Murder in A-Major (13 page)

Shaking her grubby fist in Schumann's face, she yelled in a voice that could be heard from one end of Germany to the other: “
May everything you fear become a reality in your life!
”

Hearing this, Schumann shrank back, a look of alarm on his face such as I'd never before seen on him. It was as though the woman were a leper or a carrier of smallpox whom he had touched and who had fatally infected him. White with fear, he was breathing with difficulty, so much so that he seemed about to collapse.

I let the woman go, roughly shoving her away. “Go, and never set foot anywhere in Düsseldorf again,” I said, “or so help me God, I'll see you behind bars for the rest of your miserable life!”

The woman dragged herself off without another word, but she had already said more than enough, for Robert Schumann was now reduced to a trembling wreck. “What did she mean, Preiss?” he said.

“Dr. Schumann,” I said, trying to sound dismissive, “if I took every criminal's curse seriously, I would never leave my bed in the morning.”

“No, no,” he said, “that was no ordinary curse. I remember every word she said, ‘
May everything you fear become a reality in your life
' And she said this to
me
, not you. My God, look at me, Preiss. I can't stop shaking. What kind of man am I?”

*    *    *

Schumann's question haunted me long after I had escorted him back to No. 15 Bilkerstrasse, where I left him still badly shaken after his experience with the palm reader on Königsallee.

What kind of man was he? One moment in high spirits, fun-loving, going along with all the palm reader's absolute nonsense, enjoying it to the hilt. Next moment terrified by what I regarded as nothing more than a hag's evil eye.

But what struck me with sudden force was the similarity between the woman's curse, and Dr. Möbius's dictum as told to Helena. Weren't these two saying the same thing?
The ghosts you fear are the ghosts you invent; the consequences you dread are the ones you bring upon yourself.

More to the point, was Robert Schumann himself bringing to reality everything he feared? If this was so, then what was the point of my continuing to involve myself? Schumann simply may have been the inventor of his own tragedy. Tragic as that fact might be, his case would have to be written off just as a bad debt is written off, I would return to my normal duties, and the world would go on spinning on its mysterious axis.

But then two things happened.

Following my last conversation with Helena, I decided that a gift to show my gratitude for her devotion to duty was long overdue. Walter Thüringer's jewellery shop was located in an arcade in the fashionable Königsallee and, while I was hardly in a position to be counted a regular patron on an inspector's salary, I managed from time to time to purchase the odd ornament from Thüringer. The old jeweller was aware, of course, that discounts on merchandise sold to a public official or civil servant were capable of being construed as a form of bribery, but it was uncanny how, whenever I expressed interest in some bauble or other, it was at that very moment due to go on sale for less than the ticketed price. I never took the trouble to question these coincidences. Nor did I bother to question the origins of certain valuables on display that were supposedly purchased from estates of deceased aristocrats but which, I had little doubt, had been stolen from houses as far away as Paris, London, Vienna and even St. Petersburg.

As always, Thüringer greeted me as though I were a long-lost brother. “Ah, Inspector Preiss, how marvellous to see you! And looking as impeccably turned out as ever! I get older and older, and you, Preiss, get younger and younger.” The shopkeeper shook his head ruefully. “In my next life, God willing, I shall be a policeman, I swear.”

“Thüringer, save your flattery,” I responded. “You know perfectly well I'm a man of limited means.”

“Nonsense!” Thüringer said. “My entire stock is at your disposal.”

“I'm not in the market for your entire stock,” I said, “only a small gift.”

“A small gift, you say? That sounds to me like there's a woman involved.”

“A very special woman, yes.”

Thüringer spread his arms wide. “Make yourself at home, Inspector. Look about, and I'll be back to you presently. I must finish with another customer, if you will please excuse me.”

He bowed low, as though I were a tax collector delivering an unexpected refund, then hereturned to the only other customer in the shop, a man standing nearby, his back to me.

“It's a charming piece,” I heard Thüringer tell the man. “Of all the lockets in my inventory, it is undoubtedly the finest. French craftsmanship, of course. And the price will include the engraving on the back of it.”

“Speaking of price,” the customer said, “is it the very best you can manage?” The speaker had lowered his voice, but I could still hear. “I really didn't anticipate having to spend this much.”

In his best avuncular manner, Thüringer said, “My dear young man, the recipient of this locket will treasure it surely for the rest of her days. Such a gift has value beyond price.”

A little reluctantly, the customer replied, “Very well, then, I suppose I must make the sacrifice.”

It was at this point that the man turned partly, and I recognized him at once. “Herr Brahms?”

“Inspector—uh—”

“Preiss,” I said. “Hermann Preiss.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Brahms said. “We meet again.”

“We meet again” was an expression I'd become all too accustomed to—usually spoken by someone who was anything but thrilled to see me. Nevertheless, I attempted to sound cheerful. “It seems,” I said, “that you and I are on similar missions. I too am buying a gift for a woman, and if I know this old rascal Thüringer, I too will end up spending more than I'd intended.”

Thüringer loved it whenever I teased him, and chuckled amiably; anyway, both he and I shared this truth: he really
was
an old rascal. Brahms made an effort to be amused. “Well, Inspector,” he said, “I will leave here with a lighter wallet thanks to Herr Thüringer, and a lighter heart thanks to you. I bid you a good day, sir.” Buttoning his coat, he said to Thüringer, “May I count on the engraving being done by this time tomorrow?”

His hand over his heart, the jeweller replied, “You have my word on it.”

I waited for young Brahms to depart. Turning to Thüringer, I said, “I need a favour, my friend.”

“Name it,” the old man said.

“That locket you just sold…are you acquainted with the buyer?”

“Johannes Brahms? Yes. A musician of some note— no pun intended—from what little I know of him.”

“The inscription you're to engrave on the back of the locket—”

“Yes, what about it?”

“I need to know what it says, Thüringer.”

Thüringer took a step back, and his face took on a shocked expression. “But you must know, my dear fellow, that such things are confidential. To reveal to you what I'm to engrave would be like opening someone's private mail. I have my ethical standards about such things.”

Quietly, I said, “Thüringer, listen to me. Priests have ethical standards.
You
are not a priest. Do I make my point? Now then, Thüringer, what's to be engraved on the back of that locket?”

“You are placing me in a terrible dilemma,” the jeweller protested.

“Then permit me to resolve your dilemma at once,” I said. “In return for your cooperation, I will see to it that the next police inspection of your inventory of antique pieces is conducted by Inspector Hermann Preiss, rather than by someone with—uh—
keener
sight.”

Without another word, Thüringer handed me a slip of paper that he'd just deposited in a drawer behind one of the display cases.

“Whose handwriting is this?” I asked.

“His, Brahms's.”

I read aloud: “To dearest Clara, my life's blood.” Below these words was a single initial—J.

I handed back the slip to Thüringer. “Thank you,” I said. “You have my word that no one will hear of this. Now then, there's a set of pearl earrings in the window—”

I purchased the earrings (yes, by coincidence, they had just gone on sale at a considerable discount) and placed a small white card inside the gift box. It read: “To dear Helena, whose ears hear what mine cannot.”

Then, the Beethoven manuscript. Leaving Thüringens, I decided it was time to give
myself
a gift, albeit a modest one, nothing more, in fact, than a half-hour or so at my favourite coffeehouse, Schimmel's. A good strong cup of coffee, a slice of Black Forest cake, and a chance to browse through the latest arts journals from Berlin were precisely what I needed to free my mind from the Schumann affair.

The coffee turned out to be fresher and stronger than I could recall from my past visits. “That's because it's imported direct from Colombia,” Schimmel explained to me with great pride. “The British,” he went on, “get theirs from somewhere in Africa, which proves of course that they know absolutely nothing about coffee.” The Black Forest cake, too, was perfect. I sat back, stretched my legs, and snapped open the first newspaper at hand,
Berliner Kunstzeitung.
Lazily, I scanned the headlines. Then my eyes dropped to the lower section of the front page, and my few minutes of rest and recreation came to an abrupt halt.

Beneath a photograph of a familiar musical figure, I read: F
RANZ
L
IZST
A
CQUIRES
R
ARE
B
EETHOVEN
P
IANO
M
ANUSCRIPT
.

S
o, Preiss, this is how you kept your promise, is it?” It was the morning after Franz Liszt's acquisition of the Beethoven manuscript was reported in the
Berliner Kunstzeitung
, and Robert Schumann had just stormed into my office and hurled his copy of the newspaper across my desk.

“My promise, Maestro?” I said, knowing perfectly well what he was referring to.

“You allowed that devil Adelmann to get away with it, didn't you? Was it carelessness, or am I to believe that you, too, have joined the ring of conspirators?”

Calmly, I said, “Let me explain, please. I had a meeting with Georg Adelmann—”

“Ah, so you
do
recall the promise you made me, after all—”

“Please, allow me to finish. I met with Adelmann and yes, he has the Beethoven manuscript…or rather,
had
it.”

“And you got him to admit he'd stolen it, then?”

I took a deep breath. “Not quite, I'm afraid.”

“I thought you were the cleverest detective in this part of Germany. Don't tell me you actually saw the manuscript but failed to confiscate it from him!”

I took another deep breath. “Correct on both counts. I saw it, and I did
not
confiscate it.”

“But why?
Why?
”

Schumann had been standing all this time, leaning somewhat menacingly over my desk, as though he were ready to pounce at any moment. “I think, Maestro, you had better be seated,” I said.

“Don't treat me like a child or like one of your moronic criminals, Preiss. I don't need to sit.”

I rose from my chair and spoke sharply now. “You will be seated, sir, or this meeting is over.
Sit!
”

I watched Schumann slowly lower himself into a chair on the other side of my desk. There was, suddenly, something child-like and pathetic about the way he did this, and for a second or two I felt remorse at having shouted him into submission. In a steady voice I began again. “I have to tell you, Dr. Schumann, that when the subject of the Beethoven manuscript came up, Adelmann, without the slightest reluctance, went to a cabinet in his study and produced it. This was not the conduct one would expect of a thief. Indeed, he had a ready explanation as to how he came to possess it. Do you wish me to go on, sir?”

I imagined that Schumann would demur. Contrary to my expectation, he gave me a contemptuous smile. “Go on, Preiss,” he said without hesitation. “What did that overstuffed rodent tell you?”

“I warn you, sir…what follows is neither pleasant to say, nor will it be pleasant to hear.” I hesitated to go on, hoping Schumann would volunteer the explanation and spare me the embarrassment. No such luck.

“I told you to go on,” he said. “What more do you want, a fanfare?”

“I must be blunt, then,” I said. “Adelmann insists that you gave him the manuscript in return for his pledge.”

“Pledge? What pledge?”

“Not to disclose certain sexual activities you apparently engaged in…in your younger years.”

Schumann let out a forced laugh. “Certain sexual activities, you say? Well, thank God I wasn't born a eunuch, if that's what Adelmann's alluding to. What red-blooded German doesn't sow a few wild oats with the fairer sex in his youth, eh? Yes, I did enjoy the odd fling or two with women. Maybe more, in fact.”

“Adelmann was not speaking about affairs with
women
.”

Schumann's eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Preiss?”

“Please understand, Maestro, it's not a matter of what
I
am saying.”

“Yes, yes, now get on with it. Well?”

“Apparently, in the course of his research into your past, Adelmann came across—or
claims
to have come across—several of your male friends…he used the term ‘friends'…it is Adelmann's description, not mine…with whom it is alleged you indulged in homosexual activities with some frequency—”

At this point, I anticipated his vehement denial. Instead, Schumann's face became an expressionless mask. I was certain it concealed the truth. Quietly, I said, “I warned you this would be upsetting.”

“What is upsetting,” Schumann said, “is the thought that the laws of the land are in the hands of a pack of narrow-minded constables, men who are little more than night watchmen. When it comes to subtleties in human behavior…to inner truths…you are as hopeless as the fish in the Rhine.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I'm not trained to search for so-called inner truths. I deal in evidence which can be seen, touched and heard. Inner truths? There are none, except those that novelists and liars like to dream up. So, regarding Adelmann's findings, what have you to say? Yes, he's right, or no he's wrong?”

Schumann rose abruptly and snatched up the copy of the
Kunstzeitung
that lay on my desk. “I refuse to be intimidated. From this point onward, Florestan takes charge of my case.”

Florestan? Where had I heard that name before? Then I remembered: Adelmann had referred to Florestan and Eusebius, the two companions Schumann had long ago invented and who inhabited his imagination and supposedly spoke to him in times of emotional distress. Florestan, the man of action, bold, impetuous, even reckless; Eusebius, soft-natured, introspective, brooding. “Maestro,” I said, “this is not a time to wallow in fantasy. We must stick to reality. I must know, is Adelmann's version as to how he acquired the Beethoven manuscript true…or is it false?”

With a look of grim determination, Schumann donned his hat and turned to leave, the crumpled newspaper in his firm grip.

“You haven't answered my question, Dr. Schumann,” I called after him as he reached my office door and began to open it.

Schumann turned to face me. “Florestan does not answer questions. Florestan is not on trial here. To hell with you, Preiss. Florestan will get on without you.”