Murder in A-Major (17 page)

I
proceeded without delay to fulfill my end of the pact I'd made with the devil, but it was not easy. To begin with, I had to persuade my zealous subordinate Constable Hesse that the charge against the old jeweller should be dropped. This I accomplished in two ways: first, I pointed out that since the robber himself (or herself, for that matter) had not yet been caught, there was no positive proof that Countess de Cecco's diamond earrings were stolen, nor could it be proved that Thüringer
knew
he was receiving stolen goods; therefore prosecution against Thüringer was not only premature but very likely to fail. Failure would most certainly reflect poorly on the police force in general, and on Hesse in particular, which would be a pity given his splendid record to date. Secondly, I informed Hesse that I was giving serious thought now to transferring him into the branch which dealt with more serious crimes—murders, rapes, kidnappings—which, I felt certain, would challenge his capabilities far more than the crimes he had been dealing with up to this point. Young Hesse virtually sailed out of my office, thrilled at the prospect of his coming promotion and vowing to retrieve the earrings promptly upon Thüringer's release from custody, following which he, Hesse, would personally see to it that they were returned to the Countess, together with whatever suitable “gift” the jeweller threw in to keep the Italian noblewoman happy.

That was not the only challenge I had to deal with. It was customary for copies of my staffs daily reports to me to be furnished as well to the Commissioner. Much of the time my immediate superior, being consumed these days with thoughts about his forthcoming retirement and pension, gave such documents no more than a cursory glance, hastily scrawled his initials to acknowledge he'd seen them, and back they came to my office for filing. But luck was not with me this day. Just as the name Walter Thüringer had leapt from the page when I first spotted it, so did it leap from the page when Schilling caught sight of it.

“Preiss, how the devil are we expected to uphold the reputation of our city, and indeed the entire nation, when innocent tourists are callously relieved of their precious possessions? And not ordinary tourists; no, by heaven, a count and countess, no less, according to the report.” The Commissioner peered at me through his spectacles as though
I
were the culprit who had received the stolen earrings.

I said, “Permit me to point out that these tourists come from a part of the world where people are used to this sort of thing.”

“I fully agree,” said the Commissioner, “but damn it, man, two wrongs don't make a right. This fellow Thüringer, haven't I heard you recommend his jewellery shop? If memory serves, on more than one occasion you've mentioned him favourably. Don't tell me you're consorting with a man who habitually deals in stolen goods!”

“Sir, I would not say I've been
consorting
with Walter Thüringer,” I replied, “but I have to explain that he and I have a rather unique relationship. The fact is, being in the line of business he's in, the man has a particularly keen sense of smell whenever there's even the slightest whiff of skullduggery in the air. He has been instrumental in my being able to apprehend a veritable army of thieves over the years.”

“That's all well and good,” the Commissioner huffed, “but if the man himself is a criminal, he must face justice, and that's all there is to it. I trust you'll see to it.”

I paused, and the Commissioner frowned, sensing my hesitation. “Well, Preiss, that's all. You may go, unless there's something further.”

I cleared my throat, then said quietly, “I've ordered Thüringer to be released, sir. In fact, my order has already been carried out.”

“Are you mad, Preiss? Reverse your order, then, and see to it that this man is put back behind bars where he obviously belongs.”

Retaining my composure, I said, “May I respectfully remind the Commissioner that, as senior inspector, I have complete discretion in such matters and am entitled, indeed authorized, to retain or release such persons from police custody if I deem it appropriate or expedient in the cause of justice…as I do, incidentally, in this instance.”

“And may I remind
you
, that
I
am accountable to the mayor of this city who, I need hardly repeat, is anxious that Düsseldorf be regarded as one of the cultural capitals of Europe, and not a German version of Sodom and Gomorrah. I have already had hell to pay because our esteemed mayor has taken a personal interest in the murder of Georg Adelmann and cannot understand why the killer is still at large.” Commissioner Schilling took a moment to regard me with a look steeped more in sorrow than in anger. “You know, Preiss,” he said, sadly shaking his head, “I had high hopes for you. But you are fast becoming a thorn in my side. If you wish to redeem yourself, give me your assurance…no, better still, your
word
…that this business about that fellow Schumann is over and done with once and for all, and that I can expect your return forthwith to the
serious
business at hand.”

Well, that wasn't difficult to give. After all, by my own definition, the “serious” business at hand came down to a single name.

*    *    *

Hupfer…
Hupfer
…

In the privacy of my room, I repeated aloud the name of Wilhelm Hupfer over and over again while turning the pages of my memory in an attempt to recall precisely the places and times I'd seen the man. I began to make notes:

Hupfer shows up at the house of Dr. Möbius, making his way in just as I am making my way out
.

Hupfer shows up again at the Schumanns' while they are away for a few days of rest at Bad Grünwald and Professor Wieck just happens to be visiting Düsseldorf, and the two of them, Hupfer and Wieck, obviously cannot wait to be rid of me.

When I question Hupfer in his workshop about the possibility of untuning a piano, he is less than forthcoming, and I'm left with the distinct impression that he is lying.

Then there were these nagging questions:

Why does Hupfer spend two hours on the day of the Schumanns' musicale tuning the older of their grand pianos, but that evening only the newer of the two instruments, the Klems, is played?

Why does he later gossip to Liszt about what he overheard that day at the Schumann house (the bit of conversation between Clara and Brahms), and why does he mention to Liszt that Brahms apparently regulated the Klems himself using his own set of tools prior to the musicale?

My note-taking was interrupted by a soft knock on my door. “Inspector Preiss?” I recognized the voice of Henckel, the concierge. “A message for you, sir.”

Henckel apologized (as he invariably did out of habit) for disturbing me, then handed me a sealed envelope bearing my name and address written in what can only be described as a ferocious scrawl. “Who delivered this?” I asked.

Henckel replied, “A gentleman. Same gentleman that visited you a few nights back. Came by carriage. Simply took off without a word. I
am
sorry, sir.” Knowing that for some peculiar reason Henckel enjoyed feeling guilty (even when he had no reason to), I did the generous thing; I withheld forgiveness.

The note turned out to have been penned in the same wild handwriting.

“
Preiss, I must see you. Please pardon my past rudeness and offenses. I desperately need your help!
”

It was signed simply
“R.S.”

I
mpeccably groomed and wearing a simple but fashionable frock, Clara Schumann offered me a civil “Good day” when I arrived at No. 15 Bilkerstrasse the next morning. At her side—not surprisingly—stood Johannes Brahms, who acknowledged me with a curt nod, as though I were on a mission to deliver bread from the local bakery. “My husband awaits you in the study,” Clara said.

I said, somewhat astonished, ‘You're aware, then, that he sent for me?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Did you suppose I would interfere with his wishes at a time like this?”

“A time like this? I don't understand, Madam Schumann, what that means.”

My tone must have been a bit too officious, for Brahms immediately stepped forward. “Clara…that is, Madam Schumann…is suffering greatly under the stress of the Maestro's illness. At least a
little
sensitivity on your part would be in order, don't you agree? In fact, Inspector, your valuable time might be better spent if you went directly to the study where Dr. Schumann awaits.”

There was something in the air at that moment, something in the manner of Clara Schumann and young Brahms, that smacked of an arrangement on the brink of being carried out, something now unstoppable.

Without bothering to knock, I opened the study door and entered to find Schumann standing before a fire. He was fully clothed, and a thick woollen cape was thrown over his shoulders. Close by stood a pair of brawny male attendants, each wearing an overcoat, despite the heat in the room. Schumann, his voice gravelly, said to the two men, “Leave us, please.”

One of the men spoke up. “Sir, we have strict orders to—”

“To hell with your orders!” Schumann shouted. “I said leave us, or so help me God—”

The men exchanged quick glances. The taller of the two gave me a pleading look. “We have a carriage due here momentarily, Inspector, and a long journey ahead of us,” he explained.

“Go!” Schumann said, almost screaming.

Judging by the way they shrugged, the two attendants were accustomed to such outbursts. Without another word, they retired from the room, Schumann eyeing them suspiciously. “And close the door behind you,” he commanded. Satisfied that we could not be overheard, he said, “They're like parasites. They cling to me day and night. Imagine, Preiss: I, Robert Schumann, am granted privacy only when I use my toilet, and even then I'm not certain! Have you any idea what it's like to be spied on around the clock? It's those bastard doctors. Even Clara and Johannes have been forced to submit to the collective will of these medical monsters.”

“But Dr. Schumann, perhaps they're only seeking to…I mean, given what occurred.”

“Do not interrupt me, Preiss. Let me finish what I have to say.
Someone
must listen to me. There's not much time, don't you see? They're taking me away. Today. Any moment now.”

“Away? Where to?”

“They call it a hospital, in a town called Endenich, somewhere near Bonn, run by another one of these medicine men, a Dr. Richarz. Never heard of him. But I can guarantee you, it's not a hospital; it's an asylum for the insane. Please, Preiss, I beg you, stop them. Look at me: I am
not
insane. You know that, don't you? All I want now is to do my work, to be in my home. Don't let them do this to me. You, of all people, have the power to stop them. If they take me away, I know I will never see Düsseldorf again. I will live in a cage, and die in a cage. Help me, Preiss.”

Tears had formed in Schumann's eyes. His lips quivered. His sallow cheeks became wet with his tears. He reached out to me with his right hand, silently urging me to take it, to be his saviour.

I stood staring at his hand as though it were somehow detached from the person to whom it belonged, and I could not for the life of me reach out and take it. And in that instant, what went through my mind was that, for whatever number of years I lived, I would neither forget my refusal, nor forgive myself. Instead of saying to Schumann what he so desperately wanted to hear, I said, “Are you aware, sir, that Georg Adelmann has been murdered?”

I was expecting a show of astonishment followed perhaps by a passionate declaration of innocence. After all, was this not how a typical suspect would react? I was not prepared, then, for Schumann's unhesitating response.

“Good riddance!” Schumann exulted. “Murdered, eh? Well, a fitting end for a blackmailer and a thief, I say. Some may mourn his death, but not I, not for a second.”

“Adelmann was about to publish a biography of you, Maestro. Surely you have
some
regret?”

“Lies! That's what he was about to publish. Now he'll publish in hell!” Calming down, Schumann went on: “Anyway, Preiss, don't waste time over Georg Adelmann, because once a man's dead, he's dead, and that's all there is to it. I, on the other hand, am very much alive, and I am being killed steadily and mercilessly. And the pity is, I still have much to give. Believe me, music comes closest to the unknowable, and I, Robert Schumann, have seen the unknowable, heard it, even touched it in my way! So you see, don't you? I am
not
insane. Promise me you will put a stop to this exile. And this time you must keep your promise, not break it as you did before, I mean about retrieving my Beethoven manuscript.”

What was the point of disputing Schumann's accusation? No excuse I could offer would convince him that I had not been derelict. “I will see what I can do, Maestro,” I said.

The study door opened and Clara Schumann entered. “Robert dear,” she said quietly, “the carriage is here.”

Meekly, almost mechanically, a figure without strength, without hope, Robert Schumann, his hand in hers, allowed his wife to lead him to the open door of the house, where the two attendants waited. He said to Clara, “My pens and manuscript paper…you packed them?”

“Of course, Robert,” she replied. “And your notebooks too, the ones with your most recent sketches.”

“Clara, promise me you'll see to it that the oldest children keep up their music lessons, especially Marie, bless her. And make sure the jar on the writing desk is well-stocked with pfennigs. They must have their rewards, you know! By the way, Clara, when Marie has mastered those finger exercises Carl Czerny sent for the children, I want her to have a whole thaler to spend as she pleases.”

Schumann turned to Brahms. “I mean to compose another symphony, Johannes,” he said, smiling at his protégé. “It will be my fifth. I've already sketched the opening movement. It will be like Beethoven's fifth, only better, more melodious. One of these days, my dear Johannes, you must try your hand at composing a symphony.”

Brahms stepped forward and gave Schumann a brisk embrace. “Perhaps I'll get around to it by the time I'm forty,” he said.

“Forty! My God, Johannes, I'll be serenading Satan by then!” Schumann said, giving Brahms a fond poke on his arm. Then, turning his back on Clara and Brahms, with an attendant at each side, Schumann started out of the house.

Suddenly, he came to a halt and turned about. “I've forgotten something,” he called to Clara.

“Forgotten what, Robert?”

“I must get it,” he said, elbowing away the attendants and moving back into the house with resolute steps. I watched him enter the study, pull open the centre tray of his worktable, and remove an object which I could not recognize until he held it aloft for all to see with an air of triumph.

“My trusted tuning fork!” he said, smiling at it as though the thing was human.

Instantly, Clara Schumann's eyes and mine met, though not a word was said.

A minute later Schumann and his attendants were tucked into the carriage, ready for the six-hour journey to Bonn. Another minute, and they were out of sight.