Frederick Doell of the German Consulate climbed the subway steps into the chill, clear Brooklyn afternoon, trudged eight blocks to a quiet, dead-end street, turned off at the second house in a row of five brick-and-frame cottages.
Mr. Doell mounted the porch steps, rang the bell. Nobody answered. The front shades were drawn. He rapped sharply on the glass door-panels; still no answer.
Mr. Doell walked round to the back of the house, hastily turned his back on a Jewish cemetery which faces the rear door, and rapped again. The door key was...
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