“I fail to see the humour in all this,” I said. “Nor do I have time for your charming little guessing games, Helena.”
“Then I take it you won’t be staying long,” Helena said. “Well, perhaps it’s just as well, seeing you’re in such a foul mood, Hermann.”
“You would be in a foul mood too if you’d been made a fool of.”
“Are you suggesting that somehow I made a fool of you?”
“Apparently people who are total strangers knew of your arrival in Munich while I — I of all people — knew nothing.”
“The way I hear it, Hermann, if anyone made a fool of you it was you yourself. It seems there were two things you couldn’t resist last night: Champagne and Cosima Wagner. You indulged in far too much of one, and couldn’t get enough of the other. In fact, as she was bundling you into a carriage for your ride home you embraced her so effusively even the horses snickered!”
“Nonsense. Besides, you weren’t there, so you could not possibly know what —” I halted in mid-sentence. In the few moments of awkward silence that followed, I found myself staring at Helena as though she were part of a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces were suddenly and strangely falling into place. In a quiet voice I said, “He told you all this, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
“Are you lovers then?”
“Lovers? I’m not sure what that word means. Looking back on our past, yours and mine, I would say ‘lovers’ is impossible to define … something on-again, off-again … here today, gone tomorrow, who-knows-what the day after.” Helena looked away, a wistful smile on her face. She seemed to be reflecting. “Remember that night at Maison Espãna —”
“I remember it all too well. Soon after, you said to me, ‘He is everything you are not … kind, considerate, charming, not to mention handsome.’ Your exact words. Hard to forget. So now, Helena, I have acquired a new title: Hermann Preiss, Inadvertent Matchmaker. I suppose I have only myself to blame. After all, I did throw the two of you together. But I never dreamed it would come to this. It’s all wrong, you know. The man isn’t who he says he is. Worse still, he hasn’t the slightest compunction about making promises and breaking them. He’s a master of obfuscation. He’s convinced his own moral code is all that matters. Hardly ideal credentials for a lover, wouldn’t you say?”
“Say what you will, Hermann. The fact is all of us — even you — bend the truth from time to time when it suits us.”
“So let’s speak of the truth then. I suppose Schramm was honest enough to reveal all about the Vanderhoute woman, the one you were so incensed about the night he broke his appointment with you? How she was an obstacle lying directly in his path of revenge? And how very convenient for him was her sudden death?”
“I don’t understand what you mean by convenient, Hermann. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that getting rid of an obstacle is not what I would call bending the truth. In my circles it’s called murder, pure and simple.”
“And in my circles, Hermann, people are more concerned about the kind of brutality Wagner inflicted on Hershel Socransky’s father. So whatever Hershel has done, allowances must be made.”
“But he has no right to take the law into his own hands, Helena. None!”
Angrily, Helena said, “Please, Hermann, spare me your policeman’s sermon about right and wrong, and especially those off-duty musings of yours about the artist being one thing and his art being quite another! There is no distinction! When will you ever learn this truth? If Hershel Socransky brings the opera crashing down tonight, then he brings Richard Wagner crashing down with it. The two are inseparable, and that is exactly as it should be.”
“You said, ‘If Hershel Socransky brings the opera crashing down —’ You mean when, not if, don’t you, Helena? Crashing down can only mean one thing: in the final scene … the ‘Prize Song’ … the defining moment, according to Wagner … he’s deliberately going to foul up the ‘Prize Song,’ sing it so badly that the entire opera will be turned into a laughingstock, and Wagner along with it.”
With a coldness I had never before witnessed in her, Helena gave a contemptuous laugh. “Well, why not? Anyway, that hardly amounts to a crime. My God, Hermann, if singing a song badly were a crime, half the tenors and sopranos in the country would be in prison.”
“I’m not an idiot, Helena. Of course ruining a song is not a criminal offense.”
“Then why do you care what he does tonight? For God’s sake, Hermann, let him be! Let him do what he must do.”
“We’re not speaking here merely about ruining an opera, Helena. If Socransky killed once as part of his mission here in Munich, he will likely kill again. This time his victim will be Richard Wagner. I’m sure of it.”
“Then so be it, Hermann. Look at it this way: by leaving Hershel Socransky alone to do what he has to do, you, Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss, will actually be looked on as a hero in the eyes of the mayor and police commissioner. You complained to me not long ago that they had — as you put it — dumped the future of Munich on your doorstep, remember? Well, beginning tomorrow, perhaps the shadow of Richard Wagner will no longer darken Munich. And whom will the grateful population of Munich have to thank for this happy turn of events? Inspector Hermann Preiss! Who knows? Maybe they’ll appoint you von Mannstein’s successor. Commissioner Hermann Preiss … how does that sound to you?”
“Very hollow. Very cynical.”
“Don’t pretend the thought doesn’t appeal to you,” Helena said. “That splendid office with the fine view of the city, the handsome desk and a carpet on the floor, heels clicking to attention as you pass your underlings at the Constabulary. Admit it, Hermann, it would be everything you’ve always yearned for.”
“Am I ambitious? Yes. Can I stand by and leave your new hero free ‘to do what he has to do’? I’m afraid not. Sorry to disappoint you, Helena. I must find him and there’s not a moment to lose. If you know where he’s gone, you must tell me.”
“I have no idea,” Helena said. “But even if I did know, I would not tell you, Hermann.”
“A moment ago you painted a picture of my future if Socransky’s mission were to succeed. Now let me paint a picture of your future. Let’s say if he’s lucky, he will be deported under police escort back to Russia because the authorities find it convenient to rid the country of him. So you follow him to Russia, to godforsaken snowbound Russia. I can see it now, Helena: you with a babushka on your head, dining on boiled cabbage three times a day, dwelling on a farm the size of a stable, taking your turn behind the plow, and fending off attacks by Cossacks. Is that what Hershel Socransky has to offer?”
Helena shot me a defiant look. “And what have you got to offer, Hermann? Years and years of on-again off-again? And before we know it we’re both too old and dried out to make love. So what’s left for me? The thrill of watching you sift through the cinders of your career after you’ve retired? Thank you, no!”
“Then there’s nothing more to be said?”
Helena handed me my hat. “Nothing.”
As I turned to leave there was a knock on the door. A voice called out, “It’s me, Helena, I’ve just arrived —”
I recognized the voice of Madam Vronsky. “I didn’t know you were expecting company, Helena,” I said.
“I’ll get the door,” Helena said quickly. Admitting Madam Vronsky, she said, “You must be exhausted, my dear. Hermann is just leaving —”
“I am exhausted. The night train from Düsseldorf, you know —” Madam Vronsky shrugged, as though shaking off a bad experience. “But Inspector Preiss, what a pleasant surprise!”
Helena planted herself between Madam Vronsky and me. “Yes, well the Inspector was just on his way out.”
Madam Vronsky said, “What a pity. Oh well, I’m sure we’ll see one another this evening.”
“So you’ve come to Munich for the premiere?” I asked.
Before Madam Vronsky could reply Helen interjected. �
�Hermann, the poor woman is a wreck after her overnight journey. This is no time for interrogations. Go, and let her get some rest, for heaven’s sake!”
“By all means,” I replied. “But first, a question for my sake, Helena.” Gently pushing Helena aside, I confronted Madam Vronsky. “Perhaps you can help me, old friend. I know it’s been a while since you lived in your homeland, but they say ‘once a Russian, always a Russian,’ so tell me: if a Russian man wishes to get away from everything, to relax, maybe even to hide out for a bit, where does he go and what does he do?”
My question brought a mischievous smile to Madam Vronsky’s face. “Are you suggesting that somehow I, Madam Vronsky, a humble piano teacher, have some special acquaintance with the dark side of Russian men, with their intimate habits?”
“Madam Vronsky,” I said, “one of the reasons you are a great piano teacher is that you are a true woman of the world, a Russian one at that.”
“Ah, Inspector, Russian women — unless they are peasants, of course — are raised in bird cages. We are not women of the world in the way that women are in France, or England, or Italy. But for what my knowledge is worth, if I were a typical Russian man and wanted, as you say, to get away from everything, there is one place I would go —”
“And that would be —?”
“To a Russian bathhouse.”
“I beg your pardon. To what?”
“A place that has plenty of hot steam, boiling hot in fact, and pails of cold water. Russian men love to scald themselves alive until every pore in their bodies is screaming for relief. Then comes the pail of ice-cold water. Sometimes they do this for hours until their flesh is almost beet red. My own father was addicted to this routine. Spent nearly every Sunday doing it. My mother would pack him some bread, a couple of chicken legs, and a flask of vodka. ‘There you go, Alexei, off to the cookery’ and we wouldn’t see him again until suppertime.”
“I believe I know Munich from one end to the other,” I said, not hiding my disappointment, “but I can’t recall ever coming across a Russian bathhouse.”
“Don’t look so discouraged,” Madam Vronsky said. “Think of the next closest place, then. There must be a public bathhouse somewhere in this city that offers similar facilities, surely.”
Hastily Helena attempted once more to position herself between Madam Vrosnky and me. This time I placed a restraining hold on her arm that made her wince. “Madam Vronsky, I won’t detain you another moment. You’ve been most helpful.”
Smiling, Madam Vronsky piped up, “I suppose the Russian man you’re speaking of is that handsome young tenor?”
“How would you possibly suspect that?” I asked, smiling back. “Now, if you will excuse me —”
Very nervously Helena said, “Where are you going in such a hurry, Hermann?”
I settled my hat carefully on my head. “That, my dear Helena, is none of your business,” I replied.
Chapter Forty-Seven
This being the first day of summer, I was expected to attend a noon-hour meeting of senior staff traditionally presided over by von Mannstein at the commencement of each new season. From past experience I knew what would be uppermost on the agenda. Fair weather never failed to bring to Munich’s surface two things: flowers and crime. After hibernating like bears during the winter months, the city’s underworld were in full blossom. Therefore extra duties were the order of the day, a decree that would invariably be met with stifled groans and rolled eyes. This would be followed by the commissioner’s recital of unsolved cases and his recommendations for demotions among the lower ranks. Congeniality at these briefings was never in the air. On the other hand, protocol called for full dress uniform to lend pomp to the occasion, not that von Mannstein’s arm had to be twisted when it came to sporting one of his beloved uniforms and his array of decorations (all earned in peacetime).
I knew — oh, how well I knew! — that the case of Richard Wagner would raise its Medusa head at some point, most likely in a private dressing-down afterward, for the commissioner still preferred that his and the mayor’s strategy concerning the infamous troublemaker be carried out sub rosa for the time being. Faced with a choice — to attend or to be truant — I chose the latter. I therefore dispatched a note by messenger to Constable First Class Emil Gruber (whose gratitude to me for his recent promotion was still eternal) requesting him to inform the commissioner that I was indisposed due to a severe urinary infection. Von Mannstein possessed a special sensitivity about such male disorders, having exposed his own organs on more than a few occasions to extra-curricular risks and consequences, and could be counted on to feel a pinch or two of sympathy. This would leave me free to concentrate on what was at the very top of my agenda … the hunt for Hershel Socransky.
It was now well past noon and time was shrinking fast. I had learned that Wagner’s new opera was longer than most, taking up some five hours from start to finish. The curtain would therefore rise earlier than usual, that is, at seven o’clock. Being a stickler for punctuality the Maestro would not tolerate even a minute’s delay.
I was absolutely certain that nowhere in Munich was there to be found the kind of Russian bathhouse Madam Vronsky described. Granted Munich was a remarkably cosmopolitan city, its restaurants and bakeries influenced by the French, its gardens and parks influenced by the English, its architecture influenced by the Romans and Greeks, but one foreign influence thus far had failed utterly to take hold in Munich: Russian-style bathhouses.
Think of the next closest place, then … there must be a public bathhouse somewhere in this city that offers similar facilities …
I could think of only one — Müllersches Volksbad, on the banks of the Isar in the south part of the city, steps from Ludwig’s Bridge and not at all distant from the opera house. A popular tourist attraction and highly visible thanks to its tall white tower with clocks on all four sides, it houses the most beautiful indoor swimming pool in the country. But was there somewhere in that imposing edifice anything even vaguely resembling a Russian-style steam bath?
Entering the main reception hall I spotted an information kiosk occupied by a uniformed attendant, his peaked cap sitting squarely on a massive head, which in turn sat on massive shoulders without the benefit of a neck, features typical of retired military veterans blessed in old age with government patronage. I knew such men to be invariably sour, bored, rude, and bullies to the core. This attendant turned out to be an exception; he had all of the aforementioned qualities multiplied by ten!
“I wonder if you can help me, sir,” I said.
“What sort of help? You don’t strike me as somebody who needs help. I suppose you’re from the Office of Civil Service Administration, eh?”
“No, sir, I am not.”
“That’s what they all say. Tricky bunch, sending around inspectors disguised as ordinary civilians, checking up on us, writing their damned reports. That’s how your type get promoted, of course. Well, go ahead, ask me what it is you need to know and let’s get it over with.”
At this point I realized I had been standing before him hat in hand like a suppliant. To repair my image, I adopted a harsh authoritative tone. “I’m not here to listen to your life story. I need to know if there is a Russian-style steam bath on these premises. It’s a matter of great urgency.”
“A Russian-style steam bath, you say? That’s ridiculous. I’ve had some dealings with Russians. Never known a single one of ’em to take a bath, steam or otherwise. Anyway, what’s so urgent?”
I handed the man my identification badge. “I am here on police business. If there is not a Russian-style steam bath here, is there anything of that nature available to the public?”
Regarding me with open disapproval, the attendant replied, “As a police officer, are you not ashamed to be involving yourself in that kind of business?”
“What kind of business?”
“That kind of business. You know as well as I do what goes on in such places. My God, what’s society coming to when
a chief inspector spends his time in a bath house? That’s no place for a real man.”
“I am not here to engage in ‘that kind of business!’”
My protest was in vain; the man simply could not overcome his disgust. “Third floor,” he snarled, “south end of the building. Supervised by a man from Sweden or someplace like that. You’ll know when you’re getting close; you can feel the heat.”
He was right. I was met by an invisible wall of heat as I approached the entrance to the steam bath. I wondered why any sane person would want to indulge in such a punishing exercise on one of the balmiest days in months. I wondered, too, about my own sanity. Here I was, after years of pursuing bizarre people doing bizarre things in bizarre places, about to engage in the bizarre act of hunting for a suspect in a hellishly hot public steam bath on a warm day in June! Report this to von Mannstein and my next “promotion” would be to an asylum.
Behind a tower of thick white towels sat another attendant, small metal cash box at his feet, next to it a bowl containing bars of soap giving off a strong carbolic scent.
“You wish to take a steam bath, sir?” the attendant asked, speaking German with an inflection peculiar to Swedes. There was an eagerness about him which was explained when I glanced at the open cash box and observed a fifty-pfenning coin lying there in solitary confinement.
I presented my badge. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I’m looking for someone, a young man who may be here —”
The attendant shook his head. “Young men seldom come here in warm weather. They prefer other places. Today I have only one customer, an older man, but he’s been here almost one hour so I expect he’ll be getting dressed and ready to leave.” I must have looked skeptical for he added quickly, “You can go in and see for yourself if you don’t mind the heat.”
I removed my hat, loosened my collar, unbuttoned my jacket, and started through the narrow entrance. Not more than a half-dozen steps in, I halted and stood aside to let the man whom the attendant described pass on his way out. He was indeed an older man with an impressively full beard and a generous handlebar mustache that functioned like a bridge joining one cheek to the other. He wore sensibly light clothing, and on his head a broad-brimmed straw hat favoured by fashionable Italians in summer. He carried a satchel. We nodded to one another, he went his way, I went mine.
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 23
