The king’s birthday present to Wagner was a Bechstein piano with a full keyboard, but designed to sit on top of a desk. I guessed that two people could easily move the instrument from place to place. “The world’s first portable piano,” Wagner said, “and it is mine, Preiss, mine alone.” He said this quietly, as though King Ludwig and he were the inhabitants of some deeply secret and exclusive society of gods.
Our young monarch’s proclivities, despite the fact he had ascended the Bavarian throne only four years earlier, in 1864, were by now famous throughout Germany. Tall and lanky, with flashes of eccentric behavior that matched his extraordinary height, he had come in his short span of rulership to be known as the Mad King, understandable given that he was the descendent of the Wittelsbach family, a long line of royals whose chief contribution to German culture was to demonstrate down through the ages that even men and women wearing crowns and coronets could be utter fools. (One claimed to have swallowed a glass piano; another embarrassed the clan by loudly proclaiming abominable sins of the flesh before a crowded cathedral.) As for Ludwig himself, his sins of the flesh and other moral lapses were widely spoken of in whispers by his subjects, sometimes with envy but more often with disgust.
Ludwig’s one redeeming quality was his patronage of the arts in general, and the art of Richard Wagner in particular. Indeed, it was said he worshipped the composer first and second, and God third. He must have been blind to Wagner’s professed contempt for royalty, for Ludwig favoured the Maestro with a degree of largesse other musical geniuses could only dream about. Hence this latest gift.
“Can you imagine, Preiss, what this must have cost?” Wagner asked, shaking his head with awe. “Of course,” he went on, “poor Mozart would have forfeited something like this in payment of a gambling debt; poor Beethoven would have pounded on it without being able to hear a single note; and poor Schubert would have pawned it to buy food for a week. I must count my blessings, Preiss, mustn’t I?”
“Speaking of which, Maestro, I had the pleasure of Madam Wagner’s company over tea while you were occupied counting your blessings.”
“Ah, Inspector,” Wagner said, his smile almost beatific, “no man on this planet has ever loved a woman as much as I love Cosima. Of course, I would not expect you to fathom the depth of our love, Cosima’s and mine. After all, you are in a profession not noted for the poetry of love. Besides, I’m told you are a bachelor, so what could you know of such things, eh?”
Stifling the urge to strike his precious new Bechstein with my fist, I responded, with an evenness that surprised me, “True, policemen are not given to flights of poetry as a rule, but I do enjoy the odd nursery rhyme. As for bachelorhood, it does have its moral advantages, you know.”
Wagner looked dubious. “What moral advantages?”
“Well, take the matter of infidelity, for instance,” I said. “As a bachelor, one can be unfaithful without leaving the trail of damage and destruction that an adulterous spouse leaves. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Wagner frowned. “You’ll have to pardon me, Preiss, if I’m not in a mood to be agreeable. I have more important things on my mind at the moment.”
“Such as the unfortunate murders of your man Lantos and Wolfgang Grilling, you mean. Yes, of course, let us talk about that.”
“Let us not talk about that!” Wagner said with some vehemence. “Their deaths are now your business, Inspector Preiss. As for me, whole days have gone by since I received that threatening note, and I’ve heard nothing but a deafening silence from our wonderful police force.”
“Very well, let’s deal with the question of the threat made against you. Until he was found dead today, I considered your tenor — I’m referring to Grilling, not Schramm, of course — as a suspect. I know for a fact that he was extremely resentful that you chose Henryk Schramm over him for the lead role in your new opera. Actually that is a gross understatement, judging from his reaction at the audition, and later from the bitter complaints he made to Sandor Lantos.”
“I have nothing — absolutely nothing — to apologize for,” said Wagner, his sharp facial features made sharper by a tone of defiance in his voice. “Grilling as a singer was competent; as an operatic performer, however, the man had no presence, Preiss; no profile, no personality. He occupied the stage like a rug!”
“According to Lantos, Grilling’s anger was exacerbated by the designs you insisted upon for his costume and facial makeup. He said they made him look like a Jew.”
Wagner suddenly sat bolt upright and let out a raucous laugh. “He did, did he? Well now, Preiss, I didn’t think our late friend Grilling was so astute!” Just as suddenly Wagner’s expression turned serious. “Of course the costume and makeup would make him look like a Jew. That is exactly what I had in mind, don’t you see? The character of Beckmesser in Die Meistersinger represents the one poisonous element in German society today. The Jews, Preiss … the Jews! I take it you have not had the benefit of reading my article ‘Judaism in Music.’ It was published several years ago but it’s still highly regarded among people of culture, people who care about the future of our great race.”
I was aware of that particular tome but preferred for reasons of my own to confess otherwise, a confession that, as expected, brought a look of disbelief to Wagner’s face. “My God, Preiss, are you deaf and blind?” he shouted. “Our ‘friends’ the Jews are professional plaintiffs. They keep up a constant cry in public and in the courts about how the Christian world oppresses them, even while they manage to sweep the wealth of the nation into their private hiding places.”
“Maestro, I hate to argue with such a recognized authority on this subject,” I said, “but it’s common knowledge that Jewish bankers, especially the ones in Frankfurt, have helped to finance plans for German unity —”
“Yes, Preiss but with whose money? Ours, Preiss, ours … yours and mine!”
“And their contribution to the arts and culture —”
“I suppose you’re going to mention Felix Mendelssohn, eh? Spare me, Preiss. First of all, the Mendelssohn family didn’t even have the courage to adhere to their origins and faith, so they converted to Christianity to enhance their personal fortunes. Secondly, despite his conversion, Mendelssohn’s music reeks of Jewishness. Tunes to dance to, parlour ditties, a violin concerto that opens with a melody they chant in a synagogue!”
“Dare I mention Heinrich Heine then? No poet ever expressed his love for Germany as passionately as Heine.”
Wagner looked away in disgust. “Preiss, you are so naïve, so pitifully naïve. I suppose during your earlier days in Düsseldorf Heine’s poetry had an impact on people who didn’t know better. But face it, Heine was another one of those converts of convenience who never understood the true German spirit. Do you know what he wrote once about us? Listen to this, Preiss: Heine is visiting in Italy, comes across a parade of soldiers, and notices that their officers are issuing commands to them in German. In German, do you hear? So what does our famous Jewish poet conclude from this? That German is the natural language of commandment? No! Instead he writes that we Germans are so accustomed to being ordered about that our beloved tongue is nothing more than the language of obedience. Do you know what I say about your wonderful Heinrich Heine, Preiss? He’s been dead now a dozen years, and good riddance.”
This line of discussion was proving totally fruitless from my perspective. “Maestro, I’m not here to debate what’s good and what’s bad for our country. I was hoping you might provide me with some valuable insights … clues, if you will … to help me solve the murders of Grilling and Lantos.”
“And I was hoping you would arrive with news about the threat made against me. It seems, Preiss, we are both going to be disappointed today. In my case, I might add, bitterly disappointed.”
As he said these words, Wagner half rose from his place at his desk, signalling that as far as he was concerned the interview was ended. Firmly I said, “One moment, Maestro. We are not quite finished.” I made a gesture demanding tha
t he sit, which, to my surprise, he obeyed. (It occurred to me in that split second that sometimes a gesture in German was more effective than a verbal command.)
“You’re not here to announce that I’m a suspect, or something equally preposterous, Preiss?” Wagner asked this with a smirk, as though he were toying with me.
“I’m aware,” I replied, “that you were furious with Lantos, and openly contemptuous of Grilling, but no, Maestro, in my eyes you are not a suspect.”
“In your eyes?” Wagner looked at me suspiciously. “Are you saying that in somebody else’s eyes I am?”
I lied without hesitation. “Not at all, Maestro. In police work we learn to rule nothing out, of course, but I like to think that I avoid the preposterous. I do need to encroach upon your valuable time to ask some questions concerning the threatening note you received.”
With some enthusiasm now, Wagner nodded in agreement. “By all means, Preiss.”
Sitting back in my chair, my fingers forming a loose tent over my chest, I said, “Augusta Holmès, Judith Mendès … those names seem to crop up in certain social circles in the same breath as your own name.”
“For shame, Preiss! I thought you were a detective, not some idle snoop,” Wagner regarded me stiffly, aiming that sharp nose, those steely eyes, at me.
Maintaining my relaxed composure, I went on. “Fortunately, Maestro, philandering has not made its way into our criminal code, at least not yet; otherwise many of us might be occupying prison cells.”
The Maestro’s lips formed a tight clamp.
I leaned forward. “The cliché about the wrath of a scorned woman … you’ve had enough experience in your time to become thoroughly acquainted with that particular phenomenon, haven’t you?”
“Minor dalliances, that’s all they were, Preiss. Here today, gone tomorrow,” Wagner said. “Yesterday’s laundry. Nothing more.”
“And Madam Cosima, was she content with that explanation?”
“Our love, Preiss, is unshakeable.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” I said, and added, “I assume your response would be the same in connection with another woman —”
“What other woman? There is no other woman, Preiss.”
“I’m referring to one Cornelia Vanderhoute,” I said quietly, studying Wagner’s face for the slightest sign of recognition. None appeared. His expression became blank, and he shrugged as though the woman’s name meant nothing to him. Softly I asked, not taking my eyes from him, “Are you quite sure, Maestro?” Slowly I repeated the name: Cor-ne-lia Van der —”
Before I could finish Wagner snapped: “I’m not an idiot, Preiss. I heard you the first time. Come to think of it, yes, the name’s vaguely familiar. From Amsterdam or Rotterdam, some place like that in Holland. Soprano. Not solo material, but good enough to sing in the chorus. Last worked here in a production of The Flying Dutchman. I believe she chose to return to her homeland for some reason or other.” Wagner paused, and I had the feeling now that he was studying my face to determine whether or not his off-hand reply satisfied my curiosity. “In any event, Preiss,” he said, with another devil-may-care shrug, “I’ve lost track of her.”
“Well, Maestro,” I said, “it seems the lady has not lost track of you.”
A blank look returned to Wagner’s face. “Oh? That’s strange. I don’t recall receiving any communication from her. I must ask Mecklenberg. Perhaps she wishes to become engaged here in Munich again and has been in touch with him.”
“I doubt that is the case,” I said. “You see, the reason this young woman ‘chose’ — as you put it — to return to Holland was that she was pregnant.”
“Really? Well now, Preiss, that’s not unusual is it?” Wagner said. “Women have been known to become pregnant, you know.”
“Indeed they have,” I agreed, “but not all of them claim that you, sir, are the father, do they?”
Another surprise: Wagner leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and smiled. “My dear Inspector,” he said with remarkable serenity, “if I had a thaler for every woman who has made such a claim against me, I would at this moment be ensconced in a proverbial castle in Spain surrounded by Moorish slaves feeding me grapes and pomegranates, instead of sitting here in Munich being a slave myself … a slave to music, that is.”
I said, “Fräulein Vanderhoute, with all due respect Maestro, is not your run-of-the-mill claimant. She alleges that she confronted you and that you cruelly rebuffed her, although you did, according to her, offer to put her in touch with an abortionist … which, of course, is against the law.”
Maintaining coolness under fire, Wagner calmly said, “Utter rubbish, Preiss. Wherever did you stumble across such a trash pile?”
“It may not surprise you that a rather thick dossier exists at the Constabulary containing records of your activities which extend far back, in fact long before I arrived to take a post here in Munich. The item concerning your relationship with this Vanderhoute woman found its way into that dossier. She had consulted an officer in our department with a view to bringing charges against you. I assume, however, that the resulting scandal would have tarnished her own reputation and she decided — or was persuaded — not to proceed. The matter was duly recorded, but the record itself was buried deep in the official file as though someone in the department for some peculiar reason hoped it would be overlooked.”
With a touch of sarcasm Wagner said, “But you, naturally, went out of your way to unearth it, I suppose.”
“Let’s just say I was meandering through the dossier on a dull evening when I had nothing better to do. Tell me, Maestro, would you by some miracle possess a sketch, or better still a photograph, of this woman?”
Wagner thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe —” he said slowly, “but why do you ask? Do you seriously think the threatening note … no, Preiss, Cornelia would never be capable of such an act. The only thing is —”
Wagner abruptly silenced himself.
“Yes, the only thing? Please Maestro Wagner, I need you to be absolutely open about this.”
“The only thing she did … later, after the initial confrontation … she met with me and demanded money. ‘Pay up,’ she said, or she would inform everyone in Europe that she and I … well, I needn’t go into details. Without admitting anything, simply to be rid of her, I offered her a sum of money. No trifling amount, I tell you, Preiss. She said it was not enough. I offered a bit more. Still insufficient. I refused a further increase, told her to go to hell. She cursed me and swore vengeance. But I’d been through this kind of experience before, and when she stormed out of that second meeting I put the whole ugly business out of my mind. As far as I was concerned Cornelia Vanderhoute was nothing but a blackmailer … and not a very good one at that.”
“And these confrontations took place where?”
“At an out-of-the-way tavern, the kind of establishment people like you and me seldom if ever frequent, Preiss.”
“The picture … may I see it?”
With a weary sigh, Wagner rose and bade me follow him across the room to a wall covered almost from floor to ceiling with framed drawings and photographs of himself, some alone, others in company with persons I took to be associated with him in his musical enterprises and productions. “Look here, Preiss,” he said, directing my attention to a large photograph of what appeared to be the entire cast of an opera, all in costume. “This was taken the closing night of The Flying Dutchman. The young woman in the front row —” Wagner pointed her out with his finger “— is Cornelia Vanderhoute.”
I peered closely at the subject, so closely in fact that my nose almost touched the glass. Wagner said, as though he were appraising a prize farm animal at an auction, “She’s certainly well-endowed, isn’t she?”
I looked closely again. “I didn’t know you were given to understatement,” I said. “Speaking of blessings, I would say she’s doubly blessed.”
“Well, Inspector, there have been no repercussions si
nce she departed for Holland. If I were you, sir, I would waste no further time and effort in this regard. And now, Inspector Preiss, you must excuse me. I have Schramm and Fräulein Steilmann due here any moment for what will doubtless be an intense session.”
As though on cue, the door to Wagner’s study opened and Cosima announced, “Richard, Herr Schramm —”
“Ah, Schramm, right on time,” Wagner responded, his approving manner reminding me of a stern schoolmaster. “But where is Steilmann? I thought you would be coming together as usual.”
“Maestro, she apparently preferred to come on her own today,” Schramm said. I thought he looked a bit embarrassed, but then I remembered that Schramm’s instant rapport with Helena Becker at our dinner party the other night had not sat well with Karla Steilmann. Possibly a lovers’ tiff had ensued as a result of Schramm’s attentions to Helena. No matter, I thought. As far as I was concerned, Helena had done her work well on that occasion. Besides, my beloved cellist was now safely out of range, having returned to Düsseldorf, thus avoiding further entanglement with Schramm and, I was certain, staunching the flow of Steilmann’s resentment.
Frowning, Wagner said, “Ach, these sopranos are all alike. Temperamental, arrogant, conceited. I should have written the part for a contralto. Next time I’ll know better.”
Turning to me, Schramm said, “Inspector Preiss, how nice to see you! Thank you once again for a splendid evening. Your friend Bolliger … I must say I’ve never seen a restaurateur strive so hard to please a patron. What did you do, Inspector, to merit such service? Save him from the hangman’s noose or a firing squad?”
“Nothing quite so dramatic,” I replied. “I simply saved him from his own base instincts.”
“How so?”
“When I first encountered Ziggy Bolliger some years ago he was an excellent chef. Alas, he also had a penchant for stealing expensive ingredients … you know, items like rare truffles, Beluga caviar, and such. One of his victims, an importer of such foodstuffs, came after him with a pistol. I happened to come on the scene, persuaded the would-be assailant to put down his gun, convinced Ziggy to mend his ways, and the rest is culinary history, Schramm.”
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 10
