“A whore’s conscience —?”
“Do me the honour, sir, of not interrupting! The plain fact, Preiss, is that our fair city of Munich, which should be known as Germany’s centre of culture, is fast becoming known as Germany’s centre of homicide! Tell me, Inspector: you have some knowledge of the ways of people in the arts; it has always been my impression that they die in more dramatic circumstances … you know … pistols at ten paces at dawn in some pasture, swordfights, maybe poisonings with strange potions concocted by hags and witches. But what have we here, eh? Two men and one woman, all slain with a piercing instrument aimed at the throat. Damned unfashionable, don’t you think?”
“With all due respect, Commissioner,” I replied, striving to be appropriately grave, “I have never come across a fashionable murder. As for people in the arts perishing dramatically, I’m afraid that is confined to people in the literary arts: novelists, poets, historians of questionable honesty, biographers who wallow in the sludge of scandal.”
“You mean musicians are above that kind of thing, Preiss?”
“Above murder? No, not at all, sir. But their means are usually more subtle. They kill one another with sound. One man’s music is another man’s poison, so to speak.”
“Then there’s hope, after all,” the commissioner said. “I’ve only heard one piece of music written by Wagner — thank God! — but surely there exists another composer who will come along and, as you say, Preiss, rid Germany of this villain. In the meantime, back to your report. It’s rather sketchy.”
“Fräulein Steilmann’s murder was only brought to my attention late yesterday. I have not had time to complete even a cursory investigation. But I assure you that her apartment has been sealed and is guarded, and I expect to return there within the hour to conduct a thorough examination of everything in the place.”
“Who discovered her?”
“A fellow artist. A tenor by the name of Henryk Schramm. She and Schramm were scheduled to attend a rehearsal session at Wagner’s residence last evening. They are … perhaps I should say were … preparing for their leading roles in Maestro Wagner’s new opera due to open in June. Schramm showed up for the session, but Fräulein Steilmann failed to appear. Singers are often rather fragile and unpredictable … you know, sir, so much depends upon their physical state —”
This brought an unexpected chuckle from Commissioner von Mannstein. “So there’s truth after all to the old wives’ tale, eh, Preiss?”
“Which old wives’ tale?”
“That opera singers never engage in sexual activity on the night before a performance. Supposed to be bad for their voices, makes them coarse, or some such nonsense.”
For the first time since I’d joined the Munich Constabulary, I heard the commissioner giggle. Quickly he excused himself. “Sorry, Preiss, but I do have trouble taking these people as seriously as they take themselves. Please carry on.”
“The rehearsal, much to Wagner’s annoyance, had to be cancelled, and Schramm immediately went round to Fräulein Steilmann’s lodgings.”
“Why? Were the three of them romantically involved?” The commissioner cocked one eye, a familiar expression of his whenever he was suspicious. “This fellow Schramm, what about him? Were he and Wagner in some sort of tangle over this woman, is that it? Not tangle; triangle is more like it.”
“No, sir, nothing that simple.”
“Damn, Preiss! I was hoping it was that simple. Go on, then.”
“According to Schramm, he arrived at Steilmann’s apartment, which is on the ground floor of a building not far from the opera house. He knocked. There was no answer. He tried the door, found it was unlocked, entered, and found the young woman lying in a pool of blood, much of which seemed to have come from the area of her throat. A long hatpin had been left beside her body.”
“A hatpin? A hatpin? What kind of man uses a hatpin as a murder weapon?”
“A man posing as a woman,” I replied. “Or a woman, for that matter. More likely the latter, sir.”
“I don’t agree, Preiss,” von Mannstein said, full of self-confidence. “Women are biters and scratchers, not murderers. You’re a bachelor, of course, so I’m not surprised that you’re unaware of that fact.”
Where had I heard this insight expressed before? Ah yes, from Detective Franz Brunner no less. The wisdom of idiots, I told myself. But this was not the moment to challenge a higher authority. “I will certainly bear in mind your thoughts on the matter,” I said.
“Not thoughts, Preiss,” the commissioner corrected. “Accept the advice of someone who’s had years of experience not only in the field of crime per se but in a more general field of crime known as women. Whoever wrote the story of the Garden of Eden got his facts wrong. It was Eve who was the serpent, Preiss. Still, women are not killers by nature, only tormentors. Carry on.”
“The fact that Steilmann’s door was unlocked and her rooms appeared undisturbed suggests that her assailant was invited to enter rather than making a forced entry. Perhaps the assailant was even known to the victim, but this remains to be seen.”
“But what about this fellow Schramm? Isn’t he a possible suspect? Come to think of it, Preiss, what about Wagner himself?”
The expression on the commissioner’s face was so hopeful I hated to dampen it. “I never rule anyone out, Commissioner, when it comes to murder. So I will certainly pursue every possibility and probability. But I have to say that on any list of suspects, Schramm and Wagner — at least for the time being — would be at the very bottom.”
Impatiently von Mannstein demanded, “Then who the devil is at the very top?”
I paused. Tell the truth, Preiss, commit yourself, and then if it turns out you’re wrong, your career will never recover. Better to lie, be vague, suffer the commissioner’s wrath, but at least leave a door open for yourself.
“To be honest about it, sir,” I said slowly, “I have not yet come to any conclusion about a prime suspect.”
“Not even a hint?”
“No sir, not even a hint.”
“Outrageous! Intolerable! Unacceptable!” von Mannstein repeated.
I held my tongue, expecting “dastardly, despicable, deplorable” to follow in quick succession. Instead, Commissioner von Mannstein called out to me as though he were God speaking to Noah moments before The Flood: “Preiss, our very civilization here in Munich is threatened. I want the perpetrator of these crimes in our hands before a fourth victim turns up. Until this ugly business is done, I expect that you will neither sleep nor slumber. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
The only thing perfectly clear — much to my amazement — was that Commissioner von Mannstein apparently had once read something by William Shakespeare!
Stifling an urge to congratulate him, I replied, “Perfectly clear, sir,” amazed at how obedient I sounded.
Chapter Nineteen
In the immediate aftermath of Karla Steilmann’s gruesome demise, a lighthearted evening spent as Henryk Schramm’s guest over dinner at Ziggy Bolliger’s was understandably out of the question. Instead, Schramm proposed a simple repast at his lodgings where we would share a fresh baguette, a wedge of Roquefort, fruit, and a red wine bottled at some château in France I’d never heard of, all of which Schramm had picked up at the only French pâtisserie in Munich, located conveniently steps from his living quarters.
Perceiving that I partook of only modest amounts of the food and wine, Schramm said, “Forgive me, Inspector. I see that you are not an enthusiast when it comes to the products of France.”
“No need to apologize, Schramm,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I happen to be a product of France … or so I’ve been led to believe.” Schramm looked puzzled. “You see,” I said, “some years ago when Napoleon’s army invaded our part of the country, a number of French soldiers went on a rampage in my home town, Zwicken, raping and pillaging. My mother was one of their victims, and my father was convinced that I was the result … the ‘outcome’ as he
called me. I bear not the slightest resemblance to my father, which made him all the more certain that his seed was preoccupied elsewhere at the moment of my conception.”
“That must have been quite a burden throughout your childhood.”
“On the contrary, Schramm. The only burden throughout my childhood was my father.”
“Still, he was the head of the household?” Schramm said.
“We — that is, my mother, sister, and I — preferred to think of him as the tail of the household. The happiest day of my life was the day I said goodbye to him. That was the day I left Zwicken to attend the police academy in Hamburg. Never saw the old man again. With a little luck, perhaps I’ll manage to avoid him some day in heaven or hell.”
“Well, at least now I don’t feel guilty about your lack of appetite. Besides, with three murders —”
I did not wait for Schramm to finish his thought. “It’s not the three murders that are weighing heavily at this precise moment, Schramm.”
Topping up my wine glass, then his own, Schramm asked, “Oh? And what is, then? I would have thought that, as Chief Inspector, you would find yourself under enormous pressure to solve these cases, especially with all the criticism in today’s press about police efficiency.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “Press criticism? Schramm, the one good thing about being a policeman is that after a hard night’s work you don’t have to wake up to next morning’s reviews in the newspapers.”
“Is that the reason you didn’t become a singer, Inspector?”
“It’s the second reason. The first is that I didn’t have a voice to speak of. No, Schramm what’s troubling me chiefly at the moment is — of all people — you.”
Carefully, Schramm put down his wine glass. His mouth and eyes collaborated to form a quizzical but cautious smile. For a second or two he remained silent, like someone deciding whether to advance into or retreat from the topic. Then, that smile still present, he said, “Me? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Ah, Schramm, that makes two of us. I’m afraid I don’t understand either, and there’s nothing I detest more than finding myself in a state of uncertainty like this. But since you’re my host, and a gracious one at that, I feel that I owe you the courtesy of frankness, even though what I’m about to disclose is not unlike venturing into an uncharted swamp.”
Schramm’s eyebrows shot up but he still appeared amused. “An uncharted swamp! My goodness, Inspector, even in moments when I was being an incorrigible child my mother never referred to me as an uncharted swamp!”
I sat back, twirling the ruby contents of my wine glass with seeming idleness, but not taking my eyes from Schramm’s. If he had any inkling of what I was about to dredge up — and I was now sure he did — then the young man meeting my gaze with a look of such complete self-assurance, even a flicker of mirth, without a shred of doubt had to be someone very much other than “Henryk Schramm.” For a second or two I was tempted to come right out and tell him this. Then I thought: No, a frontal assault may not work with this fellow Schramm, or whoever he is. Better to attack from what may turn out to be a vulnerable flank and reduce the odds of a blunt denial or counter-attack.
Setting down my glass, I withdrew from an inner pocket of my jacket my notebook, its black leather covers faded into a shade resembling gunmetal, reflecting months of hard use and very soon needing to be replaced. Schramm did not fail to notice the notebook’s condition. Still maintaining that look of amusement, he said, “Ah, the little black book! I’ve heard about that phenomenon in the work of policing but I’ve actually never seen one. So it does exist after all! Oh, if only the pages could speak, eh!”
“The pages needn’t speak, Schramm,” I said smiling back. “I speak for them.” Then, from the centre of the notebook I extracted two fragments of an envelope and laid them on the table before Schramm with great care, as though they were precious jewels being offered for sale. “Do you recognize these, Schramm?” I asked.
Schramm responded slowly, his smile gone now. “No … no, not at all.”
“Would you care to examine them more closely then?” I nodded, encouraging him to pick up the two items, which he did, taking his time, turning the pieces this way and that, bringing them close to his eyes, holding them at a distance, examining the reverse sides.
“I have a magnifying glass —” I offered.
“Thank you, no. I’m gifted with keen sight.”
“Splendid. Then you must indeed recognize that these are two parts of an envelope that contained a letter mailed to you from Russia … from the City of Minsk to be precise. Am I correct, Schramm?”
I held my breath, waiting for … waiting for what? A blunt denial? A startling admission? Or something in between, say, some form of obfuscation?
Schramm’s smile returned, filled every bit with self-assurance as before. With almost a lilt in his voice he asked, “Is this your roundabout way of accusing me of some crime or other, Inspector Preiss?”
“I’m going to copy your custom, Schramm,” I said, “by answering your question with a question.”
“Ask away, by all means, Inspector.”
“What is your connection with the City of Minsk? Have you lived there? Or are you related to people who live there? Perhaps you’ve performed there? Or is it possible that some part of your vocal training took place in that city?”
Schramm laughed good-naturedly. “Now hold on, Inspector! Those were five questions; I counted them. That’s hardly fair.”
“Schramm, my friend, one does not achieve the office of Chief Inspector because of a reputation for fairness. Please believe me, there’s not so much as a milligram of fairness in all the blood that courses though my veins.” I made this revelation about myself not with sharpness but rather in a tone of geniality, wanting to keep the atmosphere between us free of hostility. I followed this quickly with “You can also believe, Schramm, that I am not accusing you of any crime —”
“At least, not yet? Is that what you mean?”
“Let us return to the matter of the envelope, shall we?”
“Now that was not a question, was it? Very well, Inspector, back to the envelope. Yes, putting the two portions together, it is clearly addressed to me, and it is clearly from Minsk. Fairness or no fairness, I’m entitled to know how you came to be in possession of these. But first, another drop or two?”
I took up my wine glass, and extended it to my host. “In vino veritas, eh?”
Chapter Twenty
Late that evening, following what Schramm jokingly referred to as “our petite picnic,” I returned to my apartment thoroughly disgusted with myself. In part I blamed the menu my host served. I have long associated wine and cheese with the decline and fall of the French empire, the sort of dainty cuisine effete noblemen and their powdered courtesans thought of longingly en route to the guillotine. My own appetite demanded heartier fare … well-garlicked sausage, potatoes, pickled cabbage, washed down with a reliable Munich lager, sustenance that fortifies warm-blooded Germans to defend hearth and home with sword and shield. Not wanting to insult Schramm, I bravely sampled the food, but only a nibble of this, a nibble of that, leaving my stomach largely hollow.
In part I blamed myself. I had every intention, when I presented the envelope fragments for Schramm’s inspection, and after he acknowledged that the envelope was indeed addressed to him, to pursue burning questions concerning his identity and background. I hoped, of course, that faced with the evidence I’d laid before him, he would voluntarily open the vault in which, I was certain, he had locked away his true self … Very well Inspector, the truth about myself is … Instead, Schramm, very deftly I must say, turned the tables, and before I could drain what I vaguely recall as my third glass of wine, I found myself in the uncomfortable role of a suspect, Schramm playing the role of persistent grand inquisitor, pressing me to explain how and where I came upon the pieces of the envelope, while I, cursing myself inwardly for having over-imbibed on an empty sto
mach, managed to remain just sober enough to insist that this was highly classified police information.
The result was a stand-off. Schramm told me virtually nothing. I told Schramm virtually nothing. In the end, the truth — or rather a number of truths — lay hidden still, to be probed some other time.
Depressed over what I saw as failure largely of my own making, I was about to seek comfort in a bottle of brandy when my eyes caught an envelope the concierge must have slipped under my door and which I’d overlooked when entering. And a welcome sight it was, for the handwriting was that of Helena Becker. Even more welcome was the familiar scent that greeted my nostrils when I held the paper to my nose, a perfumed reminder of the times our faces touched, Helena’s hair loosened and spread across my eyes like a blindfold, our fingers exploring each other’s lips as though, sightless, we were discovering them for the first time.
More welcome still was the news her letter contained.
Hermann dearest:
As luck would have it, I shall be returning to Munich this coming Friday. The Bavarian Quartet has scheduled a performance of Schubert’s “Two Cellos” Quintet as part of its Sunday afternoon program and it turns out that the cellist engaged to play the second cello part has had to cancel due to problems with her pregnancy. (I cannot imagine how one could possibly play such an instrument on a full stomach, Hermann. Can you?)
Knowing that I’m familiar with this music, they have summoned me to fill in. It’s a magnificent piece, Hermann, one of Schubert’s finest! I don’t care, my dear, if you are investigating the mass murder of thousands of Munich’s good citizens, I’ve reserved a front-row seat for you and expect you to lead the cheering.
And after the concert, Hermann, if you play your cards right, well, you may find yourself holding a winning hand … mine! (Perhaps there’ll be an encore or two as well!)
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 12
