By the time I reached my apartment I was too exhausted to feel the elation that normally follows a successful arrest, and too exhausted to worry about my relationship with Brunner. Without bothering to remove my clothes I threw myself down onto a divan and swore that even if God were to come knocking at my door I would not answer.
Of course that is precisely the kind of resolution I should have known better than to make. If my experience as a policeman has taught me anything it is that, as my Jewish friends say, Man plans and God laughs. Sure enough, just as my eyes, heavy with fatigue, were beginning to close there came a knock at my door.
It was gentle at first and I heard myself groan and call out in a weak voice, thinking it was the concierge delivering a message, “Please leave it under the door.” But the knocking continued, firmer and louder this time. “I said please leave it under the door,” I called out again, angry and ready to strangle the fellow. The next series of raps sounded as though the person were using brass knuckles. Flinging myself up from the divan I marched to the door intending to take years off the caller’s life.
Opening the door I began to shout “Why the devil can’t you —” and then I saw that it was not the concierge after all.
“Detective Preiss?” the caller cautiously said.
“Chief Inspector Preiss,” I replied. So what if I was rude; if the man had the gall to seek me out at my lodgings, and at this hour of the night, the least he could do was address me by my proper title.
The caller glanced at a small card in his hand. “It says here Detective Hermann Preiss.”
“It says what?”
“Here, see for yourself —” He handed me the card.
“Who gave you this?” I demanded.
“A detective by the name of Brunner … at the Constabulary.”
Brunner! That bastard! Trust Brunner not only to pawn this fellow off on me but to understate my position in the department.
“Did Brunner not take the trouble to mention that I’m off duty at the moment?”
“He said nothing about that,” the caller said. “He simply assured me that you are best equipped to deal with this kind of case. In fact, he went so far as to say there wasn’t a detective in the whole of Europe who is better equipped. It must be exceedingly gratifying to hear that you are held in such high esteem by your colleague.”
Making no secret of my impatience, I asked, “What sort of case are we talking about? Somebody make off with your prized Dachshund?” I wouldn’t have put it past Brunner.
“Please, Chief Inspector,” the man said, “I would not dream of disturbing you were it not that a serious threat has been made and I desperately need your help.”
A serious threat? It was difficult to imagine a serious threat being made against this fellow. He was at least a head shorter than I. So short was he, in fact, that had I passed him in the street for the first time I would have turned swiftly about in disbelief for a second look. The climb to the second storey where my rooms are located had left him breathing heavily, but it was only after he removed his tall hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat that I realized how old he was. His hair — what there was of it — was pure white and matted with perspiration. Drooping jowls and patches of loose skin under his eyes gave him the look of a worried bloodhound.
“I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water, Inspector?” he said, his lungs now issuing a wheezing sound.
I had no choice. “I suppose you’d better come in,” I said.
Watching him down the glass of water under the stronger light in my sitting room, I could see now that he was clean-shaven and that his clothes, which because of his small stature would have had to be custom-made, were well cut and carefully put together. He had removed his gloves to accept the glass of water, revealing a diamond ring on the index finger of his left hand (the hand holding the glass), the stone a good two carats if not more. Only after he had finished off a second glass of water did he introduce himself. “My name is Otto Mecklenberg. Your colleague Brunner did not seem to be familiar with my name but —”
I said, “The Otto Mecklenberg … the impresario?”
The old man’s face suddenly lit up. “You flatter me, sir. I wasn’t certain if —”
“Of course I’m familiar with the name. Whenever music is spoken of in Munich your name is spoken in the same breath, especially when the subject is opera.”
“Then Brunner was right,” Mecklenberg said. “He told me you’re the one policeman in the whole of Europe who takes an interest in opera. I have to add, Inspector, that Brunner pronounced ‘opera’ as if it were an incurable disease.”
“Detective Brunner is an incurable disease,” I said. “Now, please tell me … why would anyone want to threaten you of all people?”
“No no,” Mecklenberg said quickly, “I am not the one threatened, it is my client who’s the potential victim.”
“And your client is —?”
“Richard Wagner.”
“Someone is threatening to kill Wagner?”
“Worse, Inspector.”
“What can be worse than a death threat?”
“You have to know Richard Wagner as I do in order to answer that question,” Mecklenberg replied. Reaching into an inside pocket of his coat the old man extracted an envelope. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “open this please and read the note.”
The envelope was addressed in crude block letters to Richard Wagner. It turned out to contain a single sheet of inexpensive stationery upon which in the same crude hand a one-line message appeared:
JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION
I read the message aloud several times. Something about it made no sense to me. “If someone were truly out to do serious harm why would he give advance notice of his intention? I mean, since when does a criminal announce his schedule for the commission of the crime?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Herr Mecklenberg, but this has all the marks of a prank … granted a nasty prank, but nevertheless a prank and no more. Besides, the note speaks of ruination rather than death, which sounds to me like some kind of petty revenge is what the writer has in mind.”
I started to hand back the envelope and note but Mecklenberg raised his hands in a gesture of refusal. “If you’re as knowledgeable about opera as your reputation suggests, then you must know all there is to know about Wagner. The man’s notorious. Let us be honest about it. There is no other way to describe him. Anyone who reads the newspapers surely is aware that Richard Wagner engages simultaneously in two professions: the first is music, the second is getting into all sorts of trouble.”
“You’re referring to his political activities?”
“You call it political activities,” Mecklenberg said with a cynical smile. “Unfortunately, our government calls it treason. And Wagner’s denunciation of the church has the Archbishop of Munich labelling him a blasphemer. And that’s not all, Inspector. I would not be the least surprised if somewhere at your headquarters there is a file as thick as your fist filled with charges brought against the man by his creditors. Fraud, cheating, issuing bad cheques … Wagner’s done ’em all. You know, of course, that he was only recently permitted to return from Switzerland where he was in exile.”
“But Herr Mecklenberg,” I said, “governments don’t deliver threats hand printed on cheap slips of paper, nor do princes of the church. As for victims of petty crimes, and even creditors facing significant losses, hints of revenge are not their typical modus operandi; prompt acts of brutality are more popular forms of retribution. Take my word for it.”
“With all due respect, sir, this is not what you would call a typical situation. June twenty-first is the date for the premiere of Wagner’s new opera, you see.”
“New opera? I must have missed the announcement in the newspapers.”
“Ah, Inspector Preiss, that’s the point. There was no announcement in the newspapers. The date for the premiere is known at the moment by a mere handful of people …
people who are directly involved in the production. In fact, the June twenty-first date was disclosed by Maestro Wagner only yesterday following auditions for the principal male role.”
“And the new opera is —?”
“Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg,” Mecklenberg replied in a hushed voice, as though he was afraid that the very mention of the opera’s title might invite some sudden calamity.
“Well, sir, if indeed the date is known by a relatively few people at this point, then it stands to reason that the number of possible suspects is very limited. If I am correct in this assumption, then my job should be quite simple. No need to cast a broad net here; the fish, so to speak, are all close to the boat. At any rate, June twenty-first is some two months off which gives me plenty of time to —”
“On the contrary, Inspector, whoever wrote this note must be sought out and brought to justice immediately! There’s no time to waste!” The old man’s small bony fingers, gripping the brim of his hat, began to tremble.
“Please, Herr Mecklenberg, this is not a life-and-death matter,” I said. “Trust me, sir. I’ve had years of experience —”
“But you have never been exposed to the likes of Richard Wagner, have you?”
“Of course I will need to interview him. Perhaps in a day or two. You might bring him round to my office at the Constabulary, Herr Mecklenberg. Say, uh, the day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning?”
“I don’t think you understand, Inspector,” Mecklenberg said. “He must see you now … tonight. The note was slipped under the front door of his house late this afternoon and the man is beside himself. Please, Inspector Preiss, I have a carriage waiting —”
Chapter Two
A man was striking the keyboard of a piano with his fists as though it were an anvil, sending clusters of notes flying discordantly into the air, while crying aloud in a high-pitched grating voice over and over, “No no no!” the cries of a man at his wit’s end, yet plaintive at the same time, a man desperately wanting something beyond his reach.
Mecklenberg and I had just taken our first steps into the entrance hall of Richard Wagner’s house, admitted by his housekeeper, her hands protectively pressed against her ears and shaking her head as if to let us know she’d been through these upheavals many times in the past. The clamor came at us even louder now, penetrating the closed doors of the drawing room beyond. Again “No no no!” followed this time with “That is not what I want! You are not singing a national anthem, for God’s sake! You are supposed to be lovers!”
“I’m afraid we’ve caught your man at an inconvenient time,” I whispered to Mecklenberg. I had begun to unbutton my coat but stopped short. “Perhaps we should put this off until tomorrow.”
The old man seized my arm. “Please, Inspector, it’s only a private rehearsal. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. He prefers these intimate sessions; it’s just that he becomes a little irascible at times.” He shrugged and gave a weak smile. “You know how geniuses carry on, I’m sure.”
I expressed surprise that Wagner would be in a mood to rehearse with singers given the threatening note left earlier in the evening. “He’s under extraordinary pressure,” Mecklenberg explained. “The new opera opening soon, auditions, rehearsals, revisions and more revisions, financial arrangements, and so on.” Clearly Wagner’s long-time impresario was accustomed to making excuses for his client’s conduct.
“But how does anyone survive these tantrums of his?” I asked. “Come to think of it, how does he survive his tantrums?”
“Believe me, Preiss,” Mecklenberg said, smiling as much as his aged jowls would permit, “in the end it’s worth all the fuss and bother.”
“Fuss and bother? You call what we’ve just heard ‘fuss and bother’?”
Before Mecklenberg could respond, the doors of the drawing room were thrust open. “Mecklenberg, where the hell have you been? Why are you standing there like a piece of furniture?”
Then Wagner’s eyes landed on me like grapeshot. Lowering his voice he said to Mecklenberg, “Is this the policeman we sent for?”
Nervously Mecklenberg replied, “Maestro, allow me to —”
“Can’t the man speak for himself?” Still eyeing me, Wagner said, “And you are who?”
“Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss, Maestro.” I took a firm step in his direction and offered my hand.
“I never shake hands when I’m working,” Wagner said without so much as a flicker of apology. “I don’t know why it is, Chief Inspector, but too many men nowadays seem under some kind of compulsion to prove their manliness by crushing the living daylights out of you when they shake hands. My hands are my life, Chief Inspector.”
I couldn’t resist a smile. “I assure you, Maestro Wagner, I would have been as timid as a virgin.”
Wagner stared at me for a moment with what I took to be disapproval, then suddenly smiled (though cautiously). “Well, Mecklenberg,” he called over his shoulder, “at least he’s got a sense of humour. Are you quite sure he’s a policeman?” His eyes narrowed again. “Wait … Hermann Preiss? … weren’t you the detective back in Düsseldorf some years ago … yes, of course! … involved with the Schumanns. Am I correct?”
“You are, sir.”
“Pity about the poor idiot. Schumann, I mean. Died young, didn’t he? Some asylum near Bonn, as I recall. That wife of his … Clara … there was a witch if ever I met one. Never had a decent word to say about me and my music. Still doesn’t, damn her. Brahms … Johannes Brahms … now there was a man more to her taste, in every sense of the term, if you know what I mean.” Wagner frowned, as though struggling to recall something. “There was talk about whether or not Schumann did away with some journalist … something scandalous about Schumann’s past that this writer threatened to expose. They say Schumann literally got away with murder.” Looking me straight in the eye, Wagner snorted, “Doesn’t say much about the quality of police work in Düsseldorf, does it … people getting away with murder.”
I had two choices here: to agree with him, as a good public servant should do, perhaps even going so far as to bow and scrape; or to reply in kind and to hell with the consequences. I chose the latter. “It occurs to me, sir, that you must be a genuine connoisseur of police work, having been involved much of the time with justice systems here and abroad.”
Wagner glared at me for a moment, then turned to Mecklenberg, the old man looking as though he wished the floor would open and allow him to disappear. “Well, Mecklenberg, at least he’s not spineless, which is more than I can say about most people with whom I’m forced to deal these days, isn’t that so?” Returning to me, Wagner said, “I’m not sure we’re going to get along, you and I, Preiss. I’ve been confronted with a serious threat. I need a man who will be at my service, nothing less.”
“And that is exactly what I’m prepared to do, be at your service,” I said. “I am not, however, prepared to be your humble servant.”
I won’t flatter myself by claiming that this retort had the effect of putting the Maestro in his place; whether one knew Richard Wagner by reputation only, or was a personal acquaintance over many years, or was meeting him for the very first time as I was, one thing was incontrovertible: nothing short of the voice of God could cause this man to go weak at the knees. Still, my refusal to humiliate myself at least managed to establish a ground rule that would govern my relationship with Wagner if only for the time being. As far as I was concerned, Richard Wagner needed me more than I needed Richard Wagner.
“Very well, you two. Come!” Wagner stood to one side, motioning for us to move into the drawing room. He pointed to a sofa in a remote corner of the large room and ordered us to be seated there. “We’re nearly finished, these two young people and I. There’s not much more we can accomplish, not tonight at any rate.”
I had expected to be introduced to the pair of singers posted close to an enormous Bösendorfer, waiting in silence, like soldiers anticipating their next orders. But no introductions were fo
rthcoming; instead it was back to business. Wagner took his seat at the piano and, sounding more like a military commander than a musician, he delivered the following lecture: “I remind you once again that this scene is crucial between Walther and Eva. Act Two succeeds or fails depending on how you relate to each other at this point. You are planning to elope; you are frustrated by conventions that constrain your emotions, your love for each other. Walther has been treated like an outcast by the Mastersingers Guild; Eva is being used as a pawn in what will be an arranged marriage. Both of you are challenged now to defy narrow conventionalism. So passion … passion! … you must not only sing, you must act!”
What followed for the next thirty minutes was some of the most sublime music and singing ever to fill my ears. Indeed — and I admit this without shame — I could feel tears forming in my eyes and I was forced to blink hard at times to clear my vision. If the person responsible for this was a monster (and already I’d formed an opinion that he was) then let him be monstrous, I thought. As for the two singers, despite the fatigue evident in their faces, they were carrying out the monster’s orders above and beyond the call of duty.
At last, Wagner removed his hands from the keyboard, signalling that the session was ended. Nodding brusquely, all he said to the singers was “We’re getting there. Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp.”
Rising from the sofa, I approached the three at the piano, calling out, “Maestro, I should like an introduction to your singers, if you don’t mind.”
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 2
