Murder in A-Major (14 page)

I
am not accustomed to being interrupted when I'm rehearsing.” Clara Schumann's voice, sharp-edged, reverberated against the ornate panelled walls of the empty concert hall, where she would be performing in a chamber music program jointly with Helena's string quartet within the coming week.

“I do apologize, Madam Schumann,” I said, walking down the centre aisle and stopping at the apron of the stage. “Ordinarily, I would never presume to disturb you at a time like this, but what brings me here is a matter of extraordinary urgency. You see—”

“I
know
why you are here,” Clara said, “but you will simply have to excuse me.”

“But madam—”

“
Not now
, I say.”

“Your husband is a very sick man, Madam Schumann.”

“I told you the night you were summoned to our house that he needed a
doctor
, not some meddlesome policeman.”

“I'm convinced he needs both a physician
and
a meddlesome policeman. His judgment is badly unbalanced by everything and everyone around him, which is why he announced in my office this morning that he…or rather
Florestan
…is going to pursue on his own the investigation I began.”

“Well, there's your proof,” Clara said. “What more do you need, for God's sake, Inspector—an official Certificate of Lunacy signed by a battery of medical specialists?”

“I beg of you; you have influence with your husband. He must not attempt to play amateur sleuth.”

With a hint of irony in her voice, Clara said, “Come to think of it, perhaps what Georg Adelmann needs right now is a good dose of my husband's temper, especially since you apparently prefer to handle Adelmann with kid gloves.”

“Madam Schumann, I wonder if you understand the nature of Maestro Schumann's problem with Adelmann.”

“The man has made off with one of our priceless possessions. Remember, you yourself cautioned me that he's a thief. What more is there to understand? Really, Inspector, you
do
try one's patience!”

“But there is another side to the story,” I said. “When I confronted Adelmann, he not only denied that the Beethoven manuscript was missing but made a point of
producing
it right before my very eyes and without a moment's hesitation. He insisted Dr. Schumann gave it to him.”

“
Gave
it to him?”

“Yes. As a gift.”

“Whatever for? Why would Robert do such a thing?”

“Adelmann had come across certain facts in his research concerning sexual experiments—”

“
Experiments?
”

“There doesn't seem to be any other way to characterize them, I'm sorry to say. They involved other…other
men.
In all likelihood, these would have come to light and become public knowledge once Adelmann's monograph was published. Adelmann revealed this to me, and I in turn revealed it to your husband this morning.”

“I'm sure Robert must have denied it,” Clara said, sounding indignant but confident. When I failed readily to agree, she frowned. “Surely Robert denied it?”

I shook my head.

At this point, the first crack in her composure appeared. She looked away and closed her eyes, as though struggling to absorb what she had just learned. At last, she said, “So you did not bother to challenge Adelmann's account? You simply swallowed his tale, knowing him as you do? Is that what you call interrogation?”

“I heard no firm and absolute denial from your husband, I remind you. Instead, he raved on about ‘inner truths'. He accused me of being too crude to understand certain subtleties of human behaviour, then stormed out of my office vowing to take charge of his case, as he put it.
Now
do you begin to understand my alarm?”

“What I begin to understand,” she said, eyeing me coldly, “is that you've succeeded only in inflaming my husband by your tactlessness. And now, having been responsible for driving poor Robert into the guise of Florestan, you want me to perform what might amount to a miracle…to restore my husband to the passive role of Eusebius, since obviously you are incapable of undoing what you've done.”

I said, “Madam Schumann, this is neither the time nor the place to debate the merits of my conduct. You must go to Maestro Schumann as quickly as possible. You must do everything in your power to see to it that he does not commit some rash and foolish act that
all
of us will regret. There's no time to waste!”

Clara Schumann's response startled me. Turning away from me, she brought both hands powerfully down on the keyboard of the Bosendorfer, at which she'd remained seated, setting off an explosive discord that must have shortened the life of that instrument by years. “You speak of time,” she shouted angrily, “but no one…
no one
…speaks of
my
time. It's as though I've been evicted from my own life, as though my only purpose is to serve my father, my children, my impresario, my audiences…and of course my husband.
I am sick to death of all this
.”

“Please, believe me, Madam Schumann,” I said, “my only wish is to be of help to you.”

She straightened her back, then looked directly at me. In a quiet voice now, she said, “If you truly wish to help me, then please leave me. I need some time…time to be entirely alone.”

*    *    *

Disheartened by my latest encounter with Clara Schumann, I decided that the best antidote would be to return to my office at the Constabulary and bury myself in some neglected paperwork. Saturday afternoons were traditionally quiet times in my department. Lulls before the storms is what my colleagues and I called Saturday afternoons, the reason being that in Düsseldorf—and I suspect pretty much everywhere else—most crimes of passion, especially fatal ones, were committed on Saturday nights, when seemingly harmless revellers, by some trick of metamorphosis known only to the Devil, turned into murderers. By late afternoon, a stack of files over which my shadow hadn't fallen for days on end had been reduced to one last file, which I was about to open when a young assistant burst into my office. “Have you heard the news, Inspector?” he said. “Georg Adelmann…you know, the journalist? A report has just come in. His landlady found him in his apartment an hour ago. Apparently murdered.”

A
ny idea who might have done this, Preiss?” Commissioner Schilling was standing with his gloved hands firmly clasped behind his back, keeping his distance from the body of Georg Adelmann lest violent death, which pervaded the scene, rub off on him.

“None, sir,” I said over my shoulder. Bent over the corpse, I pointed to the right temple. “Whoever it was must have possessed brute strength. A single blow did the job, by the looks of it.” All that was visible was a thin trickle of blood that had leaked from an odd puncture in the skin.

“Come to think of it,” the Commissioner said, “the list of suspects could spread from one end of the country to the other. After all, a journalist of his sort…you know, full of high and mighty opinions, and a gossip-monger to boot…probably accumulates enemies the way rotten meat attracts maggots.”

With more than a little effort (the act of bending being no easy feat given his global girth), the Commissioner now joined me for a closer inspection of the deceased. He shook his head, as though admiring a work of art. “Well now, Preiss, if one must die a violent death, this is the way, I suppose. Quick. Efficient. Final. An elegant murder is what I'd call it. Yes, indeed, elegant.”

I said, “The question is: is it an example of elegant homicide, or homicidal elegance?”

The Commissioner frowned. “That's the trouble with you, Preiss. Always splitting hairs. Perhaps you'd best get on with your note-taking whilst I examine the place for clues.”

I reached into my coat for my notebook and began to jot down some initial observations:

Victim fully clothed but no neckwear (probably relaxing, informal), lying on left side suggesting attempt to avoid blow to right temple. Minor blood loss, some discoloration around temple. Neatness of clothing suggests no struggle or resistance but sudden unexpected assault
…

I glanced around Adelmann's sitting room, then continued:

Body in centre of room. No sign of forced entry, therefore assailant probably invited in. Familiar guest rather than intruder. Room generally in good order.

“Think it might have been a robbery, Preiss?” The Commissioner called to me from behind Adelmann's large, ornately carved desk. He was holding aloft a black leather wallet. “Found this lying here, open, on top of this mess of letters and working papers. See here—” He spread open the compartments. “Empty. Not so much as a pfennig in it. Looks as though it was a robbery. A man like Adelmann would surely have carried a reasonable amount of cash on him.”

“On the other hand, Commissioner,” I said, “there's a diamond ring on Adelmann's left small finger…I'd estimate one-and-a-half to two carats. Also a gold pocket watch dangling there on a chain. A serious thief would hardly have overlooked those items.”

“Then how to explain the wallet?”

“Simple, sir. Whoever killed Adelmann was a rank amateur, despite the efficiency of the lethal blow to the victim's temple. The wallet tossed helter-skelter…its contents gone…an old trick, sir.” I stood up and heaved a world-weary sigh. “Criminals can be so damned unimaginative,” I said.

I stepped across the room to the glass-fronted cabinet that held Adelmann's silver and gold collections. “No indication anyone attempted to remove anything here, Commissioner. And these are certainly worth a fortune—” As soon as I'd said this, I realized I had made a mistake.

Schilling shot me a quizzical look. “Sounds to me as though you've been here before,” he said. ‘You seem to have some acquaintance with the place.”

“I was here once, just once…recently in fact.”

My response did not seem to sit well with my superior. I imagined him asking himself how I, his underling, managed to be in the company of Georg Adelmann when he—Düsseldorfs Commissioner of Police no less—had never so much as received a nod of recognition from the man all these years.

“Tell me, Preiss, how
well
did you know this fellow Adelmann? The word among your colleagues is that you have a reputation for hobnobbing with these types from time to time.”

Be humble, Hermann
, I told myself. “Hobnobbing is putting too fine a point on it, sir. I would never
dream
of inserting myself into the circles frequented by Georg Adelmann. Fact is, he merely consulted me about the safety and security of his valuable collection, what measures to take to protect them from the criminal elements that have drifted in from the slums of Hamburg and Berlin. He was deeply concerned, and rightly so. As you can see, sir, this place is a veritable treasure house.”

Without bothering to survey the treasures, Schilling said: “Look here, I'm a man of the world, if I may say so, and I can understand that a chap like you would be eager to seize any opportunity to advance himself…you know, rubbing shoulders so to speak with the local intelligentsia, upgrading yourself socially and all that. And I grant you, that sort of thing is all right, so long as it reflects credit on the Police Department—”

“I'm grateful, sir, that you approve—”

“Let me finish. Take my advice.” He lowered his voice to a confidential level. “It doesn't pay to overdo that kind of thing. Mustn't lose our objectivity, you know. Remember, Preiss, that even high-born persons—the
haut monde
, as they say in France—are known to run afoul of the law, not often mind you, but vigilance must always be our first priority. I have a saying: too much whipped cream spoils the cake! This little motto of mine—simple though it be—has stood me in good stead.”

For a moment I was back at the train station in my hometown, Zwicken, pretending to absorb my father's parting admonitions into the deepest recesses of my memory—then letting them evaporate there.

Fortunately, something caught the attention of the Commissioner, sparing me the pain of thanking him for his words of advice. “Ah, what have we here?”

Schilling had discovered Adelmann's appointment book on the fireplace mantel. “Well, now,” he said, his face revealing more interest than before, “this may tell us a thing or two, eh!”

The Commissioner—rather cleverly for him—turned immediately to the page for that very day. His expression turned dark. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a damned thing. Bad luck.”

“Well, sir, it's not entirely bad luck. At least it helps us to narrow the possibilities in a way.”

“And that's another problem you have, Preiss, if I may be frank,” said Schilling. “You exhibit this constant refusal to face basic facts. There is nothing…not so much as a chicken scratch…here on today's page. Now how in heaven's name does that help us?”

“One: it confirms that whoever killed Adelmann was an unscheduled visitor. Let's assume a surprise guest. This is further substantiated by the position of the body. Two: obviously the killer was invited into the room…
well
in, not simply left at the entrance. Therefore, he was probably known to the victim, perhaps even a friend.”

You say ‘he' referring to the killer. Perhaps this was some sort of bizarre lover's revenge…a woman's wrath…that sort of nonsense. These journalist types are notorious for becoming involved in domestic scandals.”

“I marvel at your insights, Commissioner,” I said, “but no woman would have had the strength to deliver a fatal blow to Adelmann's head without the benefit of a stout weapon. There's no evidence to indicate that a weapon…say, a club or fireplace iron or heavy piece of sculpture…inflicted a wound. No, sir, this was the work of a man.”

“And a damned angry one at that,” said Schilling, “one whose physical power matched his anger. So who the devil could he be?”

In my own mind the name “Robert Schumann” had formed almost from the moment I had entered Adelmann's quarters, but I could not bring myself to say it aloud. Besides, having persuaded the Commissioner to let me pursue Schumann's tormentors, how could I possibly justify my efforts if Schumann himself were now perceived as a cold-blooded murderer?

Desperate to focus Schilling's attention on other possible suspects—
anyone but Schumann, for God's sake
—I said, “Let's examine the pages for the previous days, say, for the past week or so.”

Schilling laid the appointment book open and flipped the pages back about seven or eight days. “I must say, for a writer, this fellow Adelmann had terrible penmanship. I can hardly read what's written here. Unfortunately, I've left my spectacles back at my office.”

The Commissioner handed over the appointment book to me. “You have one advantage over me, Preiss,” he said grudgingly, “your eyes are younger. Here, perhaps you can make out the names—”

Most of the names, which I read aloud, meant nothing to the Commissioner or to me, which brought a chuckle from Schilling. “Probably the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, eh? Even a famous journalist has to deal with the humdrum of daily life, I suppose.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“Well, continue. Maybe we'll encounter some names that ring a bell.”

“May I suggest, Commissioner, that we take the appointment book back to the Constabulary,” I said.

“Why? Light's just as good here as there.”

“True, but—”

“But what?”

“I have a more powerful magnifying glass in my office. It would certainly help…1 mean, to make out some of the names and notes—”

“You mean to tell me your eyesight isn't keen enough, Preiss? I find it astonishing, to say the least…a man of your age.”

“I plan to consult an eye specialist very soon,” I said. “Meantime, shall we take the appointment book back to—?”

Yes, yes,” Schilling said impatiently. “If we must, we must.”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. This would give me time to digest the names that appeared in Adelmann's appointment book for the three days immediately preceding the day of his death…names that
were
familiar to me: Friedrich Wieck, Willi Hupfer, Paul Mobius.

But one name that was also familiar to me—a name I suspected I'd find for certain in the appointment book—in fact was
not
there at all…Johannes Brahms.

*    *    *

“Well, Preiss, now you've got yourself a
genuine
crime, eh?”

Commissioner Schilling, gold-rimmed spectacles firmly fixed in place by his bulbous nose, stood peering over my shoulder, gloating.

“Genuine crime, sir?”

“As opposed to that frivolous business you've been involved with…much too involved, as you well know. I'm referring to the nonsense about that Schumann fellow, of course. Well, enough of that. Those names in Adelmann's appointment book…the ones that appear for the last two or three days…they mean anything to you? Read 'em again for me.”

“Friedrich Wieck—”

“Go on.”

“Wilhelm Hupfer—”

“Yes yes, go on. I see more there.”

“Paul Möbius—”

“Ah, there's a name I recognize. Some sort of ‘mind specialist', I believe.”

“You mean a psychiatrist, sir?”

“Is that what they're called these days?” Schilling chuckled. “In my day they were called quacks and charlatans. I attended a lecture Möbius gave at the Police Academy several years ago. Never heard such idiocy in my entire life. Utter drivel dressed up in medical jargon. What do you suppose Adelmann was doing, mixed up with a…what did you call him?”

“A psychiatrist, sir. I have no idea why Adelmann and Möbius would be seeing one another.”

“What about…Wieck, is it? And Hupfer?”

I shrugged. “Their names mean nothing to me, either, Commissioner.”

“Well, Adelmann was a damned important figure. Better drop whatever's on your schedule and get busy on this investigation. Remember, Preiss, whenever the facts don't reveal themselves clearly, I always trust my instincts. Never wrong. In time, I hope you develop sufficient confidence to trust yours. I suppose you have some idea where to begin here?”

“I do indeed, Commissioner.”

I knew exactly where to begin, but
my
instincts told me to keep it to myself for the time being.

“Well, then, carry on. Time flies.”