Beethoven's Tenth

by Richard Kluger

  “And Grieder agreed?”

  “Only after rumbling and grumbling, you can be sure. But the fact is, all of this excitement over Tell is Grieder’s one last chance, like Ansel’s probably, to make a name for himself. His animus to Ansel aside, he’s truly a mediocre fellow.”

  Mitch nodded appreciatively at her rendering of the larger picture. “All of this predicated, of course, on the authentication of the work and its amounting to something special.”

  “To be sure, which is why we’d greatly prefer that the investigation be carried on over here in a thoroughly disinterested way by the world’s most informed experts.”

  “And why do you assume my firm won’t exercise comparable care?”

  “Because it doesn’t have the resources or the bona fides of the Swiss government—which would cherish this work as a potential national treasure.” She drained her drink and added, “For you people, I’m afraid, it’s just another transaction—it’s only about the money.”

  “My only question,” Clara said afterward, as she and Mitch followed the path along the lakefront on the way back to their hotel, “is why she was so forthcoming with us. Europeans tend to be rather more close-mouthed than Americans when it comes to revealing their family’s innermost secrets, especially to strangers.”

  Mitch was untroubled by the woman’s openness with them.

  “She probably figured we’d already picked up Ansel’s sorry past, so she had more to gain by leveling with us—or appearing to—than by being combative or unresponsive. It’s a smarter way to try to generate compassion for her brother and get us to see the whole situation from her family’s side of it.”

  Clara bent down for a flat round stone and sent it skimming over the calm lake surface. “I suppose,” she said. “And frankly, I sympathize with their unhappiness over the manuscript being in American hands for sale to the highest bidder. It makes our side look rather predatory.”

  “Not from Jake Hassler’s point of view,” said Mitch. “Ansel may have been instrumental in recognizing the manuscript for what it is—or might be—but if you buy the story, it was Nina Hassler who rescued the thing in the first place, and two hundred years later, why shouldn’t one of her family’s descendants be the beneficiary of her foresight?” He paused to watch a swan swoop in for a landing with much noisy wing-flapping and come to an abrupt, squawking halt a few yards from shore. “As to Margot’s claim that we’re just being mercenary slobs while the high-minded Erpfs got involved only because of Swiss pride and Ansel’s delicate emotional condition—I say the lady doth protest too much. Their willingness to donate something they don’t own and have at best a dubious claim on makes is less altruism than smart—and inexpensive—public relations for the Erpfs’ real estate business. And if the family’s sterling reputation at their snooty club has been stained by Ansel’s conduct, what better way to polish it than by demonstrating their avid patriotism—which allows them to sic their government on Jake and C&W?”

  “A brilliantly cynical diagnosis,” Clara said, reaching for his hand and swinging their meshed fingers back and forth as they went. “Once a lawyer,” she added, “always a lawyer.”

  .

  felix utley had sounded reluctant to meet until Mitch indicated over the phone that he was calling at Margot Lenz’s suggestion.

  “I don’t know how I can help you,” Felix said, weariness in his voice at the prospect of discussing Ansel’s tribulations, “but if Margot’s put you on to me, fine—she’s a saint with regard to her brother. Ansel’s been a trial for all of us.” Since the Tonhalle, where the Swiss Philharmonic played, was around the corner from the Emerys’ hotel, Felix had suggested they meet in front of the building after his rehearsal the next morning and take a walk along Lake Zurich. Clara feared her presence might inhibit the men’s strolling conversation and elected to jog beside the lake well out of their range.

  In his rumpled black suit and open-collar white dress shirt, Felix was a seedier, longer-haired version of Yves Montand, nice-looking but palpably world-weary. Perhaps the rehearsal had left him drained. “Oh, Ansel-Ansel-Ansel—forever Ansel!” he moaned as he and Mitch headed for the lakeside walkway. “He’s his own worst enemy—and such a waste. There—I’ve said it all—now let’s talk about global warming. Any other topic would be more soothing.”

  “I gather that the two of you were close at one point,” said Mitch, declining Felix’s offer of a cigarette. “Margot said you tried heroically to reform him.”

  “Yes, well—he was worth trying to salvage,” Felix said, cupping the match flame against the breeze off the lake as he lit up. “Everyone could see it when he first came to us. He played with great feeling and precise phrasing; he drew the fullest possible expression from the instrument.” He and Ansel soon took to going for coffee after rehearsals and hashing over technical aspects of the works on the program. “He’s very knowledgeable about almost every aspect of music, and his versatility was simply remarkable. With persistence, I suspect he could have played almost any instrument for any orchestra in Europe.”

  “But?”

  “But-but-but-but. If only he had had the proper temperament and a shred of political sense.”

  As the philharmonic’s musical director, Grieder was smug and never more than marginally competent, Felix confided. “But the conductor, you see, goes with the territory—something Ansel couldn’t get through his head. It’s like being on a ship—you may not admire the captain, but the crew must pay him lip service—mutineers walk the plank.” Ansel got himself caught up in a vicious cycle of arguable provocation and excessive response that pushed the philharmonic management to the limits of its tolerance—and finally beyond. “If it hadn’t been for Ansel’s family connections, his antics would have doomed him long before.”

  “I gather you had your own run-in with Grieder,” Mitch probed.

  “I assume Margot offered you no details.”

  “None.”

  “She’s a model of discretion—a wonderful woman, really.” Felix funneled a chestful of toxicity out through his nostrils. “I was involved in an affair with our first flutist for some years until Grieder caught on. The problem was threefold—the woman is his niece, she was married at the time, and Grieder was her only child’s godfather. He blamed me for being a seducer and took it out on me the only way he could—which was to deny me the concertmaster’s title when it opened up. And he’s never relented, though the affair ended some years ago.”

  Mitch nodded. “Tell me about Ansel’s composing—Margot says you were unimpressed.”

  “He showed me a few of his pieces—and what could I say? His compositions tend to be either remorselessly atonal and jarring or a pastiche of derivative styles—he’s a gifted imitator, as you may have heard—his club act is amusing. But mimicry does not equate with creativity.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said his work was interesting, though not especially to my taste. I guess that was the beginning of our falling out, really.”

  The lakefront promenade turned, and Utley pointed out a dark red boathouse as they passed by. An attractive sign identified it as property of the Platypus Club. Mitch indicated he was aware of the Erpfs’ membership in the posh club and its high social standing. Then he asked, almost as an aside, “On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that Ansel himself could have composed this William Tell Symphony and then arranged for its attribution to Beethoven—perhaps as a form of revenge against the world for denying him recognition as—”

  “Ansel? Please! Minus-fifty on a scale of one to ten—though I’ve never seen the manuscript, of course. But sight unseen, the very idea is laughable.”

  “Did he ever discuss this alleged Beethoven manuscript with you?”

  “Yes—he actually called me right after they found it—I was surprised to hear from him since we’d been out of touch. I told him it sounded r
idiculous, but he thought it looked quite authentic—and the Hassler girl’s old letter as well. I asked him if he wanted me to phone up my uncle, who’s a music historian—music runs in our family—to see if he’d be willing to examine it, and Ansel said that would be a good idea if only he could get the manuscript out of the American Hassler’s hands for a few days. But next thing I heard, it was gone, and Ansel was having a fit—Margot phoned me about it—which is how their proposal to donate the thing to the government got put together.” He waved his hand. “Just between us, I was the one to suggest the idea.”

  Mitch ended his probe by asking if Felix was privy to Ansel’s marital woes.

  “He didn’t confide in me much about that part of his life, but everyone knew the story about his wife’s flagrant behavior—it was humiliating for him.”

  “Surely he isn’t the first man whose wife slept with other men.”

  Felix’s eyes widened. “Oh, I thought you understood—it wasn’t with a man at all.”

  “I was told that she’d been carrying on with the tennis pro at the Platypus Club.”

  “Yes, the pro was a woman. Lisa’s lesbianism was no secret around town—except to Ansel, apparently, at least at the time they married. He took it hard—as a reflection on his manhood, Margot told me—and then reacted in typical Ansel style by turning into rather a sexual predator himself, bedding mostly female students from the conservatory. All of which got back to Grieder and only compounded Ansel’s status as a misfit.”

  Mitch, his mental checklist completed, was about to thank Felix for his help when he suddenly remembered something. “By the way,” he asked, “do you happen know if Ansel has a cousin named Sofie?”

  “Sofie Ries, do you mean? Yes, I met her once in Montreaux—Ansel and I had gone down there for the summer jazz festival. Very talented artist and writer—did children’s books, I believe. Poor girl—she was the size of a dirigible. No doubt that contributed to her early death.”

  All of Mitch’s suspicions about Ansel were instantly reinforced. “When did she die?”

  “I’m not sure—possibly a year ago, I think Margot said. She and Ansel were very fond of Sofie—they’d take her to Sprungli, our famous patisserie, whenever she was in town and treat her to a box of their melt-in-your-mouth macaroons, even though they knew it didn’t do her any good. I think Ansel cared for her because she was an even sadder case than he was.” Felix looked over. “What’s she got to do with any of this?”

  “Ansel mentioned her to me—in passing. He joked that perhaps she had helped him forge the Tell Symphony after I asked him point-blank if he was in any way involved in such a scheme. He said I might want to double-check his denial with Sofie.”

  Felix shook his head. “That’s Ansel for you—always playing games. He’s a lost soul.”

  .

  for their final appointment in zurich, Mitch tried to reach Ansel’s bête noire, Richard Grieder, music director of the Swiss Philharmonic. Johnny Winks had provided a dossier on the local celebrity, who led a reclusive existence outside the performing arena. He lived, according to the intelligence file, in a large floor-through flat atop a stylish lakeside apartment house, along with a younger partner named Tonio Nostrada, who, in return for being kept, handled all the conductor’s living arrangements. It was he who answered Mitch’s phone call.

  “Herr Grieder is unavailable,” his companion said in a vibrant baritone. “May I ask who is calling and with regard to what?”

  Mitch explained his position with Cubbage & Wakeham and that he was in town from New York in connection with the newly discovered Tell Symphony.

  “This is an unlisted number,” Mitch was told. “How did you get it?”

  “It’s my business to reach people whom our firm needs to speak with. Would you be Tonio, by any chance—Herr Grieder’s—uh—executive assistant?”

  “Not by chance, Mr. Emery. I don’t understand what Maestro Grieder has to do with your mission here, whatever it may be. And I doubt he’d care to see you.” Tonio sounded more than dutifully protective. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”

  “I’d rather speak with Herr Grieder directly, if you don’t mind. My firm’s client is in a dispute with Ansel Erpf, and I’m hoping to learn—”

  “Oh, him,” said Tonio. “A sad case—I’m sure Maestro Grieder will have nothing to say to you about that—that bad actor.”

  “But I understand he’s very gifted musically.”

  Tonio gave a dismissive laugh. “Marginally. His family tried to buy him a career with our orchestra, but he abused the opportunity and was disrespectful toward the maestro.”

  “Mr. Nostrada, I appreciate that you’re trying to be protective, but I fear you’re doing the maestro a disservice. My company needs to hear it from him, not his—best friend.”

  “Really?” Tonio’s laugh rose half an octave. “We’re done here, mister.” Click.

  On the flight home, Mitch and Clara hashed over their impressions. “The main thing I don’t get,” she said, “is that if Ansel were clever enough to engineer such an elaborate fraud, why wouldn’t he have anticipated our assembling all these circumstantial factors and confronting him as the most obvious suspect? Wouldn’t he instead have distanced himself from the scene and enlisted somebody else to lead Jake to the attic trunk?”

  Mitch had considered the point. “Maybe he figured that we’d figure—I know this is getting a little convoluted now—that nobody foolish enough to invite our suspicion so openly could possibly be the perpetrator of a world-class con. Or maybe he’s as totally innocent as he claims, but he’s enjoying tantalizing us—just daring us to pin this thing on him. Maybe that’s why he brought up his cousin Sofie and urged us to phone her up.”

  Clara leaned her head on his shoulder. “That’s so wonderfully—twisted.”

  “Except I don’t really believe that. But somebody or other has pulled a fast one.”

  She mulled it all for a moment, then asked, “Is that what you really believe, Mitch? Have you already given up on Beethoven—and decided it’s a brilliant scam?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he assured her. “I’m just guessing that Ansel probably doesn’t have the talent or powers of concentration to pull off such a stupendous caper on his own. He’s an aging spoiled brat in a cultural backwater and almost surely lacking the imagination to dream up such a daring fraud. But he sure as hell could be a part of one.”

  {8}

  I just got off the phone with the emissary from Schweiz,” Gordy reported to the hastily called meeting in Harry’s office. “It sounds as if your little sojourn over there may have been useful,” he told Mitch. “This Margot Lenz—your Zurich real estate baroness—has a lot of clout with her government’s higher-ups. They’re offering a deal that would get us out of the Beethoven business relatively unscathed—if that’s what we want.”

  “I don’t mind a little scathing,” said Harry, “if the payoff is worth it. What’s up?”

  The Swiss legal attaché Philippe Saulnier had phoned to say that his country, acting jointly with the Erpf family, might consider ponying up a million dollars—$750,000 to Jake Hassler and $250,000 to Cubbage & Wakeham—for the transfer of title to the Tell manuscript to the Swiss Ministry of Culture. The payment would be made half on signing of the agreement and the balance when the ministry’s authentication process had been completed—whatever the outcome. So either way, fraud or authentic, they pay us.”

  “Chump change, you mean,” Harry said acidly. “And did Mr. Saulnier indicate what they’d do if we aren’t receptive to their wondrously ungenerous offer?”

  “He said if we don’t get back to him within a week, he’s going to file in federal court here for an injunction preventing Jake and us from any effort to sell the manuscript—mainly on the ground that Otto Hassler’s will hasn’t been duly certified by the Swiss courts—or a determinati
on made whether the Tell documents belong to Jake or the Erpfs or neither of them. Also, his government will argue it has a vested interest in the work as a potential national treasure that was illegally taken from within its borders.”

  Harry drummed his fingers on the edge of his massive desk, then looked at Mitch. “I wish I had a clearer picture of this Ansel Erpf character—you’ve made him sound like an inspired maniac who might be capable of anything—even pulling off a spectacular con that could leave us holding the bag.”

  Mitch nodded. “Ansel is weird, for sure—but no maniac, inspired or otherwise. He’s very possibly unbalanced, though—clinically, I mean. You read my report—I think he was toying with Clara and me and getting a charge out of it.”

  “Okay,” said Harry, “but if this weirdo’s eccentricities are well known over there, why wouldn’t their government have the same concerns that you’ve raised? Why should they risk official embarrassment by going to bat for him and his family if there’s a good chance that this Beethoven discovery is a hoax?”

  “Sounds as if they’re convinced his connection to the Tell manuscript is coincidental,” Mitch ventured, “and that a character like him is hardly up to scamming the whole world.”

  “And why would he?” Gordy asked. “What would motivate this guy to try to carry off such a stunt—what’s the risk-and-reward ratio here?”

  “Hard to figure off one meeting with him,” said Mitch. “It could be just an ingenious ego trip—Ansel thinks the world has sneered at him, so he’ll show up the world by carrying off an impossible, colossal fraud.”

  “And is that what you actually think, or are we just bullshitting here?” Harry asked with more than a touch of irritation. “I’m still not clear where you stand on this guy.”

  “Because we don’t know enough yet,” Mitch parried, “either about Ansel or our manuscript. Actually, Clara is less worried about Ansel than this mysterious Rossini connection that Mac Quarles has raised. She says it makes no sense that fifteen years after Beethoven supposedly wrote this symphony and then supposedly ditched it, the opening theme music—or something pretty close to it—shows up as the overture to Rossini’s William Tell—and then he never writes another opera, though he’s still young. And then there’s this so-called Archduke Rudolph letter, the one in the box with the manuscript. Our handwriting team is almost done fine-combing the German text—and then we may know a lot more about why Tell was junked. Meantime, it’s hard to credit the whole story, let alone get a clean reading on Ansel Erpf, with all these loose ends dangling.” But the first hurdle, Mitch pointed out, was what their forensics team would find. “They’ve about wrapped the European end of it—they had to send their crew poking around three different archives over there, photocopying Beethoven’s papers—and are due back Tuesday. I’m told they’ll need two weeks with our manuscript, and then they’ll have something definite for us.”