Murder in A-Major (9 page)

I
returned to my office at the constabulary headquarters on foot rather than by carriage. I wanted time to gather my thoughts after what was, at best, an hour of pure frustration spent—
wasted
is perhaps a better word—in the company of Germany's reputed leader in the new field of Psychiatry, Dr. Paul Möbius. A feeling of defeat weighed heavily on my shoulders, and my mood was not at all lightened by a typical February sky that pressed down from the clouds, a vast ominous quilt of grey stretching from one end of the city to the other. Nor was my mood improved when, approaching my desk, I spotted a note carefully propped up, so it could not possibly be missed. The gold seal representing the Düsseldorf Police District at the top of the note meant only one thing: a summons to appear before the Commissioner.

“Close the door, Preiss,” was the Commissioner's curt greeting as I entered his office. Behind his handsome desk, my superior was pretending to peruse the detectives' assignment ledger. His thick eyebrows hung over his spectacles like nightshades, always a sign that a storm was brewing. “Schumann…Schumann…I see no reference to a Schumann matter here. There's no official complaint on file. No criminal report of any sort. I have no record of having appointed you to investigate anything pertaining to this fellow.”

“Indeed, sir, you did not.”

“Then by what authority are you engaged in this wild goose chase?”

I nodded in the direction of a nearby chair. “It's a bit complicated, sir. May I sit?”

“No, Preiss, you may
not
sit. I ask you again, who authorized this waste of police resources and taxpayers' money?”

My mind began to race. How had this scowling bundle of facial hair learned that I had become involved in the Schumann affair? I thought my movements in and out of the affair had been discreet these past few days. I'd forgotten that any reasonably trained detective on our staff could have snooped in my daily calendar and put two and two together. God knows, there were enough junior inspectors who were jealous of my rank in the police force and considered me stand-offish.

His jowls shaking with indignation and impatience, the Commissioner repeated his question. “Well, Preiss, for the third time, who authorized you?”

I was forced to think quickly. Then, keeping my voice low, as though disclosing a sacred confidence, I said, “I take it, sir, that Baron and Baroness von Hoffman have confided in you about this Schumann matter?”

The simple mention of these two local aristocrats suddenly drew the Commissioner to attention, even though he was seated. “Confided in me? About what, precisely?”

I replied, “About their extreme distress concerning threats upon the life of their dear friend Dr. Schumann. Surely, they must have brought it to your attention, sir. Perhaps, in your own desire to be circumspect…after all, this is a potentially embarrassing situation for many distinguished people who are suspects. Perhaps the matter was not recorded and a formal file opened—”

“Are you suggesting that my office has been lax in this regard?” A crack in his voice told me he was now backing down.

“Sir, I assure you that I meant no criticism of the Commissioner's personal staff. It would most certainly not be my place to—”

“Indeed, it most certainly would not,” he broke in. “Rank and discipline still have their place, you know.”

“Absolutely, Commissioner.” I paused, as though letting his little sermon sink in, then said, “But I feel compelled to mention that I did happen to have a brief chat with the Baron and Baroness just the other night…at the Schumanns', as a matter of fact” I knew of course that Baron von Hoffman was chairman of the regional board that determined retirement benefits awarded to dutiful (and obsolete) senior civil servants. Facing his own retirement, the Commissioner was keenly aware that the Baron held the key to the old policeman's future. With the mere stroke of a baronial pen, that future could be a grove, or a grave.

“You're saying the Baron and Baroness have a personal interest in the outcome of this investigation, Preiss?” The Commissioner's voice had now lost its edge.

“With all due respect, sir,” I replied, again keeping my voice low, “I must emphasize that I have been urged by them…I mean the Baron and his wife, of course…to attempt to keep my investigation as secret as possible. There are, as I said, a number of suspects, people in high places.”

“Say no more, Preiss. I am not pleased, I must tell you, that you have undertaken this investigation entirely on your own. However, I'm prepared to make allowances.”

“I do thank you, sir. You are most understanding.”

“Mind, Preiss—” The Commissioner rose from his chair and stood to his full height. “This is not to be deemed an open ticket, you understand. I am prepared to go along with all of this…but not forever.”

“Meaning, sir?”

“Meaning that you must conclude this business one way or another. If you manage to resolve it, well, I suppose it'll be a feather in your cap of sorts. If you
don't
I will expect you to make up for much lost time. You have a fortnight, and not one hour more. That's all, Inspector. You may go.”

I
was hungry for any new piece of information that might be of help to me, and, faced now with the Commissioner's ultimatum, I lost no time arranging that evening to meet Helena Becker for a late supper at Café Amadeus on Prinz Mannheimstrasse in Düsseldorfs commercial district, where at that hour there was little likelihood of our being recognized and interrupted. With its thick carpets, heavily-draped windows and generously upholstered booths and banquettes, it was ideal for intimate conversation. In the booth Helena and I occupied, the glow from a glass-encased candle at the centre of the table had painted her skin a soft shade of gold. “You look more ravishing than ever, Helena,” I said.

She did not return the compliment. “You look worn-out, Hermann.” She was studying my face, to which the candlelight was apparently not at all kind.

“I've not been sleeping well for several nights, now,” I admitted.

“Ah yes, the Schumann case—”

“Case? I'm still not sure it's a
case
, Helena. Everywhere I turn, it seems, there are blank spaces. No smoking pistols, bloody daggers, poison-pen letters. There's nothing but a possible lunatic who insists he hears a particular musical note in strange places and at strange times. And yet I cannot for the life of me let go!”

“Perhaps I can relieve your frustration a little,” she said. Taking her time, she glanced to either side of her, then behind her and over my shoulder. At last, satisfied she could speak without being overheard, she leaned closer. “Well, Hermann,” she said, “I've a piece of news for you…an important piece from a very reliable source. It will cost you, though. I'm thinking of the veal schnitzel and a very good Riesling to go with it.”

“Done! What news?”

“Johannes Brahms has slept with Clara Schumann.”

“And how do you know this, Helena?”

“Because
I
slept with Franz Liszt.”

“You…
you
…slept with—” I could not bring myself to complete the sentence.

Without the slightest hesitation, without so much as a tinge of embarrassment, Helena nodded. “But I don't understand why you're so shocked, Hermann. I thought a policeman learns to expect the unexpected.”

“The unexpected is one thing; the preposterous is quite another.”

Helena's complexion suddenly reddened. Instantly, I realized I'd blundered.

“You mean,” she said, “it's preposterous that Franz Liszt would want to sleep with
me
.”

“No, of course not!” I protested. “What I meant was, it's preposterous that
you
would want to sleep with Liszt. Not since Nero has any man had such a reputation as a debaucher of women!”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy in your voice, Hermann? Maybe I'd better clarify something…just to ease your pain. We didn't exactly
sleep
together.”

I couldn't resist a sarcastic response to this. “So by a strange coincidence, Helena Becker and Franz Liszt are simply a woman and man who suffer from insomnia and happen to find themselves in the same bedroom.”

“Not quite,” Helena said. “What we did was, we shared a bed…in his suite at his hotel. You see, he'd noticed me that night at the Schumanns' and gotten my name and address from Georg Adelmann. A beautifully-penned note and a magnificent bouquet of flowers followed next day. And that evening we had a late repast in his hotel suite. And then—”

Her account ended abruptly, punctuated by a shrug as if to say “
Well, what would you expect to happen next?
”

“And then the two of you went off to bed,” I said, trying my damndest to be insouciant about all this. “Do go on, Helena.”

She pretended to be remorseful. “You've mentioned how much you loathe surprises, Hermann dear, and I
am
truly sorry to be so blunt about all this. What is it the British say…‘Truth will out'?”

“I hope for your sake, Helena, Liszt's capability was up to the task at hand. He's no spring chicken, you know.”

“Liszt's ‘capability' is probably every bit as impressive as your own. The fact is, however, that it did not need to be tested. In other words, there
was
no task at hand.”

“Oh really? Well now, let me guess the reason,” I said. “Liszt was scheduled to play a strenuous recital program the following day and had to conserve his strength. Funny thing, Helena; I thought that excuse applied only to operatic tenors.”

Helena said, “We lay in bed, yes. But Franz—”

“Ah, so it's ‘Franz', is it? How charming. The great man permits you to address him by his first name!”

In a matter-of-fact tone, Helena said, “When a man's head is resting on your lap, you can hardly be expected to address him as ‘Maestro' or ‘Doctor'. Now let me continue, and
please
, do not interrupt. Franz and I lay together, and he spoke about the hollowness that fame has left in his soul. Do you know what he plans to do, Hermann? He plans to retire for a period of time to a monastery. He refers to it as making a pilgrimage. He is desperate for spiritual renewal.”

I wanted to avoid the temptation to be snide, but somewhere near the tip of my tongue there was a trap door, and the words unstoppably came tumbling out. “For a period of time? What are we talking about, twenty-four hours? Be serious, Helena. It's common knowledge that Liszt has been in and out of law courts defending himself against charges of breach of promise to marry, libel and slander, failure to pay bills. I could go on and on. His career before the bar is almost as illustrious as his career on the concert stage. And you're telling me this man is desperate for spiritual renewal?”

“He says he yearns for a new life, and I believe him, Hermann. He is keenly aware that in certain musical circles he merits very little respect, especially in regard to his compositions. Let me tell you what happened to him last year in Weimar. Liszt generously opened his mansion there for Sunday matinées…chamber music, student recitals, introductions of new music, all very stimulating, as you can imagine. Well, on one of those Sunday afternoons, one of Liszt's guests was Johannes Brahms—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but I was under the impression that Liszt and Brahms met for the very first time just the other evening at the Schumanns'.”

“It did seem as though they'd never before met, but it is more likely that both men preferred to forget their earlier encounter with one another. You see, what occurred at the Weimar matinée a year ago was this: young Brahms shows up with a recently completed first draft of his Scherzo. But when Liszt invites Brahms to play it for the small group of friends present, Brahms is too shy or too nervous. So Liszt sits down and sight-reads the piece from beginning to end. A flawless performance, for which Brahms warmly thanks him. The audience too is enthusiastic. Then it's Liszt's turn to play one of his own pieces. And during one of the more dramatic moments, Franz happens to glance over at Brahms. Do you know what Johannes Brahms was doing, Hermann? He was slouched in his chair…
dozing!
”

“So what? How does this qualify Liszt to speak with authority about Brahms's sexual relationship with Clara Schumann?”

“The piano tuner.”

“Pardon me?”

“The piano tuner,” Helena said. “Wilhelm Hupfer. You remember, his name came up when—”

“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently, “Of course I remember. What's
he
got to do with anything? The man's a mechanic. He works with hammers and wrenches.”

“Yes, Hermann,” Helena said, “but because he's the best there is in these parts, he was hired to tune Liszt's practice piano in his suite at the hotel. Naturally the two men—Liszt and Hupfer—got around to the subject of the Schumanns and their protégé. Well, it appears that our master technician not only has keen ears as befits a man in his trade, but keen eyesight as well. Hupfer was working at the Schumanns' the afternoon of the musicale. And Maestro Schumann was absent at the time. She…I mean his wife…said he'd been out, presumably trying to drink his anxieties away at some tavern or other while she—poor downtrodden woman— was left to attend to…how did she put it?…‘a thousand-and-one last minute details'.”

“I think those were her exact words, yes.”

“Well, Hermann, she miscounted. There were a thousand-and-
two
last minute details.”

I raised a hand to stop Helena. “Don't tell me. Brahms was, shall we say, on her list of things to do. What did Hupfer say to Liszt, and what did Liszt pass on to you?”

“There are
two
grand pianos in the Schumann drawing room, remember?”

“Yes.” Then I recalled what Hupfer had told me when I visited him at his shop. “Apparently one was fairly new…the Klems, made here in Düsseldorf, not a great instrument but, being new, it didn't require a lot of work. The older piano required much more attention, of course. Hupfer spent two hours working on the older instrument getting it into proper shape.”

“But in fact, Clara performed on the Klems instrument,” Helena continued. “And before her, when they introduced Brahms, which piano did he play?”

I took a moment to recollect. “He played on the same, the Klems.”

“Correct,” said Helena. “So a question arises here.”

“Yes? What question?”

She picked up a butter knife—one I had been fidgeting with earlier—and began brandishing it as though it was a pointer and she was giving instruction. “Hupfer arrives at the Schumanns' and is prepared to commence his work after being admitted to the house by one of the servants. Madam Schumann is nowhere to be seen at this point, and the servant explains that the Maestro has gone off somewhere and is not expected to return until later in the afternoon. Fine. So Hupfer moves off into the drawing-room. And there, of course, sit the two grand pianos—”

“Yes, yes, Helena, for God's sake get to the point—”

“And just as Hupfer is removing his jacket and about to roll up his sleeves to get down to work, he hears a furtive whispering that comes from the stairs in the hallway just outside the drawing-room, the voices of a man and a woman. Next thing, guess what?”

“
What?
”

“In rushes Brahms. Coatless. No neckwear. Shirtfront partly unbuttoned. And that head of hair…those long blond—”

“Never mind. I gather his hair was unkempt, and he looked dishevelled. What then?”

“‘Pardon the intrusion,' Brahms says to Willi Hupfer, ‘but it seems I've forgotten something.' And Brahms seizes a small leather bag that's sitting atop the Klems. And in his haste to retrieve it, he spills the contents of the bag on the floor, then begins to scoop them up, muttering things like, ‘How stupid of me, how clumsy!' Then, after Hupfer notices that the bag contains tools very much like his own, Brahms feels called upon to explain.”

“Helena,” I pleaded, “please put down the butter knife.” She was waving it uncomfortably close to my face now. “Just tell me what Brahms said.”

Not heeding my request, but grasping the knife as though it was a javelin about to be hurled, Helena went on. “Brahms snaps the bag shut and says to Hupfer, ‘I'm very particular, you understand, about the piano I'm to perform on being adjusted exactly to my taste, so I prefer to make the adjustments myself beforehand. I therefore took time to regulate the Klems, because I'll be using it this evening.' And then he says to Hupfer, ‘Please don't let me interrupt you; I will return later for some last-minute regulating on the Klems.' Why is this so significant? Because, according to Liszt, there isn't another pianist in Europe these days who does his own tuning and regulating. That job is always left to trained technicians, experts like Hupfer. One reason is that most pianos are located in public concert halls, and their proprietors do not take kindly to keyboard prima donnas marching in and messing about with the house instruments. And even when a performance is scheduled to take place in a private salon, the same unwritten rule applies. Technical work is for technicians. Period!”

Helena sat back, put down the butter knife with a resolute smack on the tabletop, and said, “Well now, Inspector Preiss, have I earned the schnitzel and Riesling?”

I was too lost in thought to respond. What were piling up, one on top of another, were questions, not answers.

Sounding annoyed, Helena said, “Really, Hermann, you are the essence of ingratitude. I fill your cup to overflowing, and what do I receive in return? An empty stare. And, by the way, an empty plate.”

I took an anxious look at the café clock just in time to hear its chimes announce eight o'clock, which meant that behind the swinging doors at the rear of the place, the chef would be shedding his white cap and apron for the night.

Our waiter, without uttering a word, began subtracting our cutlery, glassware, basket of rolls and tray of condiments, leaving our table naked.

We stood on the sidewalk outside the café now, Helena and I, exiled by a disgruntled waiter.

She said, “Hermann, it so happens I haven't had a shred to eat since breakfast early this morning. Is the fact that I'm starving to death of even the remotest interest to you?”

I'm afraid my answer was entirely out of context.

“Hupfer tells these things to Franz Liszt,” I said. My eyes wandered along the street, its stores and offices dark now, its pavement deserted. “Hupfer tells these things to Franz Liszt,” I repeated, once again lost in my own thoughts. “But for some reason he chooses not to tell
me
—”

“Hermann, in case you haven't noticed, I'm still here—”

“And then…and then there's his visit to Dr. Möbius—”

“All right,” Helena said, sounding like a martyr, “we'll overlook the fact that I'm famished. What exactly have Dr. Möbius and Hupfer got to do with anything?”

My eyes drifted back to Helena. “Helena, dearest, I don't know the answer to your question, but here's what I want you to do.”