Murder in A-Major (21 page)

She moved to the Klems and stood at the keyboard. “Let me show you something,” she said. Raising her right hand head high, she suddenly plunged it downward, striking A above middle C with her index finger with such force that the resulting sound pierced the air like a scream, causing me to wince. It was the kind of attack that would have shaken no less a fortress than a full-size Bosendorfer. “Now watch again, please,” she said. Again her right hand ascended, this time slightly above her head, then descended even more forcefully, the index finger drilling into the same ivory key like a meteor biting into rock. But instead of the note sounding, there was a loud snap.

“My God, what was that?” I cried.

Her smile was almost triumphant. “
That
,” Clara said, “is the sound of a piano string breaking loose from its tuning pin.”

“Very impressive,” I said, somewhat amused. “How often do you do this kind of thing?”

She shook her head. “I leave such antics to Franz Liszt,” she replied. “Every time Liszt causes a piano string to pop, a million female hearts pop. Women love masculine displays of that sort. But let me get to the point of all this, Inspector. I fear I'm taking up too much of your time.”

“Yes, please. The point—”

“When a string is new, it tends to stretch. If the piano hasn't had the benefit of several thorough re-tunings so that the new string can settle in, an extra-hard strike can cause it to snap. As you've just witnessed, even a seasoned string may react the same way. Sunday morning, after I'd perused Hupfer's statement of account and become suspicious, I needed an excuse to summon him.”

“On Sunday? Wouldn't that be unusual?”

“Yes, of course. But I made it sound like a matter of life and death. Also, I made a point of mentioning that his latest bill would be paid at the same time, together with any additional charges, just to sweeten his Sabbath.”

“And your excuse for sending for him?”

“I did just what you saw me do, Inspector. I delivered a blow to his newly-installed A string that could be heard from one end of Düsseldorf to the other.”

“And the string snapped?”

“Like a dry twig. Well, it turned out that Willi was able to re-attach the string, which I suppose is a tribute to his skill, because a factory-made string might not have survived the experience. Then, out comes Willi's tuning fork, because the string must be re-tuned, following which he deposits the fork in his tool satchel. I insist that he stay for a slice of warm strudel, his favourite. While he's distracted in the dining room, I suddenly remember something I've left behind in the parlour. His satchel lies open next to the Klems. I locate the tuning fork, pocket it, and close the satchel. After Hupfer's departure, I test the tuning fork and the new string. Need I say more, Inspector?”

“You left the tuning fork concealed under Adelmann's body hoping that it would be traced to Hupfer. In other words, you acted with all the forethought and craftiness of a hardened criminal…or so you would have me believe.”

“You needn't sound so skeptical, Inspector,” Clara said. “You happen to be perfectly correct.”

“And your reason for going to Adelmann's apartment in the first place?”

“Why, I should think my reason was obvious. I wanted him to delete from his monograph that filth about Robert. At first, I asked him very politely to do so. That was met by a refusal, some lame excuse about not wanting to compromise his precious integrity as a journalist. I tried reasoning with him. When reasoning failed, I tried pleading. Pleading too failed. I humbled myself and resorted to begging. He laughed in my face, then made some lewd remark about my relationship with Johannes Brahms and accused me of being hypocritical, attempting to shield Robert's reputation with one hand while cheating on him with the other. Finally, I
demanded
that he not publish the offensive parts of the monograph. Again he laughed in my face. That was Georg Adelmann's last laugh.”

I sat back in my chair staring at the woman, shaking my head from side to side, at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “I did not come here expecting to listen to what I can only call an incredible confession.”

“Then why
did
you come?”

“To warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“About the fact that Adelmann's monograph is missing and may well have gotten into the wrong hands. You may have to prepare yourself for—”

“For a scandal?”

I said, “You seem strangely resigned about all this, almost indifferent. Have I not made myself clear? I mean, if these events become public knowledge—”

Without replying, Clara rose from her chair, took several steps across the drawing-room and stopped before a massive mahogany armoire that occupied the better part of one wall and stood at least a half-metre taller than she. From a pocket of her frock she removed a large brass key, which she used to unlock the armoire, its two heavy doors falling open like the doors of a tabernacle, revealing shelves crammed with what appeared to be music manuscripts, notebooks, thick orchestral scores and some ancient-looking textbooks. Pointing to the uppermost shelf whose contents were barely visible, she called to me, “I need your assistance, Inspector.”

At her request I reached up and brought down a package wrapped in a carefully folded linen cloth and securely tied with a black silk ribbon.

“
Voilà!
” she quietly said, presenting me with the package. “You see, Inspector Preiss, I told you the truth. It was I who went to Adelmann's rooms, I who killed him, I who found and removed the monograph you now see before you. I trust you no longer find my account incredible.”

“Despite what you say,” I protested, “it
could
have been your husband. After all, he was capable of doing exactly what you insist
you
did.”

“Physically capable, yes. But mentally? Never! Robert floated from Eusebius to Florestan to Eusebius to Florestan, on and on in that fashion, the way the tides in the Rhine ebb and flow endlessly. He was like Hamlet; full of determination one minute, completely irresolute the next. It was amazing that he managed to accomplish as much as he did. So, I suppose there is nothing more to say, is there?”

“I'm not certain I agree with you,” I said.

“Now, now, we mustn't be stubborn about this. You have all the evidence you need—the tuning fork, Adelmann's manuscript, my own confession. If you will pardon the pun, there is no need to soft-pedal whatever it is your duty requires you to do now. I'm not Beethoven; the poor man couldn't bring himself to end a piece of music in fewer than twenty bars. I know a finale when I see it. I am ready to face justice. I've made suitable arrangements for the care of our children. As for poor Robert, it's best that he remain distanced from the real world, at least for the time being.”

Once again, I found myself speechless. She had handed over the papers in what was intended to be a gesture of surrender, and I had taken them from her mechanically, my mind still frozen in disbelief. Even my body seemed incapable of reacting to this turn of events, my shoes feeling as though the soles had been nailed to the floor. Was she telling me the truth? Or was she a devilishly clever liar? And then again, given what I myself had done at the bridge, did it really matter?

“Well, Inspector?” she said, again with that remarkable calmness.

Slowly, I found my tongue. “There is one problem, Madam Schumann…from my standpoint, that is: The tuning fork? Well, it is no longer in my possession. It lies at the bottom of the Rhine—”

Clara Schumann's eyes grew suddenly large. Her mouth was agape.

“I put it there,” I said.

“You did
what?
”

“I disposed of the tuning fork.”

You mean…by
accident?
”

“On the contrary. I deliberately threw it into the river.”

“I—I don't understand, Inspector.” Her expression now was one of disbelief. “Surely what you did flies in the face of what you are duty-bound to do, I mean, to solve mysteries.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but then again, some mysteries are not meant to be solved. At least, that is what I'm beginning to believe.”

I moved away from the armoire and returned to the fireplace on the other side of the drawing-room. “That's a fine blaze,” I said, “and very heartwarming on a day like this.”

She remained near the armoire watching me.

Almost in a whisper, I said, “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” Then I knelt down and laid Adelmann's papers carefully atop the burning logs, staying in that kneeling position until I was certain that the flames had licked their way well into the bundle, the sheets browning and curling and disintegrating and rising up into the chimney in bright orange flecks.

I stood up, pulled my coat securely around me (by now the warmth of the fire had made it dry and comfortable) and said, “And now, goodbye, Madam Schumann. I hope we may meet again one day…under clearer circumstances.”

She came toward me and offered her hand which, without daring to look up at her, I kissed. I left her standing there, in the middle of the drawing-room, and let myself out. It would be—I felt certain—the last time I would ever find myself in that house.

*    *    *

That evening, again warmed before a blazing fire—this time in the peace and quiet of Helena Becker's sitting room—I indulged in a confession of my own. I related in precise detail each and every sin I had committed on this cold, wet, miserable day in Düsseldorf.

Without being coaxed or cajoled, I admitted that I had renounced—at least for the present—whatever credible claim I might have to the moral high ground that was supposed to be a police officer's habitat. “Some day, Helena,” I said, my mood wistful, “when I'm long into my dotage and have nothing to lose, I see myself parked in some working-class tavern and, over a glass or two of beer, raising the eyebrows of fresh-faced young colleagues with tales of my misdeeds. But do you think they will understand?”

“Not for a moment,” Helena said. “Nor would
you
have understood until the Schumanns turned your life upside down. Life is really about disorder, isn't it?”

“Perhaps I ought to become a monk, then. Or at least retire to a monastery as Franz Liszt proposes to do, and spend an orderly year in search of my soul.”

“Hermann, you are expert at many kinds of investigation,” Helena said (I had the feeling she was trying with difficulty not to laugh at me), “but men will land on the moon before you discover the whereabouts of your soul.”

That said, my confessor, in her own way, offered me absolution, gracefully given, and gratefully received.

Once again my father—or to put it more accurately, the man whom I was brought up to regard as my father— proved to be wrong. There
was
such a thing as a good surprise.

T
he English have a saying:
Leave well enough alone
. Ironically, it's a piece of advice the English notoriously fail to heed, judging by their penchant nowadays for marching, or sailing, into far-off places, ignoring the local populations there, planting their Union Jacks in foreign soil, and proclaiming ownership of that soil. Frankly, it's a characteristic of the English that I've always admired, that ability to preach one thing but do the very opposite. Which accounts for what I did one day, but let me explain: After my final encounter with Clara Schumann, the day I dropped the tuning fork into the Rhine then, as an encore, tossed Adelmann's monograph into the fire, I told myself that my involvement with the Schumanns, while not neatly settled by any means, should be considered at an end. I wanted nothing more to do with them, or with their circle for that matter.

Leave well enough alone.

The Commissioner's irritation with me faded, and I found myself restored in his sight now that I had begun to throw myself into my regular line of police work with greater devotion. Several memoranda of praise actually landed on my desk from my superior, although I've no doubt he penned these encomiums bearing firmly in mind my connection to Baron von Hoffman)

Helena Becker swore I had changed for the better, despite breaching my sworn duty as an officer of the law, and her tenderness towards me now carried with it a tinge of respect, something I confess I hadn't always earned in the past in my dealings with her.

As for my relationships with my fellow officers, I became less stand-offish. After spending so much time exposed to the pretensions, jealousies, and unabashed backstabbing that prevails in Düsseldorf's cultural world, I suddenly found the simplicity of Düsseldorf's taverns refreshing. There is more honesty in beer than in wine.

Leave well enough alone.
And that is what I did; I left well enough alone.

Then, some fifteen months after Maestro Schumann's arrival at the hospital at Endenich, I awoke one morning before dawn after an inexplicably restless night and, as though sleepwalking, dressed, left my rooms, hailed a cab, and found myself at the train station purchasing a ticket for passage on the recently installed rail line to Bonn. Several hours later, still in a trance-like state, I took a cab from the centre of Bonn to the outskirts, Endenich, instructing the driver to take me to Number 182 Sebastianstrasse. I had not been in Bonn for a number of years, and under ordinary circumstances, I would have taken in the sights like a typical tourist as the horses clopped along, but I recall little or nothing about that carriage ride until the driver pulled into the stone-paved entranceway, swung round in his perch and, giving me a sad-eyed look, asked, “Do you need some assistance, sir? I can call for help if—”

Only then did I snap fully awake, or so it seemed. “No, no,
I
am not a patient,” I quickly assured him, though I'm afraid my protestation was not convincing, since he continued to look at me with nothing less than pity. “I'm here to
visit
a patient, but thank you anyway.”

If the hospital I was about to enter was a place for the storage of the insane, one would never have known it from the look of the place. Apart from a discreet bronze plaque which announced that it was a hospital (in fact the only private mental hospital in the Rhineland), everything about the building and the acres of ground upon which it sat suggested that here was an estate anyone of noble birth or recently acquired wealth would be proud to inhabit, an estate where great parties could be given and where, on a fair June afternoon such as this, on lawns upholstered with patches of meticulously arranged flowerbeds, guests could meander as though they hadn't a care in the world, except to locate the next glass of Champagne or a canapé.

This was the hospital of Dr. Franz Richarz, the domain of perhaps the only psychiatrist in Germany, indeed in Europe, who at the moment regarded mental illness as exactly that—an illness—rather than some form of moral failure or punishable evil.

The main building was a two-storey structure Dr. Richarz had remodelled to house no more than fourteen psychiatric patients. I presented my credentials to the doctor at his office on the ground floor. “I apologize,” I said to him, “for not communicating with you in advance about my plan to visit Dr. Schumann, but the pressures of my occupation are such that I never know from one day to the next…”

Dr. Richarz's eyes struck me as the kind that were capable of looking not only directly at me but
through
me, and whether or not he believed my flimsy excuse, he graciously accepted it. “I
am
aware of your interest in Dr. Schumann's troubles,” he acknowledged with a forgiving nod, “and, if you will pardon me for saying so, the only surprise is that you didn't come to see him sooner.”

His tone, though gentle, seemed to call for an apology for this, too. “Police inspectors are not prized, I'm afraid, for their hospital visitations,” I said. “Usually when we show up at someone's bedside, we serve only as a grim reminder of some crime that's been committed.”

The doctor gave me a warm smile. “No fear of that here, Inspector Preiss. Dr. Schumann is not bedridden…at least not much of the time, only occasionally…and I'm certain he'll be glad of the company. Let me escort you to his room.”

Mounting the broad stairway that led to the second storey, I asked if Schumann received many visitors. “Not many,” Dr. Richarz replied, “but the few who come are obviously close to him and of great importance to him, which is gratifying not only to the patient but to me as his doctor. It is so vital that he remain connected to the world outside, you see. Much of the treatment I render is based precisely on personal contacts being maintained as often as possible between the patient and his family and friends and professional colleagues.” At this point, Dr. Richarz halted suddenly and looked intently into my face. “Please understand, Inspector…Robert Schumann is not a freak.”

“But I never thought of him as a freak.”

“Others did. Others still do. I'm sorry if I offended you, Inspector Preiss.” We continued up the stairs. “Fortunately, his friend Brahms and his favourite violinist Josef Joachim visit fairly frequently. Paul Mendelssohn, the brother of the late Felix, sends letters, and I happen to know that he has assisted Madam Schumann financially because of her worries about money. A woman by the name of Bettina von Arnim paid him a visit not long ago; I gather, however, that, unlike the others, she was not favourably impressed with our facilities, nor with me apparently. Word got back to me that she found everything here, to quote her, ‘dreary'.” At the top of the stairs, the doctor paused again, and sighed. “I like to think that I've made
some
progress discerning the human mind, but
women?
”

We both laughed, but the truth was, as we approached the door to Schumann's room, I had an increasingly uneasy feeling about what I would find there.

Whatever fears I had vanished the moment the door opened. Schumann's bedroom, it turned out, was flooded with sunlight that poured through a generous pair of windows. Facing south and east, they offered a fine landscape, with mountains along the Rhine forming a backdrop. Opened wide, they permitted a gentle breeze to enter the room. The furnishings—a small writing table, a chest of drawers, several chairs, a bed with a handy night table—though modest, were almost pristine. Altogether these quarters were a far cry from the accommodations I had seen from time to time in my visits to asylums supported by the state, institutions whose long, dark corridors reeked of overcooked food and unemptied chamber pots and teemed with grotesque men and women milling aimlessly about, some muttering, others screaming, the air filled with hopelessness.

As I stepped into Schumann's room, I found him standing at one of the windows taking in the view, his back to me. Dr. Richarz called out “Maestro, you have a visitor.” Then, in a whisper, he said to me, “I'll leave you two alone; I'm sure you have much to talk about. Do take your time, Inspector.” I thanked him, watched him make his exit, quietly closing the door behind him, then called out, “Good afternoon, Maestro.”

Schumann remained standing at the window, his back still to me. “Why do I know that voice?” he called back. Then, very slowly, he turned to face me. Several times he blinked, then shut his eyes tightly, then re-opened them, like a blind man suddenly regaining his sight. His mouth twisted into a suspicious smile. “I believe I have been blinded by the sun. Or maybe you're an apparition. Is it really you, Preiss?”

“It is I, Maestro. Inspector Hermann Preiss…at your service, sir.”

Schumann let out a cynical laugh. “At
my
service, you say? You mean you're finally getting around to arresting me, then.”

“Good God, no!” I said. “I give you my word—”

“Your
word?
If memory serves, your
word
has a tendency to evaporate much the way a spy's ink becomes invisible. Your word, if I recall correctly, does not always stand up when exposed to air and light.”

“Please believe me, Dr. Schumann,” I said, “this is strictly a social call.”

“A social call? Inspector Hermann Preiss, one of Düsseldorf's finest, travels all the way to Endenich to make a social call, eh? Well now, I suppose we should pull over a couple of comfortable chairs, sit ourselves down, and have a nice chat about the good old days…not that there were many. Tell me, Preiss, how is everyone back in Düsseldorf?”

“You mentioned chairs, Maestro Schumann. I could use one right about now. It's already been a rather long day, you understand.”

“Oh, I
do
beg your pardon, Inspector.” Schumann reached for a chair, offered it to me, then took one for himself. His apology, and his movements—all haste and flourish—struck me as false. “There now, that's better,” he said. “You were about to bring me up-to-date on people and events back home. Let's start out at the lowest level, in the underground tunnels and sewers.”

“You're referring to?”

“Wieck and Hupfer, of course.”

“Let me begin with Hupfer,” I said. “You may recall, Maestro, that a family by the name of Steinweg—a father and two or three sons—became well-known builders of excellent pianos in the vicinity of Hamburg. Well, the family moved not long ago to the United States of America, to New York City in fact, and established a piano factory there. Apparently, the Americans are becoming increasingly civilized, not to mention wealthy, and are fond of adorning their parlours with none but the finest instruments. The Steinwegs changed their name to Steinway, presumably to blend in better with New York high society.”

Schumann's face broke into a wise smile. “Surely, Inspector, you're not going to tell me Hupfer's working for them in America.”

“He's not only working for them, Maestro, he's their chief technician.”

“Their chief technician! Tell me more, Preiss. What of my dear father-in-law? What's
that
creature up to these days?”

“Professor Wieck? Not much. Apparently, he's badly crippled. Arthritis, you know. No longer able to teach, I hear. It may please you a bit to know that Madam Schumann has made it clear her father is no longer welcome in the Schumann household.”

“It pleases me more than a bit, Inspector,” Schumann said. As though speaking to himself, he said in a quiet voice, “And God fulfills Himself in many ways.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just a quotation…from some poem I came across. About Liszt…did I not hear…yes, Johannes informed me…he'd gone off to some monastery…trying to discover God, was it?”

“He supposedly found God,” I reported, “during the better part of a year spent with some holy order. I've forgotten exactly where.”

“Let me guess,” Schumann said, “it must have been at the Church of the Reluctant Virgin. Be honest, Preiss; you don't imagine for a moment Liszt has really changed.”

“Oh but he
has
, Maestro,” I said. “He gave a recital recently in Düsseldorf. Played mostly his own compositions. His music is now more solemn, more meditative. And he walks on stage looking like some kind of high priest from the Middle Ages. Dresses in black from neck to toe, hair white now, and longer than before, combed absolutely straight, like a waterfall down his neck and shoulders. Altogether a very spiritual effect.”

Schumann was unconvinced. “Nothing makes a woman swoon like the sight of a man who looks as though he's bearing within him all the pain in the world. Clever devil.”

There followed a long silence, while Schumann looked away from me and sat, hands tightly clasped, gazing out his windows at the distant mountains. There was a kind of vacant contentment in his expression, as though the foothills glowing green in the sun were forever out of bounds for him, and yet it was probably just as well. At least within the four walls of his room there were demons he was familiar with. Out there, who knew what fresh and terrible demons waited for him? Whatever he was thinking at the moment, I thought it best not to interrupt him, but to wait for him to resume conversation.

At last he broke the silence. “Clara does not come to visit me,” he said. His eyes were still fixed on the scenery well beyond the windows. His voice had taken on a hollow sound. “She writes…writes often…and her letters are tender…but she does not come to visit. Johannes has come a number of times, Joachim too, and occasionally they come together. They play for me—there's a fairly decent piano in the sitting room just down the hall—and sometimes I play for them. I played several pieces and songs I've written these past months, and they were very complimentary, Preiss. Johannes says they're some of my best work. But Clara? I can only imagine how painful all this must be for my poor, dear Clara. So she stays away.”

I offered no comment. What was there to say?