Murder in A-Major (19 page)

W
e were in the interrogation room deep in the bowels of the Constabulary, just the two of us, Wilhelm Hupfer and I, he perched uncomfortably on the edge of an unforgiving wooden bench, facing me, the same bench on which some forty-eight hours earlier Walter Thüringer (now at least in one sense my key witness) had bought his freedom by informing me of Hupfer's lavish acquisitions. Ever since my first exposure to this room as a fledgling detective, I have regarded it as a windowless, dank entranceway to Hell, a checkpoint where one's criminal credentials are finally certified before one makes that final passage into the eternal fires. Indeed, in the flickering gaslight that provides the only illumination, even visiting saints take on the look of sinners.

Not that Wilhelm Hupfer was a visiting saint. Far from it.

“The tuning fork, Hupfer…you tampered with it, didn't you? Fixed it so that it would be just sharp enough that someone like Schumann would go out of his mind hearing it, remembering it, isn't that the truth?” Putting this question to Hupfer, I made a point of holding the fork almost touching his nose. “Look here, Hupfer. See, one prong has been shaved ever so slightly. One can barely notice it. In fact, you actually have to run a finger along each prong to discover that one is different from the other.” Rudy von Schirach had demonstrated this for my benefit, and now I was inviting Hupfer to test the instrument. “Here, see for yourself—”

“No no no! Von Schirach is wrong!”

“You knew, didn't you, Hupfer, that Schumann suffered from auditory hallucinations, because you have been in contact with the doctor who was treating him, Dr. Möbius? And you knew that these hallucinations would be aggravated if you mis-tuned his pianos, isn't that correct?”

“I know nothing about such mental nonsense,” Hupfer said. “Besides, I've never heard of Dr. Paul Möbius.”

“Oh, so you know his first name is Paul?”

“Did I say Paul?”

“Not only did you say Paul, but let me remind you that one morning recently, as I was leaving the doctor's residence, you were making your way into that same house. Why?”

“I have absolutely no recollection of that,” Hupfer said. But all the classic signs of lying were now showing up: the biting of the lips, the shifting of the eyes, the veins beginning to stand out at the man's temples.

I said, “Tell me, why did you kill Georg Adelmann?”

“I did not murder Adelmann!” he cried out. “You must believe me!”

“And why should I believe you, Hupfer? You've already lied to me twice: once about the condition of the tuning fork, and a second time about your acquaintanceship with Dr. Möbius. So why should I believe you?”

“Because I will now tell you something, and you will know I am speaking the truth.”

“Go on,” I said. “I'm waiting.”

“I am
not
a murderer, Inspector. I had absolutely no reason to kill Adelmann. I don't even recall meeting the man, although our paths might have crossed…maybe at Schumanns', maybe elsewhere, who knows. But yes, there
was
a plan to destroy Schumann, and I confess I was part of it, though I did not originate it, I swear to God.”

“Then who did?”

“Wieck…Madam Schumann's father…it was all his idea. Wieck and Dr. Möbius, those two had become close, close enough that Wieck knew all of Möbius's theories concerning hallucinations, especially Maestro Schumann's. And I became involved because Wieck figured out that Schumann, being as sensitive to pitch as he was, would be driven out of his mind by a combination of his own mental problems and my ability to manipulate the tuning of his pianos. Which explains why Schumann complained constantly that the A sound kept running through his head.”

I wanted to know how Wieck would have possessed the technical knowledge required to concoct his scheme.

“Anybody who has been around pianos as long as Wieck learns a few basic principles about sound. For example: a normal human has a hearing range which extends all the way from one vibration per second to twenty-thousand. When a piano is perfectly tuned, A vibrates four hundred and forty-times per second. But then there are what we call ‘partials'. If you press the key for A above middle C on an instrument that is properly tuned, yes, you hear the fundamental A-440, but that is not all. You should also hear a series of partials that are multiples of four hundred forty…such as eight hundred eighty, thirteen hundred twenty, seventeen hundred sixty, twenty-two hundred, and so on right up to a fifteenth or even twentieth partial.”

“In other words,” I said, “if I depress a single key, the result is an entire
chord
of partials?”

“Precisely.”

“So it stands to reason, Hupfer, that if one distorts the tuning by sharpening A, the resulting partials entering sensitive ears like Schumann's can become not simply irritating but downright maddening if carried on over a sufficient period of time. Am I correct?”

Hupfer dropped his head. I thought I heard him whisper, “Yes.”

“Why would a man with your skill, your reputation, become an accomplice…
why?
”

“As I said to you at my shop, the performer gets the adulation and the money. But all a man like me earns is a reputation. Wieck paid me much more generously than Schumann ever would or could.”

“But the Schumanns
trusted
you, Hupfer,” I said. “You were ‘Willi' to them, you were like family. You knew—how could you of all people
not
know?—how fine a line Schumann walked when it came to his emotions and his tempers.”

Hupfer looked me straight in the eye. “Think of me what you will, Preiss,” he said, “but I have told you the truth about my part in Wieck's plot. And I am telling you the truth about Adelmann's death. The tuning fork is mine. But I swear before God
I did not kill him
.”

S
o, Preiss, let me see if I understand what you've been up to—”

Over the years, I had learned that whenever Commissioner Schilling commenced a review of my activities with these words, the threat of crucifixion hung in the air. Fingering my report, a one-page document containing as little specific information as I could hope to get away with, he cleared his throat noisily several times (I hated to imagine what he was coughing up) while I stood awaiting his summation.

“It seems, firstly, that you saw fit, acting as usual solely on your own initiative, to give this jeweller Thüringer his freedom in exchange for some tidbit of information no doubt of questionable value considering its source.”

“Well, sir, that's not quite—” I started to explain.

“Kindly do not interrupt,” the Commissioner barked. “Walter Thüringer…a thief and habitual receiver of stolen goods…that is a fact, is it not?”

“Well, Commissioner—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Secondly, having gone to the trouble of acting upon the tip from the jeweller and arresting this piano-tuner…what's his name?”

“Hupfer, sir. Wilhelm Hupfer.”

“Right. Hupfer. Apparently a devious lowlife who confesses—
confesses, mind you
—that he's been the technical mastermind behind a plot aimed at driving that fellow Schumann insane…am I correct thus far, Preiss?”

“You are indeed, sir.”

“Yes, and what do you do about him, eh? You release
him
as well and send him back to society! And why? On what grounds? On the excuse that the victim of this evil plot is ensconced in an asylum somewhere and in no position to testify against the perpetrators? Since when is that a reason not to proceed with prosecution?”

“If I might explain, sir—”

“Again you interrupt! I will
not
be interrupted, Preiss, is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Now then, I want you to examine this so-called report—” Schilling thrust the page across his desk “—and be so good as to tell me what it says about the one
important
case on your assignment list. I'm referring of course to the murder of Georg Adelmann. I would have expected,” Schilling said, “that by this time you would have produced a suspect, a murder weapon, a clear motive, perhaps even a witness or two, certainly enough that we could assure the public that Düsseldorf is not Hamburg, that we do not tolerate crime and molly-coddle our criminals. But what does your report say of all this, eh?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“In other words, Inspector,” Schilling said, reaching across his desk and seizing the sheet of paper, “this sorry account…two men arrested, the same two released…
this
is all you've managed to accomplish, while whoever killed Georg Adelmann in cold blood is presumably dining at this very hour on roast goose with a good bottle of Moselle at Emmerich's. And what's worse, probably laughing up his sleeve!”

“Not quite, sir,” I said.

A deep scowl darkened the reddish blotches on the Commissioner's face.

“Not quite? What the devil does that mean, Preiss?”

“I'm certain the person who killed Georg Adelmann is
not
dining at Emmerich's. Nor is he laughing up his sleeve. On the contrary, he is probably suffering greater tortures than any convict you or I have ever sent to prison.”

“You're talking in riddles,” the Commissioner said, his anger rising another notch. “You know, Preiss, I've always suspected that at heart you're a romantic, but all these cultural pretensions of yours don't fool me, not for a minute. It's plain to me that you haven't the slightest notion who Adelmann's murderer is, and so you attempt to mask your failure with some fictional nonsense. Tortures indeed!”

Schilling made a scoffing sound through his nose as he once again thrust my report back at me. “Tell me something, Preiss,” he said, “can you think of one good reason why I should not, here and now, on the spot, dismiss you from the force?”

I stood pondering the question for a few moments.

“Well?”

I took another moment or two, then said “Baron von Hoffman.”

Schilling eyed me suspiciously, but nervously now too. “What about the Baron?”

“I simply point out, sir, that he has on several occasions recently made certain overtures to me—”

“Overtures? What sort of overtures?”

“As you will no doubt appreciate,” I said, “the Baron and Baroness are concerned in these increasingly crime-ridden times about their personal safety as well as the security of their manor here, their country estate, and their valuable contents. And since the Baron's time is very much taken up with his public duties—you will recall that, among other functions, he is chairman of the committee which determines retirement benefits for senior civil servants such as yourself—he has too little time to attend to certain personal needs of an urgent nature. He has therefore suggested that, with your concurrence of course, it would be most beneficial…I mean beneficial for him and the Baroness…if I were delegated to look into arrangements concerning their safety and security, especially when they find it necessary to travel abroad. I assume this would not unduly inconvenience you, sir?”

I put this last statement in the form of a question, knowing full well what the old man's response would be.

“The Baron wants this, eh? Well now—” Again much throat-clearing. “We'll have to give this some very serious thought, will we not? One certainly cannot overlook the wishes of one of our most important citizens, can one? Imagine the shame that would befall our fair city should the Baron and Baroness come to grief! Very well, Preiss, I will expect a detailed plan by the end of this week regarding the von Hoffmans. In the meantime, give me something—
any
thing—that I can present to the mayor regarding this damned Adelmann affair.”

There followed a strange moment of silence, and I had the feeling that Commissioner Schilling wanted to say more but was holding back. Cautiously, I said, “Does the Commissioner have any further instructions? Otherwise, I take it that I may return to my office and resume my duties.”

The Commissioner rose and came around to my side of his desk. In a quiet confidential tone, he said, “It occurs to me, Preiss, that a day or two ago you had quite a confrontation with an itinerant group of gypsies.”

“That is correct, sir. So I did. And a not-too-pleasant band they were.”

“Ah, yes,” Schilling said, nodding agreeably. “Trouble-makers, every single one of 'em, eh?”

“Why do you mention this?” I asked.

Lowering his voice still more, Schilling said, “It would be very convenient…for
all
of us, you understand…if we could report to the mayor that Adelmann was likely done in by one or more of these here-today-gone-tomorrow gypsy types. You know how these journalist types like to mess about. Never saw one that didn't have a bohemian streak in him. You understand, Preiss, I'm sure.”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Well then, enough time wasted, eh? Back to work!”

*    *    *

For the record, Baron von Hoffman had not in fact approached me with a proposal to protect him and his wife and their precious possessions. But he was instantly enthusiastic when I approached
him
with the idea (which, in fact, I made a point of doing not more than an hour after my latest encounter with the Commissioner).

“I do admire a man like you, Preiss,” the Baron said, beaming and clapping a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Imagination, that's what gives a man a place in the sun, eh?”

I was keenly aware that the Baron had
inherited
his place in the sun, but why split hairs? “Thank you, Your Excellency,” I said. “I look forward to being of service to you for many years to come.”

“Indeed you will!” said the Baron. “One of these days we'll be considering a successor to Commissioner Schilling. Face it, the man deserves a good long rest, don't you agree?”

Hoping I sounded generous, I said, “The Commissioner deserves more than that, sir.”

His hand still pressing my shoulder, the Baron said, “You're a good man, Preiss. You must dine one evening soon with the Baroness and me. Oh, and be sure to bring along that charming friend of yours, the cellist—”

“Fräulein Becker—”

“Yes, by all means. Fine musician, that young woman. And not hard to look at, eh? Made quite an impression on me that evening at the Schumanns. By the way, I hear Schumann had to be carted off to some hospital near Bonn. Endenich or some such place. From all accounts, it sounds like the poor fellow has gone mad. Pity about these creative people, isn't it? All sorts of wild rumours floating about, too. Mostly about his wife and this young musician Brahms.” The Baron regarded me with a cagey smile. ‘You happen to know anything about all this, Preiss?”

“Very little,” I said. “Domestic matters of that sort are really no concern of my department.”

“Of course,” the Baron said, nodding in an understanding way. “Just a bit of idle curiosity on my part. Anyway, composers come and go, don't they. We lose one, we gain another. I'm old enough, Preiss, to remember when Beethoven died. Everyone moaned and groaned about the musical world coming to an end. But it didn't come to an end, did it? Which reminds me: anything new about the murder of Georg Adelmann? You know, the last time I saw the poor fellow was at the Schumanns' musicale. I happened to wander into the Maestro's study, and there was Adelmann, all alone, standing transfixed before a cabinet, gazing at an original Beethoven manuscript. I left the room, but Adelmann couldn't seem to tear himself away from it. Odd how one thought leads to another, eh?”

You have no idea, sir, how odd,” I said and left it at that.