by Rick Blechta
“Take your time, my dear. Deep breaths often help.”
I concentrated on breathing as best as I could, and though my heart rate slowed marginally, I still couldn’t speak. Seidelmann waited patiently.
“What are you having trouble telling me, Tory?” he eventually asked, his voice very neutral.
I just shook my head. “Is it something about Rudolph von Heislinger? Thekla Grillzer? No? It is something else, then?”
I nodded, but I was no closer to being able to tell him.
“What’s the favorite dish in Vienna right now? Chicken Catch-a-Tory! No really, folks, now that Tory’s in the slammer, do you think she’ll take up the harmonica?”
—popular talk show host Craig Collett’s opening monologue
Chapter 22
ROCKY
I had Ertmann’s folders all over one of the beds when Elen knocked on my door early in the afternoon.
She whistled when she saw the mess of documents. “Wow! You weren’t kidding last night when you said you were going on the offensive.” Spotting Tory’s violin on the dresser, she added, “And you got the violin back! What a relief!” then sat down on a corner of the other bed. “What are all these papers?”
I told her. “And I got them because I made Ertmann feel rather guilty about having the violin. You see, he has a daughter—”
“Stefanie Ertmann is his daughter? My God! You musicians are an incestuous lot.”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“There was a big article in the paper about her a few weeks back. Um... Max pointed it out to me. She’s supposed to be very good. Lots of potential. So what are you going to do with all this?” she asked.
“Sift through it and see if anything connects. Maybe see some of the people mentioned. I’m not sure yet.”
“You’ll be happy to know that the press corps has left the vicinity of the hotel. I guess they’ve milked this for everything it’s worth, and now it’s time to ruin someone else’s life. Anyway, seems like you can come and go as you please.”
Putting down the report I’d been reading, I said, “You know, I can’t help but feel we’re overlooking something crucial. There are just too many unanswered questions for my liking.”
“Outside of the obvious ones, what do you think is the most important question that needs answering?”
“Who exactly was this Baron von Heislinger and why did he go after Tory? Talk to some people and he’s almost a saint, but these documents paint a much different picture.”
“How so?”
“Well, this file,” I said, picking one up, “talks about his first conquest, an opera singer he targeted early on. Von Heislinger became her patron of sorts and even financed a big-time recital for her. You don’t have to read very hard between the lines to figure out what he got out of the deal.”
“Isn’t that sort of thing done all the time?”
“Not like this. You see, Mademoiselle Montreaux is apparently a real looker—big front porch, if you know what I mean, and she’s not a bad actress, either, by all accounts. All she lacks for operatic immortality is sufficient musical ability, according to a rather wry annotation in the file. The reviews of her debut recital also back that up. One critic likened her voice to a car horn. Oddly, though, the two most influential critics in Vienna praised her performance in their most flowery phrases. Now, how do you think that happened?
“You mean, they were bought off?” I nodded.
“It’s been known to happen—except that it was a bit more blatant on this occasion. The really interesting thing is that one of the two critics mentioned in the report was the clown who accosted Tory in the airport when she first arrived in Vienna.”
“Unbelievable!” Elen said, shaking her head. “Was this the way von Heislinger always did things?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. It would be a shot in the arm to Tory’s defense if it turns out—as these documents suggest—that the man was a sexual predator. Did Tory tell you anything specific about him?”
“She didn’t say much about anything—except that damned concerto. That’s what’s at the heart of this whole mess. Everything revolves around it. I also can’t help but notice you haven’t said anything about it to anyone.”
“That’s because I don’t know what to think about it. One person tells me it definitely isn’t Beethoven. Tory swears that it is. Another guy isn’t sure but wants to hedge his bets. The last person wants to produce either a concert or Tory’s life story. Fact of the matter is, everyone is madly looking for the concerto while saying nothing about it.”
“Imagine the uproar if it actually is a concerto by Beethoven!” Elen laughed.
I began to see why Tory was attracted to Elen. Like my wife, Elen had a very direct way of speaking, no artifice, and she had enough energy and animation to light a small house. But there was also a certain steady calmness that Tory completely lacks, and I reluctantly saw why she’d turned to her friend for help.
“You know it’s too bad,” I said, “that I didn’t turn up for my meeting with Thekla early. I always tend to stick too pedantically to what I’m supposed to do. This time I definitely should have followed my instincts. Tory on the other hand—”
“Did precisely the opposite,” Elen interrupted, “and look what happened to her! I should have just locked her in a closet until it was time to leave.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you know? Tory wasn’t supposed to meet with that poor girl until eleven-thirty that evening. Then she got all impatient and decided to show up earlier. She said it was to make sure that the coast was clear and that Thekla wasn’t going to turn her in to the police, but my feeling is that Tory just couldn’t wait to get her hands on the manuscript. I tried to talk her out of it, but you know what that’s like.”
Talk about not putting things together! I didn’t know whether to laugh or put my fist through the nearest wall. Here I’d been feeling pretty damned cocky about how I’d managed to weasel all this information out of a heavy-duty professional, but I’d totally missed the boat on examining all the information I already had close at hand—by asking Elen what she knew.
“We need to have a very long talk,” I sighed.
TORY
Seidelmann the Shrink and I had an additional discussion later that first day after I’d had a short nap. It amazed me how my crisis that morning had completely overwhelmed me. He’d given me a pill, and I’d slept like a baby. Simple—except that I couldn’t live the rest of my life swallowing pills. I’ve seen what that does to people— especially musicians.
Frick and Frack, the two guards, again bracketed me as we wended our way silently along the endless corridors to Herr Doktor’s office. The hospital really was a vast place—including the architecture. Obviously built years ago, the scale of everything in the building seemed designed to make you feel small and insignificant. Vienna has a lot of buildings like that.
“So, Tory,” Seidelmann said, rising from his desk as I came in, “you are feeling more your normal self now?”
I shrugged as the door shut. “I’ve forgotten what normal feels like.”
He again ushered me to a chair. “Would you like some refreshments? Juice? Maybe something to eat? Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m feeling a little like a lamb being fattened before the slaughter.”
Seidelmann’s face became pensive, but he decided to let my comment pass. “I want you to be at your ease, my dear. I have found that food often accomplishes that for my patients.”
“All right. Could I have a soft drink with lots of ice, then?”
“It is not a problem,” he answered, picking up the phone on his desk.
An orderly arrived shortly with coffee for Seidelmann and a Coke for me. It’s funny how Europeans assume all North Americans prefer Coke. Could be the marketing...
After taking an appreciative sip of his coffee, Seidelmann picked up his notebook and looked at me. I
stared back.
“You were quite upset this morning, my dear,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t you be in my place? Everything I am is wrapped up in being able to play the violin! It’s my whole life, and now, suddenly, I can’t do it!”
Seidelmann leaned forward and switched on his tape recorder.
“And when did this come about?”
“I don’t know exactly. The night my life totally went to hell, I played for a group of people he’d invited for dinner. Everything was fine. Two days later, when I picked up my violin again, there was nothing. I might have been handed a set of bagpipes for all the music I was able to make!”
“From your medical examination this morning, it is obvious that someone has used you cruelly. There is the tear in your rectum, bruising on your legs, buttocks and shoulders. Was it the baron who did this to you?”
“I can only tell you that I had the bruises when I came to and found him dead next to me. I have no clear memory of how it happened.”
“No clear memory... That is an interesting way to put it, don’t you think?”
I waved a hand dismissively. “Make of it what you will.”
“Do you enjoy the use of force or application of pain during the sexual act?”
“What?” I said, broadsided by his question. “Of course not!”
“Excuse my impertinent question, but I felt obligated to ask it.” Seidelmann smiled as he began writing. “I think I will put your answer down as a most emphatic no! But to ease your mind, loss of memory is not unusual in cases like this. For many, what they have experienced is too much to bear, and the memory of it is suppressed as a means of protection. In severe instances, there can be other manifestations from emotional trauma. This could also be what is causing your present musical difficulties.”
I nodded.
“Although, this particular manifestation is most odd. I would expect you to show signs of the stress you’ve been through in other ways,” he added thoughtfully, staring across the table. “Our video monitors show that you are suffering from violent nightmares— this is a more usual reaction. Still...”
My heart began racing again, knowing where the conversation was headed, and Seidelmann noticed.
“Would you like to take a break?”
“No, I’m fine!” I took a watery swig from the dregs of my Coke, put the glass back on the table and sat looking down into it. “I’m all right.”
“Good, good. Do you have anything you wish to tell me?”
“You think I’m crazy!”
“I never said that, Tory. People who have emotional problems are not crazy. It is as normal as having an injury to your leg, for example. A broken leg doesn’t necessarily make one a cripple, does it?”
“No...”
“This is the same thing. We have to help you get over this injury— just like any other.”
“I thought you’re supposed to decide whether I’m capable of standing trial.”
“That is why you are here, yes, but first we need to understand what is going on. Yes?”
I nodded, but then added, “But what if I really am going crazy?”
He leaned back and smiled. “Define crazy for me.”
“Look, forget I said that. Is there any way you could help me to play again? If there’s anything that would make me insane, it’s that. I have to be able to play!”
“Well, we do not have much time. I have been instructed to produce a report as soon as possible. Even though I should only be giving you the prescribed psychological tests and not trying to treat you, your problem is a most intriguing one. Tell me Tory, have you ever been hypnotized?”
“Yes. Once. A long time ago at a party when I was seventeen. One of my friends had an older brother who was a grad student in psychology. I’d rather not say what happened.”
“I think you will find the experience this time to be a little different. How about if we do a little of what is expected by the magistrate? Then tomorrow we’ll see what we can discover when I hypnotize you. Is this good?”
When we’d moved to D.C. to play in the Potomac Orchestra, Rocky and I had become friendly with the couple who lived in the next apartment. She was a pediatrician, and he was a psychiatrist. It always unnerved me to be around him since I often caught him staring, and he frequently asked me very odd questions. At least Seidelmann made me feel at ease, even though he also displayed a tendency to stare and often wrote furiously whenever I spoke— regardless of the fact that he had his tape recorder running.
“There is another thing you should know, my dear. Your husband called this morning to say that he would like to bring you your violin. I am trying to find out if this is permitted.”
“Why wouldn’t they let me have my instrument?”
“Because it is not usual in these cases—but then, this is an unusual case. I will see what can be done about obtaining a satisfactory answer for you.”
“Thank you very much!”
“Tell me, Tory. Would you rather find out that you are crazy if it meant you could play the violin again, or the other way around?”
“Is this part of your testing?”
Seidelmann looked up and smiled ingenuously. “It could be.”
ROCKY
I actually ate in the hotel’s dining room with Elen as we continued our discussion about what Tory had and hadn’t said. On returning to my room, I had a stack of messages to take care of. Answering Marty’s came first, for a change.
“Did Montenegro have a girl with him at that castle?” he asked.
I shuffled through Ertmann’s files. “Yeah. Her name is Lorenza.”
“Bingo! Well, you’ll be interested to know that she’s a bit underage —like sixteen years old underage. I’ve also heard that Luigi Terradella’s on his way to Vienna right now. Here’s what you wanted to know about the two of them...”
The little bozo back in New York had had a very busy day. I’d have an even busier evening.
***
After a deep breath and silent prayer, I knocked hard on the hotel room door. Being very late, our hope was that the person we were waking from a sound sleep would be disoriented enough to answer since we had to have surprise on our side for this to work. Roderick, next to me, fidgeted nervously.
“Wer ist da?” came a voice from the other side.
Roderick stepped forward to do his thing. “Polizei. Wir müssen sofort mit Ihnen sprechen, mein Herr.”
After a moment, the door opened and we pushed our way into the room. One of the occupants froze with his hands still on the ties of his silk robe, looking first shocked, then angry. The other sat up in bed pulling the sheet up to hide her nakedness.
“Sie sind keine Polizisten!” the man said indignantly. “Was bedeutet dies?”
“We want some answers, Montenegro,” I replied in English.
The producer shouted, “You will leave immediately!”
“I don’t think so,” I replied calmly. Roderick pulled out a cigarette and lit it. A spasm of anger crossed the obviously non-smoking Montenegro’s face, but he said nothing. In bed, the girl, still clutching the sheet to her chest like a shield, looked apprehensive.
“You will leave immediately,” Montenegro repeated and made a move for the phone.
I moved faster, firmly holding down the receiver with my hand. “No. We need to talk, and I don’t think you’ll want an audience.”
Montenegro persisted, yanking the receiver away from me. Even though I stood three inches taller and could easily have knocked him down, I had a better way to get the outcome I needed.
“You’ll notice that my companion, Mr. Whitchurch, is holding a cell phone. If you make one move to have us removed from your room, he will dial a number which will connect him directly to the European newsroom of CNN.”
Montenegro decided to brazen it out. “And why should I care about that?”
“Because CNN will be told that you are sharing a room with a sixteen-year-old girl.”
He
put down the receiver. The girl had evidently understood my words and began wailing.
Montenegro’s face had turned the colour of oatmeal. “What is your demand?”
“Like I said, I want to have a chat with you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, whose wails had increased in intensity. With a flick of his head, he made it clear that her presence was no longer required, and she wasted no time yanking the sheet off the bed and scurrying into the bathroom with it wrapped around her.
Montenegro looked every bit of his fifty-three years as he sat heavily on the bed. “I am listening.”
“What is your connection with what’s been going on?”
“I have told you. The baron wanted me to produce—”
“That’s not what I meant. With the baron dead, there isn’t anything to produce. Even though you say that you’ve remained in Vienna to shoot a documentary about my wife, that doesn’t wash, either.” I paused to produce a greater effect. “Do you know where the missing Beethoven manuscript is?”
Montenegro’s scowled. “Ask your wife!”
I ignored his comment. “That’s the real reason you’ve stayed in Vienna, isn’t it? Did you have a deal worked out with the dead maid, Thekla? She had deals with everyone, it seems. Is that why you murdered her?”
For the first time, the producer looked scared, and I understood the power police officers feel when they have someone on the hot seat.
“That is absurd! I do not know what you are talking about!”
“Yes, you do. You were at von Heislinger’s castle. You heard the piece played. You obviously believe that it’s by Beethoven.” I was actually asking a question but needed it to sound like a statement.
He drew himself up like the good little impresario he was. “Of course, it is Beethoven, or Montenegro would not have agreed to produce its premiere!”
“It’s obvious there’s someone who feels it’s valuable enough to kill for. Why not you? What was von Heislinger going to pay for your services? Whatever it was, it wasn’t as much as what that concerto is worth.”
