Murder in A-Major (10 page)

I
hailed a cab and delivered Helena to the front door of her residence, where the two of us parted with dutiful pecks on the cheeks. The past hour or so had exhausted me, not to mention leaving my appetite for food unsatisfied. I wanted nothing so much as to retire within the four walls of my sitting room, throw on a comfortable robe, and sit before a fire, my mind set free by a liberating snifter of brandy.

Letting myself into the tiny foyer of my apartment block, I was confronted by the concierge, an elderly army veteran with a face scarred by war wounds and hands tortured by a merciless case of arthritis. “There's a man—” With a misshapen index finger, he pointed over his shoulder in the direction of a small anteroom off the foyer. “Been waiting ever so long.” His voice suddenly faded to a whisper. “Over an hour! Seems terribly upset about something. I was tempted to offer him tea, but something about him frightened me half to death.”

“Thank you, Henckel,” I said and stepped across the foyer and into the anteroom.

“Preiss! Thank God! I was beginning to think you'd never arrive.”

“Good evening, sir.” I tried to sound cordial despite the fact that—like all surprises—this one, on this night of all nights, and at this hour, was especially unwelcome. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Forgive me for imposing like this, Inspector,” Robert Schumann said. “I must speak with you privately…a matter of extreme urgency.”

Schumann trailed behind me up the three flights of stairs to my rooms, taking each step as though he were climbing a mountain. Arriving at the landing outside my door, he was out of breath and gasping for air.

“Brandy, Dr. Schumann?”

He raised a hand to decline. “I wish to be entirely clear-headed.”

“Do you mind if I indulge?” Without waiting for Schumann's reply, I poured myself a healthy portion and quickly downed half of it, thinking,
I owe at least this to myself, since obviously I'm to have no peace tonight.

A closer examination of my guest's appearance explained Henckel's fear of remaining in his presence a moment longer than was necessary. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. His complexion was blotchy, the skin of his cheeks and chin raw in places from being poorly shaved. Beads of sweat surrounding his purplish lips had given his mouth an uncertain formation, like the opening of some unexplored cave. His clothing smelled strongly of cigar smoke and his breath strongly of liquor, though he seemed perfectly sober. I motioned for him to be seated.

“Thank you, I prefer to stand,” Schumann said. “Please allow me to come directly to the point of this intrusion. One of my most valuable possessions is missing and presumably stolen, a first draft of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Opus Two Number Two, the one he dedicated to Joseph Haydn. It was left to me by my dear friend Felix Mendelssohn in his last will and testament. Needless to say, it is a priceless document.”

“When did you notice it was missing?” I asked.

“The morning after the musicale at our house,” Schumann said. “I had gone to the cabinet in my study where it was kept. I wanted to re-examine Beethoven's handling of the opening theme. One visits and re-visits the music of Bach and Beethoven, just as one attends church from time to time…to find God. And it was gone. The manuscript was gone!”

I wanted to know if the manuscript was on display or locked away. This question brought a pained look to Schumann's face. “Stupid vain fool that I am! I was so proud that Felix—God rest his soul—had seen fit to bequeath it to me that I kept it on display in a glass cabinet for all the world to see. And now—” Schumann's voice broke.

“You're quite certain it wasn't simply mislaid, Maestro?”

“Would one simply mislay a treasure chest filled with diamonds? No, Inspector, it was stolen.”

“If you are so positive, then you must have a suspect in mind.”

I waited for Schumann to go on, but suddenly he seemed hesitant. As gently as I could, I said, “I cannot help you, Maestro, if you withhold information. Whom do you suspect?”

There was a strained moment of silence. Then Schumann blurted out, “Adelmann…Georg Adelmann…it
has
to be him. Can you imagine? A man I trusted…a man to whom I opened my house and my heart…who is supposed to be my friend, my biographer!”

“What makes you so sure it was Adelmann?”

“Because he is a thief. Clara told me he's a thief, ‘a petty thief' she said, but apparently he has graduated from petty pilfering to grand theft. I asked my wife how she knew about Adelmann. She said you yourself warned her about him the very night of the musicale.” Suddenly seizing my arm, he said, “You must confront him, Inspector, I beg you. He cannot be allowed to get away with this.”

Uncomfortable as I was under the grip of my anguished visitor, I replied in a calm, quiet tone, “Maestro, please try to understand. It is not always the most prudent course to
confront
, to use your word. To accuse someone of so grave a crime on the basis of suspicion alone—”

Schumann cut me off. Angrily, he said, “In other words, Preiss, like everyone else around me, you're already convinced that I'm out of my mind. Well, never mind, then. I'll go to the Commissioner of Police himself, if I must.”

Quickly I said, “I would not rush to involve the Commissioner if I were you, Dr. Schumann.”

“And why the devil not?”

“Because, sir, frankly, the Commissioner is not keen about people in the arts in general, nor does he have much patience for your case in particular. In fact, I have only a few days now to get to the bottom of your original complaint; otherwise, I face some unpleasant disciplinary measures for having neglected more pressing duties. My career could be in jeopardy, do you see?”

Every part of Schumann seemed to sag. “Then I am to end up like the statue in the fairy tale…with my jewels plucked out and taken away, one by one, only not by an innocent sparrow but by a pack of crows and vultures…conspirators, robbers. I give to the world glorious music. And what does the world give me in return? Spite. Envy. Treachery.”

“But Maestro,” I said, “you have much to be thankful for. Beautiful children. A beautiful and talented wife. The admiration of countless lovers of your music, the respect of a host of your peers—”

“
I hate my life, Preiss! I hate it!
” he shouted, taking me aback. His voice trembling, he went on. “I can no longer bear the sight of myself. Death hangs over every bar of music I compose now, like a storm cloud.”

Without waiting to be asked, Schumann moved unsteadily to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, sobbing bitterly, his hands covering his eyes in a gesture of shame.

“Very well, Dr. Schumann,” I said, “I will go to Adelmann as early as possible tomorrow. And I promise to report back to you with all due speed.”

It was a promise I would very soon come to regret.

L
ike Dr. Möbius (whose premises I had visited a few days earlier), Georg Adelmann obviously felt a compulsion to surround himself with tokens of his eminence: framed honourary degrees, row upon row of them, hung with exquisite care on the walls of his study, evidence not only of the high esteem in which others held him, but the high esteem in which he held himself. Where Adelmann's quarters differed from those of Möbius was in the luxury of the appointments. Though the two residences stood in the same affluent neighbourhood of Düsseldorf, the one occupied by the journalist offered evidence in abundance of a man in love with fashionable furnishings, fine art and Persian carpets that would have done a sultan proud.

Of particular interest to me were the contents of an enormous mahogany breakfront which presided over the sitting room like a high altar in a church. Behind glass doors, its half-dozen shelves were crammed with silver and gold tableware—trays, candlesticks, gravy boats, tea and coffee sets, and ornate serving pieces.

In a voice coated in smugness, Adelmann said “The cabinet is English, of course, from about 1760. But the pieces displayed are examples of our finest German craftsmen from Hanau and Pforzheim. We're finally beginning to outdo the French. I see, Inspector, that you are an admirer of good things.”

Without taking my gaze from the cabinet, I said, “You are too modest, sir. These are not merely ‘good things'; they are the mark of a man of superb taste, a brilliant acquisitor, if I may say so.”

Adelmann chuckled. “A brilliant acquisitor? Well now, there's a description that's rarely heard. I am deeply flattered.”

“I intended my remark to be a genuine compliment, not flattery, I assure you.”

“You have a remarkable way with words,” Adelmann said. “It's a pity that you chose the constabulary, Preiss. Your kind of articulateness would have been better suited to a more uplifting profession, surely.”

Had I carried a dagger at that moment, I would gladly have used it to cut Adelmann's throat. Stifling my resentment, I said, “Man lives in hopes of a better afterlife. Perhaps in mine, I will pursue words rather than criminals.” Then, without pause, I said, “That silver salver…the small one, there on the fourth shelf…what a lovely little piece! Wherever did you manage to find one like that? I've been looking for something similar for ages without luck.” I recognized the salver, of course, as the one Adelmann had filched that day we lunched at Emmerich's Restaurant.

In an offhand manner, Adelmann replied, “Oh, that salver? Yes, a gift. From some editor or other. A fellow in Heidelberg, as I recall now. I am deluged by grateful editors and publishers and academics with all sorts of fine housewares and art objects. They know my tastes, of course.”

It occurred to me that there was a distinct uniformity to these items. They struck me as having been not so much bestowed by a variety of grateful colleagues as accumulated by a single compulsive individual. “What a pity, Dr. Adelmann,” I said, “that such a splendid collection is not available for public view. There must be many who would welcome an opportunity to view these pieces.”

Adelmann said, a touch of coolness in his voice, “I don't think it would be wise. Prying eyes, idle hands…you of all people must understand. In fact, Inspector, the less said about my collection, the better, I think you'll agree.”

Motioning me to take a comfortable armchair, Adelmann offered me a glass of schnapps. “Thank you, no,” I said. “It's a bit early in the day for me. Besides, I
am
on duty, Dr. Adelmann.”

“Your message indicated there was a matter of some urgency you wanted to discuss.”

“Some urgency, yes. And some delicacy. I'm not quite sure how to put it, you see.”

“You do not strike me as a man who is short of words, Preiss. How can I help you? It's not about your cellist friend again, is it? A most charming young woman. And such musical talent to boot!” Adelmann leaned forward in his adjoining armchair and gave me an amiable poke on the shoulder. “Makes a man feel inner stirrings, eh?”

“I'm here in connection with the Schumanns, actually…I mean, Robert Schumann specifically.”

Looking disappointed, Adelmann drew back into his chair. With a deep sigh, he said, “Will no one rid us of the Schumanns!” A dark look crossed his face, and he seemed about to withdraw from the conversation.

I came to the point immediately. “It seems there is an extremely valuable manuscript missing from the Schumann household…a first draft of a Beethoven sonata that Felix Mendelssohn left in his will as a gift to his friend Schumann—”

Before I could complete my sentence, a startled look appeared on Adelmann's face; then, suddenly, he burst into loud laughter. Bolting from his chair, he went to a chest of drawers, and from the uppermost drawer withdrew a black leather portfolio tied carefully with a broad band of gold ribbon. Holding it aloft, Adelmann said, “You mean
this?
” Adelmann came toward me, waving the portfolio in the air. “Missing, you say? Look for yourself, my dear Inspector. Here it is, the Beethoven manuscript…no apparition, but the real thing.” He laughed again. “You call this
missing?
”

“I was only repeating what Maestro Schumann told me, sir; I was not making a judgment,” I said.

In an instant, Adelmann's mood turned dark again. “The man truly
is
out of his mind. Missing, my foot! Schumann
gave
me this manuscript. In fact, he pressed me to accept it”

“He pressed you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why did he insist you have it?”

“As a token of his undying gratitude. Those were his very words, Preiss.”

“Gratitude for what, may I ask?”

“For not revealing something in his past about which he is deeply ashamed…something I uncovered during my research into his life.”

“You mean the business about his sexual activity as a youth…the penis infection? You briefly mentioned these things the day we lunched at Emmerich's.”

Setting down the portfolio on a drum table between our armchairs, Adelmann said, “Oh no, Preiss. I'm talking about something far more serious than the peccadilloes of an oversexed youth.”

I affected a blank expression. “I'm afraid I don't quite follow—”

“What Schumann was urging me to do was to compromise my professional integrity. You see, I came across several friends of his,
male
friends, but men of some standing in society…educated, not from the lower classes, I assure you…with whom some years ago our friend Schumann engaged in more than a little sexual experimentation.”

“Can you speak plainly, Dr. Adelmann?” I said. “Are you referring to homosexual activity?”

“
Activities
…plural,” Adelmann replied. “One of these male friends told me Schumann had the appetite of a glutton when it came to such carrying-on. ‘Hell-bent' was the way he put it. When I touched on this matter with Schumann,” he continued, “the man's blood rushed to his face, his brow became damp with sweat, his lips trembled, his speech became thick, he stammered. I tell you, Preiss, it was a terrible sight to behold. Seeing him in this state moved me, and I agreed—reluctantly—to avoid any mention of this matter in my monograph.”

“Whereupon Schumann prevailed upon you to accept the Beethoven manuscript…as a token of his undying gratitude.”

“Precisely,” Adelmann said. On his face there was a look of complete satisfaction, as though he had neatly tidied up a minor piece of unfinished business. In a pointed tone, he added, “The affair is best forgotten, really. I assume we need speak no more of this matter.”

I nodded in agreement. “Indeed, sir,” I said, “you and I need speak no more of it.”

But
Schumann
and I would most certainly speak of this. And not tomorrow, but this very day. One of these two—Schumann or Adelmann—was making a fool of me.

I had arranged to have a cab call for me and was about to take my leave when, as my host held the door open, I turned suddenly and said, “By the way, Dr. Adelmann, would you consider returning the Beethoven manuscript to Schumann in exchange for some other form of compensation?”

“Oh no, it is out of the question, Preiss!” Adelmann replied.

“Why is it out of the question?”

“You may ask, sir,” he said, smiling at me in a condescending way, “but the reason I cannot return the manuscript is very private and could not possibly be of interest to you.”

“I see,” I said, not seeing at all. My sense of smell was at work, however, and something very foul was in the wind that fanned my face as I climbed into the cab and ordered the driver to take me at once to 15 Bilkerstrasse.