A search of ten private dressing rooms yielded nothing. As for the steam room, three tiers of wooden benches lay idle in the fog. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Again I wondered why any man in his right mind would subject himself to this kind of self-inflicted torture. Mopping my brow, I mentioned this to the attendant as I was about to leave.
“Odd you should say that, Inspector,” he said. “The fellow who just left complained that the steam was not hot enough and the water not cold enough.”
“Then he must truly be a mad man,” I said.
“Or a Russian,” said the attendant, winking as though he and I shared some measure of disdain for Russians.
Or a Russian —
That beard, the mustache, the satchel large enough to contain a complete change of clothing … who better than an opera singer would know about costumes and disguises? Such people lived day and night in a make-believe universe of costumes and disguises. The man behind the beard and mustache, his face partly concealed by that oversized Italian straw hat … he had to be Hershel Socransky.
Chapter Forty-Eight
My second encounter with the attendant in charge of the information kiosk was no more genial than the first. “Oh, it’s you again,” he growled, squinting at me as though I were a tax collector. “What is it now?”
“Did you happen to see a man with a beard and handlebar mustache wearing a large straw hat and toting a satchel pass by on his way out?”
The attendant cast a frowning glance from one end of the main reception hall to the other, the place swarming by this time with people coming and going, many with bundles of swimming attire tucked under their arms or carried in satchels. Throwing up his arms, he said, “Look around you, for God’s sake. I probably see a hundred men who fit that description on a warm day like this.”
“I mean in the last minute or two —” My mind added, “you idiot.”
“This is some kind of test, isn’t it?”
“Yes or no —?”
“Yes, damn it!”
“Yes what —?”
“There was a man … stopped by to ask me a question. Said he was a visitor to Munich and could I recommend a good hotel.”
“A good hotel where?”
“Some place close to Schloss Nymphenburg. Said he heard the castle and grounds were especially nice this time of year. I used to be a guard there. Told him there are any number of decent tourist lodgings in that district.”
“Did you recommend one?”
“No. I suggested he try Romanstrasse or Prinzenstrasse. There’s at least a dozen inns and hotels within walking distance of the castle.”
Nymphenburg …
In that blink of an eye when we passed each other it would have occurred to Socransky that my turning up at the baths — of all places — had to be more than mere coincidence. Never mind how or why I found my way here. What mattered was how to throw me off his trail. Figuring (rightly) that I would question the old attendant, what better way than to plant a false inquiry about hotels in a section of Munich far west of the National Theatre and Müllsersches Volksbad, indeed almost at the opposite end of the city. An amateurish ruse? Probably. But then again, if by the slimmest of chances he were serious, what then? At this busy period of the day a journey across the city would be no easy accomplishment. A search of numerous hotels and inns, not to mention the palace and its surroundings park, would exhaust what few precious hours remained until curtain time, a gamble I could ill afford.
Once outside the Volksbad I paused. To Nymphenburg, or not?
My thoughts flew back to that initial visit to the studio of Sandor Lantos … to sketches of two costumes for Walther von Stolzing: one consisting of a plain workaday blouse and breeches; the other a dashing black tunic with silver trim and a matching cap; with both costumes a long slender ceremonial sword, its ornate handle protruding from the scabbard at the knight’s left flank. Knowing Wagner’s passion for authenticity, the sword would be a real weapon. No fake. No plaything. I pictured “Henryk Schramm” inspecting Lantos’s drawings with approval, gloating inwardly. Motive. Opportunity. And means! The gods — not Richard Wagner’s but Hershel Socransky’s — were smiling favourably upon his plans.
I could see it unfolding:
It begins with the tenor mangling the “Prize Song,” both the melody and the lyric, reducing Wagner’s masterpiece to a grotesque pile of musical rubble. The audience is momentarily stunned. Seconds later there’s an eruption of derisive laughter that rises from the main floor to the uppermost tier. Even the walls seem to be shaking with laughter. Thousands of glinting crystals in the enormous central chandelier rattle with laughter. On stage the cast are motionless, dumbstruck. The orchestra sit lifeless at their places in the pit, their instruments frozen in their hands. Mouth open in disbelief, the conductor stands limp at the podium, baton at his feet. Backstage there is utter chaos. Orders and counter-orders are shouted back and forth: Bring down the curtain! No, leave it up! …
In the wing, stage left, the composer works himself into a state of near-collapse, railing and wailing against the perfidy that has destroyed his work, his hopes, his dreams. Shepherded off to his private lounge, an anxious Cosima hovering over him as a mother hovers over a stricken child, he demands that the errant knight be brought before him at once. If there is a hell beneath the hell to which ordinary sinners are consigned, may Henryk Schramm descend to that lower purgatory before this hour is out! …
The young tenor is duly summoned. Does he resist? Not for one moment. Indeed, he heeds the summons with a willingness that borders on alacrity! …
Now they are alone in Wagner’s private quarters, just the three of them, Wagner, Cosima, and Hershel Socransky, the singer still in costume. At his side the ceremonial sword. This is Hershel Socransky’s time, his moment when all of his stars are aligned in vengeful confluence, when his plan will wax to its full malignance and the ghost of his aggrieved father will finally be laid to rest …
To Nymphenburg then?
No.
Sooner or later “Henryk Schramm” would have to make his way back to the opera house, and avoid being seen by me. That much, and only that much, was certain. I would have to figure out how to recognize him among the masses of cast and theatregoers thronging through the doors of the National Theatre.
Chapter Forty-Nine
"Why would Germans build an opera house that looks like a Greek temple? Is it because the operas are Greek as well?”
Constable First Class Emil Gruber (outfitted in civilian garb as I had specified) was taking a moment to study an edifice which, though it is one of Munich’s foremost landmarks, he’d paid little attention to until now.
I shook my head. “Gruber, when was the last time you attended an opera?”
“To be honest, there’s never been a first time.”
“Then let me enlighten you, Gruber. Germans compose operas. Italians compose operas. So do the French and Russians. Once in a while the odd opera trickles out of Scandinavia, the Low Countries, even tiny Lichtenstein. But Greeks? They give us colonnaded façades, Corinthian pillars, sculptures of Apollo, also fish and olive oil. As for music? Not one single note!”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Gruber said, looking troubled.
“Gruber, you are a good loyal German,” I said, “but you are young. You will learn that the older you become the less anything makes sense. That, Gruber, in a nutshell is what wisdom is all about.”
Staying clear of the Constabulary this day, I had sent for Constable Gruber to assist me in what I feared would be an almost impossible task: to apprehend Hershel Socransky before he could gain entry to the opera house; almost impossible because, having gone to great lengths to disguise himself earlier in the day, no doubt he would don an even more ambitious disguise in an attempt to slip through unnoticed.
Despite the enormity of the National Theatre, only two points of entry were available: the public entrance consisting of a row of massive bronze
doors at the front of the building, and the stage door at the rear through which staff and artists came and went.
I assigned Gruber to maintain a lookout at the stage door, “You saw the man once,” I told him, “the morning you ushered him into my office when he announced Karla Steilmann had been murdered. But don’t expect him to look the same, of course. God only knows how he’ll turn up. My only advice, Gruber, is to keep a sharp eye for anyone who looks even the least bit suspicious. You’ll likely come across a security guard there, big as an ox with a personality to match. Identify yourself to him; otherwise make yourself inconspicuous. I will patrol the throng as best I can here.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s going on five o’clock. By six they will start pouring in.”
Looking troubled again, Gruber said, “With all due respect, Inspector, shouldn’t you have sent for more constables for surveillance?”
“I’ll explain later, Gruber,” I replied. This was not the time to reveal to him Commissioner von Mannstein’s hostility to any plan aimed at eliminating risk to Richard Wagner’s life. “I repeat: anyone who arouses a shred of suspicion, get back to me.”
As though obeying some invisible yet irresistible signal — or perhaps out of a habit of high society so ingrained that signals are superfluous — the advance parade of operagoers began to arrive at the stroke of six, decamping from an endless stream of gleaming carriages drawn by horses groomed as smooth as headwaiters. Women, many with brightly coloured gowns encircling their corseted figures like spun sugar, floated by, each leaving in my nostrils a whiff of her favourite perfume from Paris (thank God I’m not allergic!). Wickedly charming junior officers escorted the younger women so attentively and protectively one would think bullets were about to fly. Older women made do with aged retired officers, crusty men smelling here and there of cigar smoke, their bemedalled formal wear witness to days long past when backs were like ramrods and stomachs were more disciplined. Everywhere there was jewellery. Everywhere women’s eyes darted back and forth checking one another’s finery while mental charts were reviewed to determine who was wearing the same gown for a second or third time.
A perfect summer evening, the air filled with excited chatter of people of influence in Munich, a pleasurable sense of occasion and anticipation. What more could Richard Wagner ask of his gods?
The flurry of activity, the hearty commotion, the hustle-bustle which patricians feel privileged to indulge in … everything came to a sudden standstill. A hush fell over the assembly as they caught sight of the approaching carriage bearing King Ludwig, a midnight-blue jewel, its rooftop royal crest glowing gold as if Ludwig owned the sun. And suddenly, there to greet his monarch and benefactor, appeared Richard Wagner, Cosima at his side. It was no surprise to me, as I watched close by, that Wagner made no effort to rein in his taste for effusive utterances and movements when it came to the king. Such conduct, of course, is natural and expected in the grandiose territory of opera, but with King Ludwig himself on the scene Richard Wagner’s celebratory gestures were on show in their fullest flower, even bordering on vulgarity. As the trio — Ludwig, Wagner, and Cosima — moved toward the bronze doors, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to grant them a clear path.
A second wave, well turned-out though less patrician, soon followed; then a third, the last-mentioned representing the “infantry” of opera, that is, those hardy folk who, lacking gold and glitter, made it to the National Theatre on foot, then faced a climb of five long flights to their seats in the uppermost tier.
It was now a quarter of seven. The ushers, under Maestro Wagner’s standing orders to show no mercy to latecomers, slammed shut the heavy doors, at the same time foreclosing any hope I held of catching “Henryk Schramm” mingling with the surging patrons. Not one man gave me reason to think he was here under false pretenses, although several times I was compelled, as the crowd filed past me, to steal an extra glance at someone’s face to satisfy myself that a beard or mustache was genuine, or at someone’s paunch to be certain that the fellow was truly overweight and not concealing a pillow under his tunic.
Hoping that Gruber had better luck, I made for the stage door only to find him shaking his head and shrugging.
“No sign of him here either?”
“None,” Gruber said. “Not so much as a hair out of place on anybody. Not a nervous twitch, not a stammer, nothing.”
“Did you ask the guard to let you inspect his roster?”
“His roster?”
“Part of his duty is to check everyone as they enter … he has a list of the company staff, chorus, principal singers, orchestra, stagehands, everybody connected with the production.”
Gruber’s face reddened. “Sorry, Inspector, I had no idea —”
The guard, recognizing me, was not pleased when I commanded him to hand over the list. “It’s all in perfect order,” he said, his tone belligerent. “Only thing missing are the mice that live in the basement. You’ll have to get their names yourself.”
As I expected, the roll was long, taking up three pages and containing some two hundred names all carefully sorted according to their departments and specific occupations. Members of the orchestra were grouped according to their instrumental sections. I ran a finger down the list page by page. It seemed the guard was right after all. Everything appeared in perfect order.
Until my finger landed on the section of the orchestra headed “Double Bass.”
I turned to the guard. “Since when are there nine double basses in the orchestra?”
“What do you mean nine? There are only eight.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve been here often enough to know there are always eight. Your list shows nine.”
The guard thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. There was an extra double bass player … showed up almost at the last minute. Name’s there … Horst Schmidt. Said the Maestro hired him because the music called for more sound from the double basses. Showed me a note signed by Maestro Wagner himself.”
“So you admitted him?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“He carried a case for his double bass?”
The guard gave me a look of disgust. “Well what else would he use to carry a double bass, a snuff box?”
“You inspected the contents of the case?”
The guard took a deep breath. “Now why would I do a thing like that? I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into people’s instrument cases. God in heaven! I suppose next thing you’ll want to know is whether I make sure their instruments are tuned.”
“What did he look like?”
“About your height only in better shape, I’d say. You know, you have to be strong to handle a double bass. Wore one of those French-type berets. Spectacles too, the kind with silver rims. Evening clothes like all the others, white bow tie and so on. Oh yes, he had a flaming red beard and mustache. If I hadn’t known better I would’ve said he painted them, that’s how red they were.”
“Did you happen to see where he went from here?”
“Where everyone else in the orchestra would go, naturally. There is a large chamber down below … I mean just under the pit … where they get ready, tune up, whatever they do. When it’s time, they go up a set of steps into the pit and wait for the conductor. I expect you’ll find who you’re looking for there.”
I reached the players’ chamber just as they were beginning to file up the narrow set of stairs leading to the pit. Not one among them even came close to fitting the guard’s description. I spotted, propped against one wall, a row of double bass cases. I counted eight. My eyes fell on the rearguard inching their way toward the steps, the bass players, their bulky instruments and thick bows in hand. There were eight.
Gruber said, “He must be in the dressing room putting on his costume.”
“No, Gruber, that is one place he won’t be. I guarantee you he carried the first of his costumes in the instrument case, sword and all. His other costume, the one he wears in the very final scene, must be set aside
in the dressing room. He’s probably deposited the case in one of the dark corridors in the basement with his suit of evening clothes.”
“Then he must be in the wings by now, waiting to go on,” Gruber guessed. “Maybe there’s still time —”
From the pit rose the familiar sound of the oboist’s piercing “A,” the various sections of the orchestra tuning one by one … violins, violas, cellos, clarinets, horns, a pair of tubas gruffly clearing their throats … a swelling mélange of tones and half-tones … the players swooping up and down scales to warm up or fleetingly rehearsing yet again a handful of bars here and there that were especially tricky. Next a shower of applause from the audience, which meant the conductor von Bülow was threading his way through the first violin section en route to the podium. Any second now he would give two or three sharp raps of his baton on the music stand before him, extend his arms wide as though embracing his players, nod solemnly, and the opening strain of the overture would settle majestically across the silenced house.
“Maybe there’s still time, Inspector,” Gruber urged.
“No, Gruber, it’s too late,” I repeated. “Our man appears in the very opening scene. As we speak he’s already in his place on the stage, ready the minute the curtain goes up. Get yourself up to the wings, tell whoever is in charge there that you’re on police business but say no more, just stay put and don’t let Socransky out of your sight, especially whenever he’s off stage. I’m off to the first tier. Word has it that Wagner and his wife are seated with King Ludwig in the royal box. I’ll stay as close to the Maestro as possible, even during intermissions when he’ll be mingling with the high and mighty in the lounge.”
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 24
