ernst Röhm in 1934 so that didn't help; perhaps it had been re-opened 'under new management' which was Nazi-speak for simply taking over businesses, the way the mafia in the States operated – find a goldmine and milk it (he was always mixing metaphors but English was a difficult language to master and just now his head felt like it was expanding like a baloon and would soon burst) but it was the only tangible fact which lay outside of this corridor and the rooms off it, so he clung to it like a drowning man and flocculated his thin hair, while aware of the eyes of the others on him, which was when the usually phlegmatic Peter Boo, the other Edinburgh solicitor – there it was again, that damn language! as far as he, Lorre, knew, soliciting was what prostitutes were accused of when the police lifted them, but both these Schottisch herren were solicitors also – asked him about the movie he had filmed on this set; probably trying to catch him out, that was another thing about that pair – he had heard of Philadelphia Lawyers, but strike that, Edinburgh Lawyers were a pain in the ear; so he had explained it was an opuscule, he doubted if anyone here would have seen it, or even heard of it: F.P.1 antwortet nicht, and to his surprise one of the new women, Unity Mitford, despite being a devotee of Der Fuhrer, had seen both the German version which he had been in, and also the English, with a completely different cast, and said with remarkable candour, that she had preferred the first and that his performance of the photo-journalist had been stronger than Donald Calthrop's; although he detested everything that the woman stood for, he did feel something rather unusual as he looked at her, in the gloom of the basement!