At this, Brunner’s smirk expanded into a smile of satisfaction. “To save you the trouble, Preiss,” he said, “I interviewed the stage manager and his crew at the opera house last night. To a man they all agreed: it had to be your man Wagner who murdered Lantos. When he discovered that Lantos had botched the measurements for the scenery, Wagner stormed out of the house uttering threats against Lantos. They said it was as though all hell was about to erupt right here in Munich! Not a shred of doubt about it, Preiss; Richard Wagner is our killer.” Turning to the commissioner, Brunner said, “With all due respect, sir, I think no time must be wasted. Wagner has a reputation as an escape artist. I would be prepared to arrest him within the hour if you will permit.”
Commissioner von Mannstein looked gravely at me. “Well, Preiss, it seems Brunner here has done you a favour. I see no point in agonizing over this. Brunner’s absolutely correct, you know; Richard Wagner is a genius at disappearing when it suits him. I want the two of you to bring him in without delay. I’m dispatching both of you in case the man makes a fuss. As a matter of fact, better take an extra couple of constables to make sure we do the job right. Last thing in the world I need at the moment is to have to inform the mayor that we had Richard Wagner where we wanted him and bungled. Off you go then, and Godspeed.”
I made no move and, seeing this, the commissioner frowned. “Well, Preiss, I thought I made myself perfectly clear —”
“You did, sir. There’s only one problem —”
“Problem? Brunner’s done his homework very efficiently I would say. I see no problem.”
“The problem is this, sir: Richard Wagner did not murder Sandor Lantos. Richard Wagner could not possibly have murdered Sandor Lantos.”
“And what makes you so sure?” von Mannstein demanded, obviously displeased.
“It’s true that Wagner was furious with Lantos and made straight for Lantos’s studio to vent his rage,” I replied, “but he was at that point in the company of his manager, the impresario Mecklenberg, and it was the two of them who, upon arrival at the studio, discovered that Lantos had already been murdered. No, Commissioner, Richard Wagner is not our man.”
Chewing his lower lip, a habit whenever he was unhappy, the commissioner glared at me, then at Brunner. To Brunner he said, “You failed to mention that Wagner was accompanied by this fellow Mecklenberg when he fled the opera house, Brunner.” Without waiting for Brunner’s explanation von Mannstein returned to me, still glaring. “Then who the devil is our man, Preiss? Do we at least have a suspect?”
At moments like these I rely upon an unfailing rule of conduct: When in doubt, lie. Looking my superior straight in the eye, I answered, “I have no idea, sir.” The commissioner’s face turned into a hairy mask of disappointment, the bushy eyebrows seeming to merge with the oversized moustache, which in turn became one with his generous sideburns and beard. Seeing this sorry expression on his face, I was overcome with pity, if only for a second or two, and quickly added, “However, I did engage in a careful survey of the murder scene and am confident that before this day is out significant clues will emerge.”
Hardly had these words escaped my lips than I knew I’d made a serious mistake. Von Mannstein’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Clues? Such as?”
“Well, to be frank, Commissioner —” I paused, desperately trying to think up an answer that would satisfy the man. The news he most wanted to hear — that Wagner was somehow implicated in Lantos’s murder — was something I could not bring myself to fabricate, yes, even I who am not above shaping and reshaping truth now and then depending on circumstances. “To be frank, we find ourselves in a milieu far different from what one might call run-of-the-mill people, you know, citizens of a lower social order. We are dealing here with, shall we say, subtler forces.”
This brought another smirk to Brunner’s face. “With all due respect,” he said, directing his remark to the commissioner, his tone sarcastic, “that is nonsense. Criminals are criminals. I, for one, am not dazzled by these ‘subtler forces.’ There’s nothing subtle about murder.”
Ignoring Brunner’s comment, the commissioner said, “See here, Preiss, you seem to have had more than a little involvement over the years in Düsseldorf as well as in Munich with people of that ilk … I’m referring of course to these peculiar musical types with their temperaments and their idiosyncrasies. Of course, I myself have little or nothing to do with them; in fact, it’s a point of pride with me that I avoid their company as I avoid what you so aptly call citizens of a lower social order —”
I wanted to interject, “Except prostitutes,” but held my tongue.
“So here is my decision,” the commissioner continued. “I want a full report by tomorrow morning, first thing, concerning your findings at Lantos’s studio, following which you have until the first of next week … that gives you five full days from today … to put two and two together and arrest the perpetrator of this crime. I hope you’re a good navigator, Preiss, one who knows his way among the shoals and shallows of these so-called artists. It certainly sounds to me as though somebody in that strange crowd has to be the guilty one.”
“But, sir,” I began to protest, “five days —”
Von Mannstein’s hand directed me to halt. “Five days, Preiss. Not a minute longer. And remember, if there is anything — anything — even a mere grain of sand, which connects Richard Wagner to this ugly affair then I want him brought in as well. I’ll see to it that Brunner is free to work with you, of course.”
Franz Brunner gave me a dry smile. “Of course,” he chimed in. “I look forward to the experience, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sure you do, Brunner,” I said, returning an even drier smile. “After all, it’s not often that you get to come in contact with people who speak in words of more than one syllable.”
Observing that both Detective Franz Brunner and I were smiling at one another, Commissioner von Mannstein chuckled. “Nothing like a bit of humour between comrades, eh? Well, splendid! Now let us to our work.”
Chapter Ten
The supper party I had arranged to follow Helena Becker’s recital was meant to be a quiet intimate affair, and I thought I had made this perfectly clear to Ziggy Bolliger, the proprietor of Maison Espãna. I suppose I ought to have known better, given Bolliger’s fondness for ceremony. Meeting us as our carriages pulled up, Bolliger paraded us into the restaurant as though we were courtiers showing up for a grand ball. With measured steps he ushered us along a deliberately circuitous path to a table reserved at the very centre of the place, all the while smilingly acknowledging the attention of his patrons as if he himself were the arriving celebrity. At surrounding tables, diners who had attended the recital broke into genteel applause (the men more enthusiastic than the women in appreciation of Helena’s somewhat revealing gown) while I, as shameless now as Bolliger, basked in her limelight. Besides Helena, my party comprised Henryk Schramm, Karla Steilmann, and a fourth guest, the pianist Madam Olga Vronsky, whom Helena had brought from Düsseldorf as her accompanist, the same endlessly patient and suffering Madam Vronsky who some years earlier had valiantly struggled to teach me to play the piano and who, in her sweet-natured way, taught me that nothing cures vain ambition as effectively as a healthy dose of truth. (Nowadays I play for a critical audience of one — myself.) Earlier that evening both women had performed two Beethoven sonatas for cello and piano followed by Franz Schubert’s Arpeggiona, and the adoration that flowed upward from the audience to the stage when they took the last of many bows was almost palpable, not the least my own for, despite my aversion to public displays of affection, I found myself throwing kisses to both cellist and pianist as though I were some starry-eyed Romeo.
Of course Helena could not wait to call attention to my behavior even before the cork in the first bottle of Champagne was popped. Addressing my guests she said with a sly grin, “I trust everyone noted how our host abandoned his habitual reserve at the conclusion of the recital. If I’m not mistaken, I b
elieve I even heard a bravo or two coming from his direction.” Wagging a finger at me she said, “You must watch yourself, Hermann. That’s conduct unbecoming a police officer.”
Gruffly I replied, “Nonsense! You wouldn’t catch me shouting ‘Bravo’ in a hundred years. Far as I’m concerned there’s solid reliable military band music; all the rest is just so much whipped cream.”
“Liar,” Helena said, squeezing my hand.
“Which brings up an interesting subject,” Schramm said. “Speaking of police officers, tell us, Inspector, any word yet on Sandor Lantos’s killer? There are as many rumours flying around the streets as there are seats in the opera house, but of course you must be aware of that.”
I was not at all prepared for this sudden change of topic, yet not surprised that it was Schramm who brought up the subject. I had not at this point succeeded in identifying what there was about Schramm’s character that gave me the distinct feeling there was more to him than met the eye and ear. The plain fact, however, was that a tiny seed of unease had planted itself under my skin and was growing steadily with each exposure to the man. Better, therefore, to answer his query by falling back on standard police issue. “I hope you won’t think me rude,” I said, “but the investigation into Lantos’s murder is at a very delicate stage and I’m naturally bound to exercise absolute discretion.”
Schramm’s face took on a troubled look. “I hope you won’t think me rude, Inspector, but with all due respect I have to point out that poor Lantos may only be the first victim. What I mean is, there is no secret about the number of enemies Maestro Wagner has accumulated. Suppose someone, let’s say someone with a profound grudge, or perhaps some homicidal lunatic, has decided to wreak vengeance on Wagner by eliminating all of us one by one, starting with Lantos and eventually ending with the Maestro himself. Maybe this strikes you as farfetched but still —”
I leaned back in my chair smiling with what I hoped was an air of smug self-confidence. “My dear Schramm,” I said, “in my line of work nothing is ever farfetched. Nevertheless, one mustn’t let one’s imagination run away with itself. ‘Murder may pass unpunished for a time, but tardy justice will o’ertake the crime.’”
Karla Steilmann said, “I didn’t know you’re a poet, Inspector.”
“I’m not,” I said. “That was written by an English poet by the name of Dryden. I’m particularly fond of that little couplet, needless to say.”
“Let me offer another rhyme,” Schramm said. “‘Unless the crime is solved by winter’s freeze, the evil deed will fester like old cheese.’”
Madam Vronsky’s face suddenly brightened. “Wherever did you pick up that saying?” she asked Schramm. “I haven’t heard it since I was a child. My uncle Alexander Vronsky was a police official in St. Petersburg and used to quote it often, in Russian of course. But I must say your translation into German is impeccable, Herr Schramm.”
Quickly Schramm said, “It’s not my translation. I must have read it somewhere.”
“But have you been to Russia then?” Madam Vronsky wanted to know.
“I sang in Moscow … once,” Schramm replied.
“You must let me teach you how to say it in Russian. Somehow it sounds more authentic in my native tongue,” said Madam Vronsky.
“I’m sure it does,” Schramm said, giving her a gracious smile, “but perhaps another time when this stomach of mine is not rumbling with hunger.”
As Schramm said this, a waiter miraculously appeared and stationed himself next to me like a soldier reporting for duty. “You see,” I said to my guests, “this proves the wisdom of an old French saying: ‘Always choose a table near a waiter.’ Shall we order?”
I had made a point of seating Helena Becker next to Henryk Schramm hoping this would encourage more direct conversation between the two while I would try to preoccupy Karla Steilmann and Madam Vronsky. Throughout a course of appetizers followed by entrées my plan worked beautifully so that by the time the dessert cart arrived, Becker and Schramm appeared thoroughly engrossed in one another. For me then, the challenge was to keep one ear devoted to conversation with Steilmann and Vronsky while straining with the other ear to catch snippets of dialogue between the other two, no easy trick given that, as supper progressed, both Helena and her new tenor friend began lowering their voices until they were speaking almost in whispers. At first I found this annoying and frustrating, but on second thought I told myself this was probably for the best. After all, it was I who had enlisted Helena and cast her in this position, and if she were carrying out her mission a little more ardently than I required then at least the end would justify the means. Helena Becker was a shrewd judge of people, often more so than I; if her obvious enchantment with Schramm and his with her was the price I had to pay for the benefit of her impressions, well, so be it.
I was not the only person at the table annoyed and frustrated. Karla Steilmann, despite my efforts to keep her and Madam Vronsky engaged, from time to time shot glances across the table at Helena and Schramm that grew chillier as the meal went on, and I became increasingly aware that, in response to my questions to her, which were becoming longer and longer, her answers were becoming shorter and shorter to the point where a “yes” or “no” or curt nod of the head was all she managed.
The atmosphere turned more to my taste with the arrival of liqueurs, at which point Helena and Schramm became unlocked and joined the group for a toast, all of us raising our slender crystal glasses. As host I took it upon myself to offer the toast. “To the Fatherland,” I said, “and to German culture! May they continue to flourish!” After a first sip, I raised my glass high again. “A second toast, if I may,” I said with forced cheerfulness. “Here’s to a smashing success for the new opera … Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg … and to a long and productive life for its creator Richard Wagner!” Out of the corner of my eye I observed that Henryk Schramm was the only one whose response was less than enthusiastic. His lips had curled into a thin smile and when he set down his glass it was apparent that he’d barely tasted its dark amber contents. I had intended a third toast but before I could do so Schramm brought the supper party to an abrupt close. Glancing at his pocket watch — a splendid heavy gold timepiece with an ornately engraved cover — he announced, “I don’t know about you fine people, but I’ve been sentenced to a day of hard labour tomorrow at the Richard Wagner Center for Delinquent Tenors —”
Immediately Karla Steilmann chimed in, “Yes, I too have a punishing day of rehearsals ahead.” Pointedly she said to Schramm, “Henryk, it’s very late, I know, but I’m going to hold you to your promise to see me home.”
With a knowing smile Helena said, “You see, Herr Schramm, time waits for no woman.”
Schramm asked, “But what about you, Fräulein Becker?”
I jumped in. “Oh, don’t worry about Helena and Madam Vronsky, Schramm. They’re in police custody for the evening.”
I should have known this would bring out the mischievous side of dear Helena. “Now Hermann, aren’t you being a little presumptuous? I cannot remember the last time a handsome tenor was concerned about my welfare. God knows even if you don’t; the streets of Munich are not the safest places in the world at this hour of the night.”
“I’m sure you will be in good hands with Inspector Preiss,” Karla Steilmann assured Helena, rising at the same time from her seat and advancing firmly toward Schramm. “Come, Henryk, time to bid goodnight to these lovely people.”
Before departing, Henryk Schramm kissed the hands of both Helena and Madam Vronsky, murmuring to each of them “Be well.”
Later, back at the Eugénie Palace, after seeing to it that Madam Vronsky was comfortably settled in her room, I followed Helena to her suite where, once the door was closed behind us, without so much as a split second’s hesitation she said “He’s Jewish, you know.”
“Who? Who’s Jewish?”
“Don’t be cute, Hermann. Schramm. Who else would I be talking about?”
“Wha
t makes you so sure, Helena? Did he say so?”
“Of course not. Don’t ask me how I know. I know. Trust me, Hermann. Henryk Schramm is a Jew.”
Chapter Eleven
As Helena described them to me, the telltale signs that convinced her Henryk Schramm was Jewish were subtle. Producing a flask of brandy that was a routine part of her accoutrements whenever she was on tour, she filled two small glasses, offered one to me, took a sip from the other, and began: “He has a way of using his hands when he talks. Not animated, mind you, Hermann, but expressive. If he’s making a point he uses his index fingers, moving them from side to side as though he’s saying maybe yes, maybe no.” Helena seemed to be smiling to herself. “Rather charming, really, when I come to think of it.”
Dryly, I said, “I’m sure, Helena. What else?”
“Before he takes a first bite of a slice of bread he sprinkles a pinch of salt on it. It’s a habit of his; I noticed he did so several times.”
“Maybe he’s simply superstitious. I believe that particular habit is common among Eastern Europeans.”
Helena shook her head. “This man is not a superstitious type, Hermann. But he is a pessimist. So many of his views of things are stitched together by a dark thread of pessimism.”
“For instance?”
“He’s quite convinced that German culture will fall victim eventually to all the industrial activity that’s consuming our people, that we’ll become a nation of crass materialists. As for himself, he predicts that, as wonderful as Wagner’s new opera is, it will fail and that he, Schramm, will therefore suffer an early end to his career as a singer.”
“Pessimism is not the exclusive territory of Jews, Helena,” I said.
“Of course not,” she agreed, “but they seem to visit that territory more than most tourists, at least in my experience. One other thing, Hermann: did you observe something when he said goodbye to Olga and me?”
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 7
