The Mastersinger from Minsk (20 page)

“Then what has been the point of this conversation?” Wagner angrily demanded.

“The point,” I replied, “is to advise you, and Madam Wagner, too, of course, to be extra cautious.”

“Well, Inspector Preiss, thank you,” Wagner sneered, “thank you for
nothing
.”

Despite the scarring tone of his sarcasm, Wagner stood before me a figure of abject despair, wilted with self-pity. I knew exactly what was going through his mind. How dared fate deal so callously with a man of such immense genius?

“If you don't mind, Preiss,” Wagner said, “I prefer to finish my walk alone.”

“I understand perfectly, Maestro. Bear in mind, however, that for the time being —”

Wagner shot me one of his steely eyed looks. “If anything happens to Cosima, Preiss, I will never forgive you. Never! As for me —” He waved his walking stick in the direction of the nearby river. “As for me, Inspector, don't take me for an idiot. I have no intention whatsoever of throwing myself into the Isar the way your friend Schumann threw himself into the Rhine. I'm like my music … inextinguishable!”

“Good. Then, if you will excuse me —”

I turned and started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, Maestro Wagner,” I said, “purely as a matter of interest, I'm curious to know if the problem you had with Thilo Rotfogel … the ‘upheaval' as you called it … does that sort of thing occur often in the musical world?”

“Preiss, discipline is every bit as important in my profession as it is in yours. Want to see a complete autocrat with a baton? Watch Hans von Bülow during a rehearsal when I'm not present! As for me, I've had my differences with musicians from time to time. French orchestras are havens for revolutionaries. British are worse; they are too moribund to have any thoughts about anything. My worst encounter, however, was with a Russian orchestra. St. Petersburg of all places. An unruly bunch of Cossacks with a Jew for a concertmaster! Can you imagine! Fired the Jew, whipped the Cossacks into shape. Napoleon didn't succeed in Russia. But Richard Wagner did. This satisfies your curiosity, Preiss?”

“You have satisfied more than my curiosity, Maestro,” I said.

Without another word, Wagner turned away and resumed his stroll, each step accompanied by the tapping of his elegant cane on the stone walkway, each tap reminding me of a firm and steady downbeat as he receded.

“June 21 will be the day of your ruination …”

The message kept repeating over and over again as I left the English Garden. How did Hershel Socransky, alias Henryk Schramm, plan to carry out his threat? And how soon could I prevent him from accomplishing whatever he'd planned?

E
vening
brought relief from the troubling questions of that day. The Bavarian Quartet outdid itself, a fact I attribute to the presence of Helena, who augmented it for the performance of the Schubert quintet. Let any red-blooded man challenge me to define what is arousing about Helena's way with a cello and I will challenge him to put into words what is arousing about a waft of a subtle French perfume, or a lock of silken dark hair that trespasses over a smooth brow, or the seductive line that curves its way magically from a woman's shoulder to her waist and hip. There occurs, seemingly without effort, a fusion of body and instrument with player and cello as with no other musical instrument. In Helena's case, that image remains long after the music ceases.

The audience surrounding me in the intimate hall reserved for chamber concerts burst into shouts of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Even Erich Krauthammer, second only to the notorious Eduard Hanslick as Europe's most petrous music critic, allowed the granite slab of his face to crack into a narrow smile of satisfaction!

I made a dash for the reception lounge backstage hoping to be first to congratulate Helena, only to find more than two dozen eager members of the audience ahead of me, the men, as expected, lingering a bit longer than necessary when they came to Helena, gushing, kissing her outstretched hand; the women enthusiastic but far less demonstrative, probably out of envy, or so I imagined. Last in line, I leaned forward intending to exercise my special privilege — a kiss on the lips — only to find my lips buried somewhere deep in Helena's coiffure. From previous experience, I knew immediately that this was not a good sign. Still, I was taken aback, unable to recall any recent transgression on my part that would warrant such a cold reception. I did not have to wait long for an explanation.

“I suppose you, too, are about to desert me,” Helena said, rejecting my embrace.

“Desert you?”

“Leave me to spend the rest of this night alone in Munich —”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Fortunately we were now alone in the room, the well-wishers and members of the quartet having left, and I was able to speak freely. “All right, Helena, let's have it. What have I done wrong now?”

“You are a
man
. That is what you have done wrong. And I am sick of men! You are all alike, each and every damn one of you!” Again, from previous experience, I knew enough not to interrupt or protest. (How does one stop a cloudburst?)

Helena went on, “A few minutes before the program began I received a note from Henryk Schramm —”

“
Alias
Henryk Schramm —”

“— informing me that he was in the audience and could we have supper afterward at your friend's restaurant, Maison Something. So what happens? Before you arrived, Hermann, I see him waiting in line —”

“That's odd,” I said. “Schramm was here? In the audience? I didn't see him.”

“Perhaps he arrived late. What does it matter? So there he is, in line, and some woman approaches him, and they engage in a very animated exchange, the woman looking very pleased … too pleased, if you ask me … and next thing I know, he's gone … vanished, without so much as hello and goodbye!”

“Face it,” I said trying to make a joke of it, “perhaps she was younger, prettier, more talented —”

“Younger maybe. But prettier? Only if you think a bosom the size of a cow's udder, with a derrière to match, pretty. But then, that's what really attracts men, isn't it?”

I hung my head in pretended shame. “At last you've discovered our filthy little secret.”

The joke not only failed, it proved to be inflammatory. Turning her back to me, Helena said, through tears, “Go to hell, Hermann!”

I've never been good at remorse and my next comment did nothing to improve that reputation. “I'm sorry, Helena, I had no idea you've become so infatuated with this man. But with all due respect, if all it takes to distract him is a bosom the size of a cow's udder —”

While I was in mid-sentence I spotted Madam Vronsky entering the lounge. She looked flushed with excitement. “I just saw that handsome tenor,” she said, “in tow behind a very awesome specimen of womanhood, I must say.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, to be young again!” Then, observing that Helena was standing with her back to me, a handkerchief at her eyes, she said softly, “Oh dear, I'm afraid my timing is bad.”

“Not at all,” Helena said, making an effort to recover her composure. “In fact, your timing is perfect. You can accompany me back to the hotel.”

Madam Vronsky looked crestfallen. “Oh? I thought we would … how do the British say it … paint the town red? You should be celebrating tonight, Helena.”

“I'm in no mood to celebrate. I simply want to return to the hotel.” Helena turned back to me. “You needn't come with us, Hermann. We can manage, thank you very much.”

I stood by, speechless, feeling like a fifth leg on a sheep, while Helena, her cello case in one hand, her free arm linked with Madam Vronsky, prepared to take her leave.

They were halfway out of the lounge when a question bolted through my head. I called out, “Please … a moment. Did you notice anything else about the woman … the one that made off with Schramm?”

There was a pause.

Then Madam Vronsky called back, “Her hat. One of those enormous Paris creations. You know, wide brim, lots of floral stuff. God knows how they stay put on women's heads.”

A
lone
on the curb in front of the concert hall, I watched a cab bearing Helena and Madam Vronsky pull away, yet I could think of one thing only: the woman who lured Hershel Socransky away … her figure and costume all flash and flamboyance … the hat, especially the hat …
God knows how they stay put on women's heads …

It had to be her. Cornelia Vanderhoute, of course!

If her plot consisted of the systematic assassination of people vital to Wagner beginning at the outer rim of his current circle and working her way, one by one, inexorably toward the centre point of that circle, namely the Maestro himself, then why not Hershel Socransky (or, as she would know him, Henryk Schramm)? Through her connection to Thilo Rotfogel, or through the normal buzz of gossip in Munich's musical hive, she would no doubt have heard about the handsome young tenor, the sketchiness of his background, unanswered questions about his career, the magnificence of his voice, his pivotal role in Wagner's new opera.

Henryk Schramm. What better target? Schramm … next on the list of Cornelia Vanderhoute.

I had to find them. But where? In typical police parlance I had designated her in my file as a person “of no fixed abode,” all attempts thus far to pin down her precise dwelling place having produced merely the assumption that she was quartered in close proximity to a certain pawnshop. But given the proliferation of rooming houses and cheap hotels in that section of Munich — an area much favoured by young and impecunious artists — it would have been pointless at this late hour to roam the streets in search of a likely spot where the two might be ensconced, or, more to the point, where Hershel Socransky might be ensnared. It was unlikely, too, that they would be found at a restaurant, coffeehouse, tavern, or other public place. Murder, like prayer, or the performance of bodily functions, is an act best done privately, a rule Fräulein Vanderhoute had faithfully adhered to up to this point. I could not envision her wasting time over food and drink when there was urgent business on her agenda.

There was nothing sensible to do now but return to my own apartment, hoping by some miracle that something would occur to thwart Vanderhoute's mission, and hoping by another miracle to get a decent night's sleep. (And hoping, by a third miracle, that Helena Becker's heart would reopen to me in the morning.)

I hailed a cab, its driver and horse both looking drowsy, the former probably looking forward to his bed, the latter to its hay-strewn stall.

I started to call out my address.

Then I had a thought.

“Never mind,” I said, and handed the driver more than the usual fare. “How fast can you get me to Wilhelmstrasse Number 17?”

W
ithin
moments of my arrival at Number 17 Wilhelmstrasse I had slipped by the dozing night porter, bounded up three flights of stairs, and come, somewhat out of breath, to a door at the far end of a narrow dark hallway. A thin yellowish strip of light leaked under the doorway from within the apartment.
Good
, I said to myself,
he's home
. Not wanting to disturb adjacent residents, I knocked gently. No response. A second knock, a bit firmer. Still no response. A third; same result.
To Hell with it
, I murmured, and my knuckles came down hard on the thickly panelled door.

A muffled voice filtered through the door, the tone suspicious, unwelcoming. “Who's there? Who is it?”

“It's me, Hermann Preiss.”

I heard a key working in the lock, followed by a door chain being unlatched, both steps seeming to take forever. Finally, slowly, the door opened.

Henryk Schramm stood aside by the open door. He was silent which I took as tacit consent to enter. The first thing that caught my eye was the yellowish glow throughout the place created by a half-dozen votive candles, an effect not unlike the chancel of a church, but more romantic. I thought I detected a hint of perfume which, despite the prevailing smell of burning candles, threaded its way through the thick air. I turned to Schramm. “I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “Fact is, I happened to find myself in the neighbourhood and —” I pointed to a bottle of brandy and a collection of drinking glasses on Schramm's small dining table. “Ah, what luck! You must be a mind reader, Schramm. Mind if I sit? It's been a very long day.”

“By all means, Inspector, make yourself at home,” Schramm said, his voice flat. “Let me get you a chair.” With little enthusiasm he dragged a wooden chair across the room to the table, all four legs screeching against the floor in protest. Seizing the bottle, he poured out a glassful of brandy. In his haste to hand it to me he spilled half the contents on the tabletop. “I
beg
your pardon, Inspector,” he said, rushing to sop up the spill with his handkerchief.

“What's the old saying, Schramm? The glass isn't half empty, it's half full? Anyway, it is I who should be begging
your
pardon.” I lowered myself into the chair and accepted the drink. “Will you join me?”

“Thank you, no. I find it has a tendency to keep me awake at this hour.”

“Well, it's thoughtful of you to keep it on hand in case company drops in.” I leaned forward and said in a low tone of confidentiality, “Liquor
is
quicker,
n'est ce pas
?”

Schramm pretended not to understand my little jest. “I'm sorry I can't offer you something more substantial, Inspector.”

“At this hour? No need, really. A good cigar would go well with this brandy, though.”

“I don't smoke, unfortunately.”

“Fortunately, I happen to have a cigar on me. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. Make yourself at home, as I said before.”

From a leather case I extracted a cigar and clipped the end. With perfect timing Schramm produced an ashtray, which he thrust in front of me. “Oh, so you
do
smoke?” I said. “You know, Schramm, I've always considered a good cigar to be the second greatest pleasure a man can experience.” I gave him a wink. “I leave it to you to guess the first greatest pleasure.” This jest, too, fell on deaf ears. “I take it you must have matches, then.”

Schramm reached inside a chest, produced a box of matches, struck one, and held the flame to the tip of my cigar, his hand trembling. I edged forward and placed a reinforcing hand over Schramm's to steady the match, finally succeeding in drawing some fire into the tobacco.

I sat back, took a few long puffs, my arms and legs stretched comfortably, taking my time, but watching my increasingly uncomfortable host. I sensed that Schramm was counting the seconds until my departure. “You seem a little distracted,” I said. “I suppose working with Wagner on one hand, and constantly bearing in mind this string of murders on the other, the strain must be overwhelming.”

“Yes and no,” Schramm said. “I'm managing to carry on.”

“Very good. You've probably heard rumours … I mean that we have a suspect?”

“Yes.”

“What have you heard, Schramm?”

Schramm forced a smile. “Rumours, that's all. You know what rumours are worth, I'm sure.”

“For instance?”

“Really, Inspector, I'd rather not say. You of all people must know how silly such talk can be. If idle hands are a source of evil, idle gossip is worse, don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. There's much wisdom in what you say, my friend. But let's put wisdom aside for one moment. Tell me, just one man to another, forgetting that I'm a policeman … what have you heard, Schramm? It's something about a woman, isn't it?”

Schramm gave an unconvincing laugh. “It's always about a woman, I suppose. Adam and Eve, and all that biblical nonsense. I couldn't take this business about a woman seriously.”

“You
couldn't
? That makes it sound as though you may have changed your mind.”

“I meant, I
can't
take it seriously.”

I kept my eyes on Schramm, as he kept his eyes on me, while I finished off the brandy.

There was a pause. Then I stood and nodded in the direction of Schramm's bedroom.

“She's in there, isn't she?” I said.

“Who?”

Without replying, I walked with firm steps to the closed door of the bedroom and opened it.

A woman lay on the floor, her head resting against the wrought iron railing at the foot of Schramm's bed. A large hat with generous floral decoration lay on the floor beside her. Her eyes were open, but there was no need to kneel and search for a pulse. I had seen enough of death's postures to know Cornelia Vanderhoute was dead.