Murder in A-Major (11 page)

T
he person greeting me after I was admitted to the Schumann residence was a stranger to me. Yet, ordering the housekeeper to go about her duties while he conducted me into the study, he impressed me at once as someone accustomed to being in charge no matter where. His manner was formal, the voice crisp. Deep-set pale grey eyes seemed to look through me, focused instead on some person I imagined standing behind me. His mouth, a simple mean slit, was unsoftened by thin lips formed into a cautious smile. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Professor Friedrich Wieck. I am already familiar with your name, Inspector Preiss, thanks to my daughter Clara. I'm afraid she and her husband are away at the moment.”

“Away?”

“Yes. Early this morning, shortly before my arrival here, it was apparently decided that they urgently need to spend several days at a spa some distance down the Rhine, at Bad Grünwald. My daughter left a note. Her husband, it seems, requires massages and water treatments, or whatever they do in places of that sort.” The professor's explanation made it plain that he had little use for “places of that sort”. Nor did I fail to note that whenever he mentioned his son-in-law, he could only bring himself to refer to Schumann as his daughter's husband. I had no difficulty believing the stories I'd recently heard about his influence on the young Clara. It was said that the girl rose when she was told, went to bed when she was told, performed when she was told, even dressed and combed her hair under Wieck's strict and incessant supervision.

“Is there something I can help you with, Inspector?” Wieck said. It was clear he could scarcely wait to be rid of me. To the evident displeasure of the professor, I unbuttoned my coat, laid my hat on a nearby chair, and said, “It's very kind of you to ask, Professor. And yes, as a matter of fact, you may be able to help me.” I let my eyes drop to another nearby chair, hinting that I would prefer to sit. My host—if one could call him that—chose to ignore this signal.

“You will have to pardon me, Inspector, but the fact is, I do not have more than a few minutes to spare,” Wieck said.

“I beg
your
pardon, then,” I said forcing myself to sound forgiving. “I did not realize, of course, that you might have another appointment. I'm sorry if I've detained you. Perhaps later in the day?”

The features of Wieck's face tightened. “Later in the day, I shall be on a train returning to Leipzig, sir.”

“But I don't understand, Professor,” I said. “You mentioned that you arrived here only this morning. Must you leave so soon?”

“Let me ask you something, Inspector. Do you have children?”

“No, sir. I have never been married.”

“Then thank your lucky stars,” Wieck said. “There is no ingratitude on this earth as hurtful as filial ingratitude. So long as that raving lunatic continues to manipulate my daughter and draw her farther and farther from me, there is no place for me in this house. I must say, Preiss, you strike me as a reasonably intelligent man. How can you possibly allow yourself to be caught up in this hysterical nonsense my daughter's husband is foisting on the public?”

I began to protest. “Your daughter's husband is a man of great accomplishment—”

With a contemptuous smile, Wieck cut in. “A generation hence, if not sooner, his name will not be remembered, Preiss. You are a policeman and not expected to understand these things, but take my word for it, neither he nor his music will matter by the time the present decade gives way to the next. What
will
be remembered is this caprice he's indulging in.”

I said, “This ‘caprice' as you call it, Professor Wieck…I gather that you hold little credence in Dr. Schumann's complaint about the A sound that persists. He insists that it is the product of some kind of conspiracy.”

Wieck gave a cynical laugh. “Little credence, you say?
No
credence is more to the point. None. Absolutely zero!”

“But Professor, I myself have been witness to several of his recent episodes. Not even the greatest actor in Europe could feign such anguish.”

“Listen to me, Preiss,” Wieck said. “He comes to me as a twenty-year-old pupil. From a good family, a family with money, educated people, rather handsome himself I'll admit, and gifted with musical talent. Oh, but on the debit side…a lack of manliness, a constant escaping into childish fantasies, impetuous. I have taught a number of Europe's finest pianists…disciplined young men, and even women, who have valued my ideas and methods. Robert Schumann was never one of them, and never
could
be if he lived to be a hundred…which, God forbid, he may yet do.”

“With all due respect, Professor Wieck,” I said, “Madam Schumann's career does not appear to have suffered by reason of her marriage to Dr. Schumann. If anything, she is held in the highest esteem by both critics and public.”

“Only when she plays truly great music, Inspector. Perhaps you've heard of Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert? Those names may not mean much to a police inspector—”

“Oh, I assure you, Professor, I've had some passing acquaintance with them. More than passing, in fact.”

Wieck gave me a skeptical look. “Really?” he said. “Well, whether you are familiar with their music or not, take my word for it: when Clara plays
their
music, she plays in the heavens, so to speak. Trouble is, that madman insists that she play
his
music. Have you heard that so-called piano concerto of his?” Without waiting for my reply, Wieck went on. “Thirty minutes of romantic drivel. He says he wrote it for Clara. Some gift!”

One question troubled me now. “You'll have to excuse the inquisitiveness of a simple policeman,” I said. “Why, under all these unhappy circumstances, did you choose to come to Düsseldorf?”

“In past years,” he said, “I have made it a point to visit, not often mind you, but from time to time, only to see poor Clara, and my grandchildren. But in Clara's letter delivered to me a few days ago, there was a sense of urgency…something to do with the state of the two pianos here. She is concerned that they may be deteriorating due to unfavourable atmospheric conditions…the proximity of this house to the river, humidity, insufficient heat this time of year…matters of that sort, you know. When Clara was a girl, we hoped, she and I, that one day she would inhabit a proper manor house.” Wieck's eyes made a quick survey of our surroundings. “Well, Inspector, as you can see…Be that as it may, I will stay only long enough to examine the instruments, then I will be off. I assume, Preiss, that you came here to see Schumann. I'm sorry this proved to be a waste of your time. Good day, sir.”

As I began to button my overcoat, there was a knock on the study door.

“Ah,” said Wieck, checking the hour on his pocket watch, “right on time. Good.” Looking up from his watch, he called “Enter.”

The door opened, and in walked Wilhelm Hupfer.

At the sight of Hupfer, Wieck's manner instantly changed from formal to genial. “Ah, Hupfer my good man, wonderful to see you! And thank you for being so punctual.” Glancing in my direction, he added: “I was just saying goodbye to this gentleman. Perhaps I should introduce him.”

“That won't be necessary, Professor,” I said. “Herr Hupfer and I have met.”

In a spirit of levity that struck me as forced, Wieck shook a finger at Hupfer. “So, Hupfer, it seems you are already known to the police, eh. What have you been up to? Better come clean, you old scoundrel.”

Hupfer looked over at me, a weak smile on his face. “A little jest now and then never harms anyone, does it?” he said. “Professor Wieck is famous for his sense of humour, Inspector.”

I was willing to wager that of all the things for which the professor was famous, a sense of humour was not on the list. Nevertheless, I said, “Gentlemen, a police inspector is out of place in the midst of such witty company. If you will excuse me, I'll leave you to whatever business brings you together.” As I said this and reached for my hat, I caught a look of immense relief on Hupfer's face. Wieck too looked relieved at the prospect of my departure.

Opening the door, I turned suddenly and addressed Hupfer. “By the way, Hupfer, not that I want to dampen the atmosphere, but do you have some expert remedy for the problems the Schumanns are having with their pianos?”

“Problems? What problems are you referring to, Inspector?”

“Humidity, for one,” I replied. “No doubt a result of the proximity to the river, isn't that so?”

Without taking his eyes from Wieck, Hupfer groped for an answer. “Humidity, you say? Why, uh, I wasn't aware…I mean, it's always a possibility in our climate…but then there's plenty of heat in the house…at least, it seems so to me. On the other hand—” Hupfer gave up with a shrug.

Without losing a beat, Wieck called to me as I stood waiting to exit, “Good day, Inspector. We must not keep you. I do hope we meet again, soon.”

“I'm sure you do,” I said under my breath as I left.

I
returned to my office at the constabulary feeling uneasy. There was something about the conduct of those two, Wieck and Hupfer, that reminded me of an ill-matched twosome caught stealing a pie from a baker's shelf, one much too composed, the other shaking in his boots.

Then, too, there was the constant worry that time was running out for me.

I opened my office door expecting to find on my desk yet another of Commissioner Schilling's unwelcome memoranda. Instead, there stood Schilling himself, looking pink-faced and pleased. Next to him, seated demurely, was Helena Becker.

“Ah, Preiss, there you are, you clever devil,” said Schilling, chortling like a walrus. “I've heard rumours about this beautiful young woman of yours. I must compliment you on your taste, Preiss! Well now, I've done my duty; therefore I'll leave you two.” Bending clumsily, the Commissioner kissed Helena's outstretched hand. “A great pleasure,” he whispered and left the room.

I looked down at Helena. I could tell she'd been making a valiant attempt not to burst out laughing. “What did he mean, Helena, ‘I've done my duty'…what duty? I don't like the sound of it.”

She rose and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “You've nothing to fret about, Inspector. He simply showed me to your office. He'd spotted me in the main floor lobby, heard me ask the receptionist if you were in, and insisted on accompanying me. Very gallant. I'm glad you showed up when you did, though. I had the feeling I was about to be inhaled. Does he always breathe so heavily?”

“My interest in the Commissioner's breathing is limited to the day he
stops
breathing,” I snapped.

“My my, we
are
in a testy mood, aren't we.”

“And with very good reason,” I said. “I feel like a child playing a blindfold game. Every time I take a step in the Schumann affair, I seem to bump into a wall.”

“Well, Hermann, before you give up, I have some news that may brighten your day. You are now looking at the newest patient of Dr. Paul Möbius.”

With a touch of pride in her smile, Helena Becker removed a small piece of paper from her clutch purse, unfolded it, and dangled it before my eyes. “A prescription,” she said, “for some kind of sleeping potion.”

“The handwriting is indecipherable,” I said, blinking at what appeared to be a series of animal scratches. “Maybe it's some Wagnerian brew that transforms women into dragons. Or maybe it's an aphrodisiac. Have you considered that?”

Helena said, “When have I ever needed an aphrodisiac? No, I succeeded in persuading Möbius that I suffer severe headaches and can't sleep because of persistent musical sounds ringing in my ears.”

“And he really believed you?”

Helena paused to give me one of her coquettish looks. “Well,” she said slowly, “he did need a little convincing.”

“A little convincing?”

“I insisted that my pains were confined to the region of my head and neck, but
he
insisted that I undergo a complete physical examination. Blubbered something about toxins that form in the lower extremities and that, despite the forces of gravity, work their way
up
into the chest and beyond, eventually affecting auditory faculties. Said this occurred especially in women of my occupation. You know something, Hermann, he almost had me believing him.”

“You mean, Helena, that you—”

“Oh yes, Hermann. Naked as a newborn babe. In the militia they call it service beyond the call of duty, don't they?”

“The phrase is
‘above
and beyond'.”

“Well, in my case it was
below
and beyond. Listen to this: Möbius—after he's done probing here and there and signalling that I can put my clothes back on—then says there are a number of…and here he coughs and clears his throat…a number of rather intimate questions he must ask, and will I consent to answer, all for the sake of scientific diagnosis of course.”

“Good God, Helena, surely—”

She pressed her fingers to my lips, sealing them. “So I pretend to be prim and bashful, and I ask what he means by ‘intimate'. And he comes right out and says that he thinks my condition, you know, the sleeplessness and auditory hallucinations, are the result of sexual repression—”

“Sexual
what?
” I said and broke into laughter.

Feigning indignation, Helena said, “Hermann, you dare to laugh in the face of a woman who has sacrificed her honour on the altar of your manhood. For shame!”

“Sacrificed your honour on the altar of my manhood? Helena, where in hell did you ever unearth that collection of words?”

“Well, by the time I'd answered a couple of dozen ‘intimate' questions, and he'd made careful notes, he put down his pen, gravely looked at me, and that is precisely what he said to me. ‘Young woman, you have sacrificed your honour et cetera et cetera.'”

“You told him about us, then? You know, of course, that if Möbius thinks there's even the thinnest thread of a connection between you and me, your visit to him may turn out to have been entirely useless.”

“Trust me, Hermann,” said Helena. “I was perfect. But there's more, much more. Dr. Möbius then proceeds to deliver a lengthy lecture on the degenerative nature of the life of a creative or performing artist. Words like ‘unstable' and ‘intemperate' and ‘frivolous' and ‘licentious' come tumbling out of his mouth, along with clouds of foul-smelling cigar smoke, and I'm beginning to think I'm in the presence of some Druid high priest rather than a doctor who treats mental patients.”

I sat back for a moment, digesting Helena's account. At last, I said, “That's all very intriguing, Helena, but frankly—”

“Wait,” Helena chided, “let me finish! I went so far as to express contrition over the turn my life has taken. I realized by now that I had raised the curtain on a few of Dr. Möbius's riper fantasies. I could see by the look in his eyes that he saw in me the living example of every lascivious thought that ever entered his head. So I figured his guard might be down.”

“His guard? You mean the business about patient-doctor confidentiality?”

“Exactly,” Helena said. “And so, in a very casual manner I said, ‘I assume, Dr. Möbius, that my symptoms are very much like those of Maestro Schumann. After all, we are both musicians, both steeped in the arts, both frequent performers in public. Rumours have been widely circulated concerning Dr. Schumann's condition, and mine would seem to be the very same, would it not?' Without giving my question a second thought, Möbius replied, ‘Oh no, not at all, my dear young woman. Schumann's case has nothing in common with yours, nothing whatsoever. Have no fear of that.'”

“Did you ask him to explain the difference?”

“Of course, Hermann. And he said in that flat know-it-all way of his that there is an entirely different phenomenon underlying Robert Schumann's case. ‘You must accept my expert judgment in the matter,' Möbius said. And with that he slammed his notebook closed, wrote out the prescription and handed it to me with an unmistakable air of finality.”

“Did you attempt to question what he meant by ‘an entirely different phenomenon'?”

Helena shifted a bit closer to me. “Give me your hand, Hermann.”

Puzzled, I said, “What's that got to do with—”

“Just give me your hand,” she insisted. Obediently, I placed my right hand in hers. “There, you see what I mean?”

I began to understand. Her hand was warm, soft and smooth almost beyond belief, and somehow she managed to make it tremble ever so slightly, so that a kind of subtle but unstoppable energy seemed to be flowing from her body into mine. “You see,” Helena said, not taking her eyes from mine, “
this
is how I took Möbius's hand as I rose to leave. And while I was doing so, I asked if he could explain to a poor unscientific person like me what he meant…about the phenomenon thing.”

“And his explanation was?”

She paused, trying to recall Möbius's precise words. “Something about…how an event, no matter how impossible it seems, can become probable if the cause can be traced with sufficient clarity. He said it's a theory he's been working on for a number of years. It's what he calls ‘the philosophy of science'.”

I gave Helena a skeptical look. “He told you this while you were holding his hand?”

“This, and more,” she said, still holding
my
hand. “Truth is, I hadn't the foggiest idea what Möbius was talking about, so I asked him to put it in terms that I, a mere cellist, could try to comprehend. I was so humble! And Möbius loves that. Female humility seems to arouse some men, doesn't it?”

I withdrew my hand. “I wouldn't know,” I said. “Can we please stick to the topic…I mean Möbius's so-called philosophy of science?”

“Perhaps Möbius's explanation will help—the one he offered when I said I didn't quite comprehend. He said,” again Helena paused to recollect, “he said, if people fear a certain possibility long enough and intensely enough, the possibility they fear will become a probability. In other words, the event they're terrified of will probably occur. It sounds like absolute nonsense to me, Hermann.”

With a start, I rose from the divan and stepped quickly to my desk. I took a fresh sheet of stationery from the drawer, dipped my pen into the inkwell and was poised to write. To Helena, I said, “Will you repeat— slowly, please—the example Möbius gave.”

Helena looked at me as though I was losing my senses. “Hermann, you're
not
taking this stuff seriously!”

“Please,” I said firmly, “tell me again slowly, in his exact words.”

She repeated what Möbius had told her, word for word, giving me time to get it all down on paper in large easily readable letters. I then propped up the piece of stationery against a pile of books, read it and re-read it. I could not take my eyes from it. I said the words aloud: “If people fear a certain possibility long enough and intensely enough, the possibility they fear will become a probability. The event they're terrified of will probably occur.”

“Tell me the truth, Hermann,” Helena said, “is the world about to come to an end? Should I be making my peace with God?”

“On the contrary,” I replied, my gaze still fixed on what I'd just written. “Nothing is coming to an end. In fact, the very opposite is happening!”