“Saw what —?”
“A letter. Just a single page. Written in Yiddish.”
“Yiddish? How could you tell, Helena?”
“Yiddish was my parents’ first language. Mine too, until my mother decided it wasn’t fashionable. Don’t look so surprised, Hermann. Chayla Bekarsky may be Helena Becker today, but she still remembers how to speak and read Yiddish. There was not time to read the entire letter but it began ‘My dear Hershel’ and ended ‘Your loving mother.’ The handwriting was beautiful, as though the writer might have been an expert at calligraphy. And the stationery looked quite elegant, even though there were numerous rips and creases, as though it had been stuffed away, perhaps in somebody’s pocket. Oh yes, one other thing, Hermann: the writer’s name was embossed in Hebrew letters at the top of the page, which is a bit unusual. The name was Professor Miriam Socransky.”
“Socransky? Are you certain it was Socransky?”
“You look as though it has a familiar ring, Hermann.”
I repeated the name several times. Then it came to me, Madam Vronsky’s tale about the concertmaster of the St. Petersburg orchestra whom Richard Wagner had dismissed and who, in despair, had committed suicide.
Helena leaned across the small table and looked searchingly into my eyes. “Hermann Preiss,” she said, “whenever your face takes on that faraway expression it tells me that I’m no longer in the same room with you, that I’ve ceased to exist, gone up in smoke. I might as well leave —”
She drew a shawl snugly about her shoulders, and made as if to rise from her chair. Quickly I reached out and held her in place. “Helena, don’t leave. Hear me out. Our ‘friend’ Schramm … I wondered who he was, and what he was up to. Now I know!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"The officer who delivered your summons said it concerned a matter of extreme urgency. I don’t understand, Inspector Preiss. Am I a suspect?”
The man asking this question had just been escorted to the Constabulary by one of my officers. Visibly nervous, he glanced around the small room as though searching for some means of escape, a perfectly understandable reaction given the uninviting interior of the Constabulary and the likelihood that it was his first ever visit to this, or any, police establishment.
I moved quickly to put him at ease. “No, sir, you are not a suspect, not at all. Indeed, Sandor Lantos —”
“You mean the late Sandor Lantos —”
“Yes, of course … described you as a gentle and decent man. We were speaking, he and I, of an incident involving Wolfgang Grilling —”
“Regrettably, the late Wolfgang Grilling —”
“Alas, yes. For the record, sir, your full name is Friedrich Otto —”
“Friedrich Karl Heinz von Zwillings Otto, to be precise. I am a professional manager of musical artists. But I assume you already know this. I was Wolfgang Grilling’s manager, which you must also know. But I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about how those two came to be murder victims.”
By now Otto was sitting on the edge of his chair, his hands gripping the brim of his hat, almost crushing it.
A dossier lay open before me. I took several moments to review one document in particular, then looked up at Otto. “I see that you were also the manager of Karla Steilmann … the late —”
“Please, Inspector Preiss, what is this all about? Why am I here?”
“I will be candid with you, Herr Otto,” I said. “You are here because of a game of darts. I see that you are not amused, and I apologize if my answer sounded flippant. But the truth is that there are times — many times, in fact — when a detective stumbles across a sense of direction in a baffling case in much the same manner as one throws darts at a dartboard. Hear me out: Let’s say Maestro Wagner is at the centre, the bull’s eye so to speak. Here and there, in the surrounding area, are numerous names that spring to mind: Grilling, Lantos, Steilmann, Mecklenberg, von Bülow, Liszt, an eccentric French hornist by the name of Rotfogel, a soprano by the name of Vanderhoute. And then, Herr Otto, your name shows up and my mental dart lands on it … and here you are!”
“You forgot to mention another name,” Otto said.
“Did I? How careless of me.” I pretended to be impatient with myself, hoping at the same time that the name he seemed about to supply was the one I had deliberately omitted to mention. “And that name would be —?”
“Henryk Schramm.”
“You’re referring to the fellow who won the leading role in Wagner’s new opera … the role your man Grilling coveted?”
Suddenly Friedrich Otto’s demeanor changed. He relaxed his grip on the brim of his hat. The furrows on his brow disappeared. I detected a cautious smile. “You put this to me in the form of a question, Inspector, but it’s obvious to me that you already know the facts. Yes, Grilling lost the role. Yes he was jealous, upset, not merely upset but enraged. And with good reason. After all, Inspector, this Schramm … or whatever his name is —”
“Whatever his name is? Pardon me for interrupting you, Herr Otto, but are you suggesting Henryk Schramm is not Henryk Schramm?”
“Suggesting? No, sir, not suggesting. Informing is what I’m doing.”
“Informing? Informing to a policeman means information, not just rumour or supposition but concrete evidence. Your reputation as a decent man precedes you, Herr Otto; a man like you would not capriciously float some idle gossip about Schramm merely because of Grilling’s resentment or your own pique. What makes you so certain that you are right about Henryk Schramm?”
“Let’s just say, Inspector, that many years of experience managing these artists has brought me in contact with just about every kind of personality conceivable. In my field one does not play dart games. One deals intimately with every range of ability from talent to genius; with every range of aspiration from naïvety and blind faith to ruthless ambition.” Otto pointed a finger sharply at his forehead. “I have all the ‘concrete evidence’ right here, you see.”
“And nothing else?”
Otto looked at me cautiously. “I don’t know what you’re alluding to,” he said.
I turned a page of the dossier and removed the two fragments of the envelope addressed to Schramm. I explained how and where I had found them and how I had concluded that they were addressed to Schramm from a correspondent in Minsk. “Do you not find it curious, to say the least, Herr Otto, that one fragment was located in Grilling’s apartment, the other in Karla Steilmann’s? Let’s get back to suggestion, shall we. I suggest that somehow a letter was — I was going to say purloined, but ‘purloined’ sounds too genteel. The letter was stolen … stolen by someone who harbored a deep grievance against this man Schramm. Or perhaps by someone in the employ of someone with a deep grievance. All of which points to two people: Wolfgang Grilling, and his manager Friedrich Karl Heinz von Zwillings Otto.” I paused, expecting Otto to react with a vehement protest of innocence, the predictable show we policemen find so terribly tiresome.
Instead, Friedrich Karl Heinz von Zwillings Otto caught me completely off-guard. “You know, I trust,” he said, “that he’s a Jew. His real name is Hershel Socransky, your man Henryk Schramm.” Otto’s pronunciation of “your man Henryk Schramm” — the tone slightly sneering, the look on Otto’s face one of certainty, even of superiority — left me feeling as though it was I, and not Otto, who was on the defensive; as though, whatever the cause, carelessness or stupidity or dereliction of duty, I was guilty of shielding not only a scoundrel, but a Jewish scoundrel!
Egged on by the sustained expression on Otto’s face — an expression of self-satisfaction, of a point scored — and wanting to regain the offensive even if it meant being reckless, I said, “Whether Schramm is or is not Jewish is not the issue. Let me tell you what I now believe really happened, Herr Otto. What really happened is this: Wolfgang Grilling was furious on three counts: first, the loss of the role he thought he deserved; second, losing to a stranger whose origin and operatic background were a total blank; an
d third, facing the prospect of performing in Wagner’s new opera in makeup and costume he despised. Determined to uncover the mystery of Henryk Schramm’s background, he went to Schramm’s lodgings, spied a letter addressed to Schramm on the concierge’s desk, and made off with it. He showed the letter to you. He, or perhaps you, had it translated at least to the extent that it became apparent Schramm’s name is Socransky.”
“Ridiculous! Your imagination has run away with you, Preiss!” Otto scoffed.
“I’m not finished, Herr Otto. There’s much more to the story. Armed with what he regarded as damning evidence against Schramm, Grilling immediately dashed to Karla Steilmann, expecting to enlist her as an ally, the plan being that the two of them would present the letter to Wagner. And that would put a speedy end to the career of Hershel Socransky alias Henryk Schramm, Jewish tenor from Minsk. Karla retained the letter, perhaps on the pretext of wanting to study it further, but the fact is that Fräulein Steilmann was very much taken with Schramm. Indeed, Herr Otto, you saw the man, you heard him sing. What female wouldn’t be attracted to him?”
Again Otto interrupted. “Really, Inspector, one moment you speak of hard evidence, the next moment you throw imaginary darts at imaginary targets. As a citizen I would hate to think that this is how law enforcement is conducted in a civilized city like Munich. Perhaps in some rural backwater —”
“In a civilized city like Munich people do not steal private mail in order to sully someone’s reputation —”
“Damn it, Preiss, the man’s a Jew!” Otto shot back. “What’s a Jew doing in an opera by Richard Wagner? Steilmann was wrong, I tell you. She flatly refused —”
“Flatly refused what?”
“To co-operate. The woman was a fool. She took the letter to Socransky. I suppose she did so because she was in love with him, or thought she was. With his true identity exposed, what would you expect the man to do? It’s obvious, isn’t it? Socransky confronted Grilling, then killed him. Then, in an act of betrayal, he did away with Karla Steilmann. That would account for those torn bits of the envelope. As for the letter itself, God knows where it’s ended up. Probably Schramm burned it or tore it to pieces and tossed them down a sewer. What motivated him to murder poor Sandor Lantos is beyond my understanding, Preiss. You’ll probably have to throw your precious darts into the air once again and pray that you hit upon the answer. Now then, I trust I am free to leave.” Without awaiting my response, Otto stood and put on his hat.
“For the moment,” I said, “you are free to leave. I must tell you, however, that you remain subject to further investigation, Herr Otto, as an accomplice.”
“An accomplice! To what crime?”
“Theft of private property. I’m referring to the letter, of course. By your own admission, Herr Otto, you participated to some degree in that rather shoddy business.”
“And this … this is how you demonstrate your gratitude? This is my reward for helping you find your way through this maze? It’s this fellow Socransky you should be subjecting to further investigation. He’s your culprit. Who knows what further disasters he’s out to create!”
Seizing his coat, Otto threw it roughly over his arm, as though the garment somehow were as guilty of offending him as I was. Barely in control of his anger, he said, “It’s the Socranskys of this world who pollute the divine, Preiss … the divine, do you hear? Opera, sir, is purity. An opera is proof that God exists!”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But the more I see of it, the more I’m persuaded that the stage manager is the Devil. Good day, Herr Otto.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"What news, Brunner?”
“Some good, some bad,” Detective Franz Brunner replied. “Which do you want first?”
The session with Friedrich Otto had left me morose. I had wanted so much to believe that whoever Hershel Socransky was, acts of violence couldn’t possibly be committed by a man possessing such copious gifts of talent and charm. Nevertheless I said to Brunner, “The bad first.”
“Very well, then,” Brunner said. “A few minutes ago I was spotted by Commissioner von Mannstein on his way to a meeting with Mayor von Braunschweig. Pulling me aside, he demanded to know what progress has been made with regard to what he terms ‘the case against Wagner.’ I suggested that the proper protocol was for an up-to-date report to come from the officer in charge, namely yourself, Preiss. ‘To hell with protocol!’ the commissioner shouted in my ear, practically splitting my eardrum. The commissioner was not happy when I told him that we are still gathering evidence, that nothing at this precise moment is conclusive. ‘Inform Chief Inspector Preiss that I want a full report by this hour tomorrow … and it had better be one that I can proudly present to the mayor!’”
“What about the good?”
Brunner removed from his coat and placed on my desk a small black velvet box. “Take a look inside, Preiss,” he said.
I opened the box. “Well well, where have I seen these before, eh?” I turned the box upside down. Out fell a pair of cufflinks, the stones black opals. “Rotfogel’s cufflinks. Pawned, I suppose.” Brunner nodded. “And the person who pawned them? Let me guess: Cornelia Vanderhoute.”
“Well, she gave a false name. No surprise there, of course. But the pawnbroker’s description leaves no doubt. I confiscated these, but there are numerous other items still at that shop, pawned by the same woman. There’s for instance a sterling silver cigarette case with the initials TR, and a pocket-size brandy flask with the same initials engraved on the silver cap. I checked on the address she gave. False as well. A rooming house. They had never heard of her.”
I said, “A professional thief would have tried to sell these things outright to an underground dealer rather than deal with a legitimate pawnbroker. Obviously Fräulein Vanderhoute is not a professional thief, only clever enough to provide false identification. So the problem still exists: where to find her.”
“That may not be too difficult. Here’s why, Preiss: When I entered the shop and showed him my badge, the pawnbroker became very uneasy. Probably thought I was there to charge him with some impropriety and revoke his licence. When I spotted the cigarette case and flask I swear the old man openly began to perspire. He said to me, ‘Of all the pawnshops in all the world, why did she have to walk into mine … and not just once but twice!’ The fact that she made two trips to that particular shop, the most recent only yesterday … and remember, Preiss, there are at least a dozen pawnshops scattered throughout Munich … well, odds are she must live somewhere in the neighbourhood of Simon Regner. That’s the owner of the shop in question. Trouble is, there’ll be ice storms in hell before Vanderhoute returns to Regner’s to redeem these items. Whatever money she managed to get from the pawnbroker she has probably already used to buy passage out of Munich bound for God-knows-where. She would have to travel by train. Riverboats are few and far between this time of year. We can set up surveillance at the railroad station immediately.”
“You may be right, Brunner,” I said, “but something tells me this woman is on a mission and that she has unfinished business which she means to attend to here in Munich.”
I related to Brunner what I’d heard in the course of interrogating Friedrich Otto and my doubts about Otto’s version of events leading to the deaths of Grilling and Steilmann. “That there is something profoundly suspicious about the man I now know as Hershel Socransky, I am certain,” I told Brunner. “That he is capable of murder, however, I cannot imagine.”
“Surely you’re not saying Jews are incapable of murder!” Brunner said.
I knew Brunner was baiting me. There was still enough spite in him that by tomorrow the word would have spread throughout the police force that Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss was a lover and defender of Jews. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Brunner,” I said, “but I am not saying anything of the sort. I am simply saying that this particular Jew, Hershel Socransky, in my opinion does not have the makings of a killer.”
“Then what do
es make you suspicious of him?” Brunner asked.
“The threat that was delivered to Wagner —” I reached into a cabinet and produced the note from my file on Wagner. I read the message aloud: “JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION.” I slid the note across my desk. “Here, Brunner, you read it aloud.”
Brunner obliged, then shrugged. “Cornelia Vanderhoute,” he said, as though the matter were beyond question.
“No, Brunner,” I said, “it makes no sense whatsoever that she would mark time until June twenty-first before carrying out whatever plan she had in mind.”
Brunner reread the note, this time silently. He looked across the desk at me, a faint smile turning up one corner of his mouth, nodding as though a sudden revelation had struck him.
“Yes, Brunner,” I said, reaching for the note and tucking it away in the file. “Only one person would write that note … Hershel Socransky, alias Henryk Schramm … the man I now call the Mastersinger from Minsk.”
Chapter Thirty
In the pale gaze of Commissioner von Mannstein I thought I caught a flicker of longing, in his voice a wisp of heartbreak. His grey eyes seemed to be straining for a vision of some unexplored horizon beyond the horizon immediately visible from the windows of his office. “You know, Preiss,” he said, “other nations are blessed. The British have penal colonies in Australia, the French have Devil’s Island, the Russians have Siberia. But what have we Germans got? Switzerland! A place of magnificent mountains, shining lakes, fine chocolate, and spotless chalets. What Germany needs, Preiss … needs desperately, is some lonely, out-of-the-way pile of rock set in the midst of a vast ocean so treacherous no captain worth his papers would sail a ship there more than once. And there … there … is where Richard Wagner should be deposited for the rest of his natural life. Correction: the rest of his unnatural life. Now then, Preiss, how close are we to realizing our dream?”
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