Murder in A-Major (18 page)

W
hat
would
you do without me, Hermann?” Helena Becker was saying in that teasing manner of hers as she ushered me into the sitting room of her small but comfortable apartment. “Your message sounded as though you couldn't wait to see me.” She took a moment to inspect me with a critical eye. “I note that as usual you come empty-handed. Flowers would have been nice.” She'd forgotten about the gift of pearl earrings, but it would have been bad taste on my part to remind her.

“Helena, what
would
I do without you?” I said. ‘You have a way of making me feel humble, and God knows, a man needs a healthy dose of humility now and then.”

Offering me a chair, Helena said, “Now that you've gotten that lie off your chest, what really brings you here?”

“
This
brings me here,” I replied. I took a large white handkerchief from my coat and unfolded it to reveal a tuning fork, which I laid carefully on a table between us.

“A present for me?” Helena said.

“Hardly,” I said.

“Just as well,” Helena said. “It's rather badly stained, isn't it?”

“Those are bloodstains.”

Helena bent to take a closer look. “How fascinating,” she said without a trace of enthusiasm.

I said, “What you're looking at happens to be a murder weapon.”

Helena's eyes glazed over. “Tea or coffee?”

“I've no time for either. What I need are your ears and your cello.”

“You
do
sound desperate, Hermann.”

“I'm under extraordinary pressure, Helena. The Commissioner, you understand.”

She laughed. “That toothless old dinosaur?”

“That toothless old dinosaur would love nothing more than a good excuse to sack me. He says I'm a thorn in his side. Go fetch your cello, because we have an urgent experiment to perform, you and I.”

I watched her remove the honey-coloured cello from its case, seat herself, and set the instrument between her legs, her bow at the ready.

“Now what?” she said.

“Let me hear your ‘A',” I said.

Helena lifted her bow from the strings. “Please, Hermann,” she protested, “not this Schumann thing again!”

She shrugged as if to say I, not Schumann, was the person going mad, then brought the bow across the thinnest of the four strings. “I think I'm a bit flat,” she said, frowning, and began to twist the tuning peg for that string with her left hand while continuing to bow with her right, the resulting changes of pitch sounding like the wailing of an alley cat. At last she was satisfied that the ‘A' was where it ought to be.

“Now listen carefully, please,” I said. I took the tuning fork and struck it hard against the marble mantle of her fireplace. “Well?” I said.

Helena's frown returned. “Sounds sharp to me. Not by much, but just enough to be annoying. Are you sure it's a tuning fork and not the kind you eat with?”

“Listen again, just once more.” I struck the fork even harder.

“You can strike it from now till doomsday,” she said, “but that's not a true ‘A'. Granted, it's off by just a touch, but sharp is sharp.”

“How good is your memory?” I said. “Think back to the musicale at the Schumanns'. Would you say it's the same ‘A'?”

“Let me tune my string to it,” Helena said. “Strike it again.”

Again Helena gave me the same response. “It's very much like the ‘A' we tuned to at the Schumanns' that night, but what's it got to do with a murder?”

I tucked the tuning fork back into the handkerchief. “I'm sorry, my dear,” I said, putting on the most officious airs I could manage, “I cannot possibly divulge the facts and circumstances of a case while it is under investigation. Anyway, I thought you found all this rather tedious.”

“What has the tuning fork got to do with a murder? Stop torturing me, Hermann!”

“Very well,” I said, “but not a word of this gets out until I say so. I found this tuning fork under Georg Adelmann's body. I had reason to believe it belonged to Schumann and that he used it as a kind of weapon to attack Adelmann in a fit of rage.”

“But what would drive a man like Schumann to do such a terrible thing?”

“He learned that a monograph Adelmann was writing about his life and career contained references—rather specific references, in fact—to some early homosexual activities Schumann engaged in. To make matters worse, Schumann was convinced Adelmann stole the Beethoven manuscript from Schumann's home, possibly on the night of the musicale.”

“You say, Hermann, that you
had
reason to believe Schumann was the assailant—”

“Yes, but now I believe Robert Schumann did
not
kill Adelmann.”

“Then who did?”

I picked up the bloodstained tuning fork. “The owner of this,” I replied.

“And that would be?”

“Wilhelm Hupfer.”

I
couldn't confront Hupfer solely on the strength of the tuning fork revelation. That single item of evidence, for the moment at least, had to be regarded as purely circumstantial, and certainly not enough to induce a voluntary confession of guilt. I had to satisfy myself as to Hupfer's motive for slaying Georg Adelmann. I have to admit that I owed a debt of gratitude to—of all people—Walter Thüringer. It was he who had given me the key: Hupfer's craving for money. The man must have been receiving, one way or another, substantial sums of cash. But from whom? And why?

I took a fresh page from my notebook and wrote down the following list of names in alphabetical order:

Adelmann

Brahms

Liszt

Möbius

Schumann (Clara)

Wieck

I propped up the notebook against a pile of books atop my desk, sat back, and stared at the list. Had I omitted anyone? Any artist of Robert Schumann's stature was bound to have numerous rivals, enemies, critics; yet it seemed to me that only the persons whose names I had set down on paper would have had sufficient connection to be taken seriously. One by one, I began to consider the suspects.

Adelmann? Would he have bribed Hupfer to so undermine Schumann that the poor fellow would eventually be driven to attempt suicide? Adelmann was about to publish what would doubtless quickly become a highly-readable (not to mention profitable) biography of Schumann. Surely, it would behoove him to do everything to prolong, not curtail, the composer's life. I dipped my pen into its inkwell and ran a thick line through the first name on the list.

Brahms? No. Too young, and therefore too impecunious to be in a position to lavish large sums on Hupfer. Besides, perhaps he
was
being truthful with me about the limits of his feelings for Clara Schumann, after all. Brahms's name was therefore struck from the list.

Franz Liszt? A bitter enemy for artistic reasons, yes. But much too full of his own eminence to risk being caught up in shabby criminal activity. Though the great man was no stranger to the
civil
courts—breach-of-promise suits and claims for unpaid bills had turned him into a professional defendant—the thought that Liszt would engage in any conduct that would render him liable to a term in prison was simply too preposterous. His name, too, was ruled through.

Dr. Paul Möbius? I strongly suspected that someday, probably after his time and my own, the world of medicine would come to regard this physician as an unpardonable fraud. But that wasn't the point, was it? The point was that, at this moment in time, many of his colleagues took him seriously, and no one took him more seriously than he himself. Consumed with his so-called theory of mental illness and its relationship to creative endeavour, he would regard Robert Schumann as his experimental animal, his guinea pig, so to speak. His remark to Helena Becker came to mind, about how fears have a way of becoming realities. Obviously, the doctor was intrigued by this idea, especially as it pertained to Schumann. I concluded, therefore, that Dr. Möbius would benefit more by Schumann's life rather than his death, and his name, too, was deleted with the stroke of my pen.

Would Clara Schumann be the one supplying Hupfer with generous amounts of cash? Not likely. Every thaler this woman earned went of necessity toward feeding, clothing and housing her family. With her husband largely incapacitated, there would be no money to spare. True, whenever their eyes met, the spark between Clara and Brahms was as palpable now as when I first noticed them together, and though my questions and doubts about them had begun to run like veins through my reasoning, I could not imagine that she alone, or the two of them together, could produce the quantities of money Hupfer was spending at Thüringens jewellery shop. And so Clara Schumann's name, like the others before hers, was struck off.

This left the name at the bottom of the list: Professor Friedrich Wieck. I pronounced that name several times, and found myself each time adding the cliché “Last but not least.” Indeed, last but not least!

Another thought came to mind: Hupfer's appearance at No. 15 Bilkerstrasse while Wieck conveniently was present at the house and the Schumanns conveniently were away at Bad Grünwald…

Then something struck me—something that had not caught my attention at the time: Hupfer had shown up
without
his leather satchel that contained the tools of his trade. What, then, could have been the purpose of his attendance at the house? If he came unequipped, was this purely a social call? Or was Hupfer calling on Wieck to collect money?

I
made it clear that my plan was to be followed to the letter, beginning with the delivery of a note by the Schumanns' faithful housekeeper to Willi Hupfer. This was to be done precisely at twelve o'clock noon, when Hupfer—a man of unswerving habits according to Clara Schumann—would have returned home from wherever he might be working and be sitting down to his big meal of the day.

“I have to tell you,” the housekeeper reported on her return, “that he was very annoyed, Madam Schumann, very annoyed indeed. He said he was very busy, too busy, in fact. I pretended not to hear, but he definitely uttered an oath I would not dare to repeat.”

“Yes, yes,” Clara said, “but will he
come?
” The housekeeper threw up her shoulders as if to say “Who knows?”

One hour later, Clara had her answer. Out of breath, a scowl leaving no doubt of his annoyance, Wilhelm Hupfer was admitted to the parlour of the Schumann house. “Willi!” Clara said, springing from her piano bench, “thank God you've arrived!” Looking about him at the members of the Düsseldorf Quartet already assembled in the room, he seemed taken aback. “I did not expect to find all of you here,” he said.

“You see how important you are,” Clara said taking the man's coat, folding it, and laying it neatly over the back of a chair. “The five of us have been sitting here completely immobilized. You, and only you, Willi, have the power to rescue us.”

“You flatter me, Madam,” Hupfer said, slowly warming.

“I assure you, it's not idle flattery,” Clara said. She turned to the members of the quartet. “Whatever would we do without our technical genius!” All four players chimed in with extravagant praise.

Instead of responding with a mixture of gratitude and pride, as one, knowing him, would have expected, Hupfer indulged in an uncharacteristic show of modesty, reminding his admirers that he had always striven to do his best, but adding quickly, “Though, God knows, occasionally I do fall short because of my habit of demanding too much of myself.”

Everyone in the room nodded in sympathy with him, and Clara broke in with, “Ah, but God knows how hard you try, so perhaps your rewards will come in the afterlife.”

To this bit of optimism, Hupfer's response was a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I am not counting on it. And now, if you will excuse me, to work.”

Resuming a businesslike manner, he put down his leather satchel containing his tools next to the Klems grand piano. “I did caution you and the Maestro about this instrument, Madam Schumann,” he said, sounding like a schoolmaster chiding an errant pupil.

Relishing the fact that five very dependent souls anxiously awaited his next move, Willi Hupfer sat himself down at the keyboard of the Klems. As though he were a virtuoso about to perform, he took a minute or two to adjust the piano bench, fussing with the knobs until the height of the upholstered seat was exactly to his satisfaction. He shifted the bench, now back a little, now forward a little, until the toes of his shoes were within comfortable reach of the pedals. He rubbed his hands together vigorously to warm up the fingers. At last, he raised his right arm, brought his hand down, and played at moderate speed the C-major scale on the upper two octaves of the Klems. This was followed by a similar demonstration over the lower two octaves. He paused at this point for dramatic effect. “Well, I suppose one gets what one pays for,” he said, his lips pursed in contempt for the instrument. “At least the upper and lower ranges are tolerable.”

“Try the middle range, Willi,” Clara Schumann suggested.

“Of course,” Hupfer said, “you realize that any deviation is not my fault. A Klems is
not
a Bösendorfer, you know.”

“I understand,” Clara said, full of deference. “Nobody is blaming you, Willi. Could we hear middle A now? My friends here—” She nodded in the direction of the four string players sitting by attentively. “My friends were not at all happy with the pitch.”

“Oh?” Hupfer said. “And what is supposed to be the trouble with the pitch, may I ask?” There was a slight edge now in his voice.

The second violinist, Martin Stollenberg, spoke up. “Not ‘
supposed
to be the trouble'; there really
is
some trouble.”

Hupfer, peering over his spectacles at the impertinent fiddler, said, “Do you purport, sir, to have perfect pitch?”

“Not at all,” Stollenberg replied. “But I know when a note is sharp, and the middle A on this piano is definitely sharp.” Stollenberg's three colleagues muttered their agreement in unison.

Clara interjected, her eyes on a mantel clock, “Willi, we must get on with this. We have a heavy program to rehearse for this coming Sunday. Would you kindly oblige us by sounding middle A and doing whatever is needed so we can proceed.” She gave him a seductive smile.

“If you will pardon my frankness,” Hupfer said, rising from the piano bench, “I really believe you are being unfair to yourselves. The older piano is a far superior instrument. Better tone. The pins, even in an earthquake, won't loosen and throw the strings off. Why don't I—”

“But Willi,” Clara cut in, “I explained to you in my note that the Klems is far better suited to a chamber arrangement, especially in a setting like this. Remember, we are not performing in an auditorium.
Please
.”

Plainly reluctant, Hupfer seated himself again at the Klems. The members of the quartet brought their bows up to their strings, and waited for him to sound middle A. Hupfer's right index finger came down on the key so softly that it barely created a sound. The string players made no move to tune their instruments. The leader, Rudy von Schirach, affecting a jocular air, called out to Hupfer, “Come, come, Maestro, the note needs to be played
fortissimo!
Again, if you will.”

Hupfer shook his head. Quietly, he responded, “You are all making a grave mistake.”

“The
A
, Willi,” Clara said, her voice firm, “and louder this time.”

“This is deeply offensive to my sense of professionalism,” Hupfer said, looking her straight in the eye. Returning to the keyboard, he pressed his index finger down heavily on middle A.

“You see,” Stollenberg said, “I was right. It's absolutely sharp.”

Clara moved close to the Klems, hovering over the piano tuner, then boldly set her own finger down hard on the middle A key. “Oh dear, this will never do. Get out your tuning fork and do what must be done.” She stooped, picked up Hupfer's satchel, and handed it to him. “The fork, Willi—”

Slowly, Hupfer unfastened the belt that encircled the leather satchel. The bag fell open, each half revealing tools neatly arranged, each tool in a specially fitted holder. The piano technician's face darkened. “That's very odd,” he muttered. “For some reason it's not here.”

“The tuning fork?” Clara Schumann said.

“Yes. I must have left it in my shop.” Hupfer shook his head, as though angry with himself. “I cannot believe—” For a moment he fell into an awkward silence, then abruptly got to his feet. “I do apologize,” he said, addressing everyone, “but if you will bear with me, I will dash back to my workshop and—”

“There's no need to go to the trouble, Hupfer—”

I had slipped suddenly into the parlour from the adjoining study and called out to him. Sliding doors separating the two rooms had been left open sufficiently that I had been able to spy on his actions since the moment of his arrival. “Here…here is your tuning fork,” I said, holding it up so that it was in plain sight.

Hupfer pretended to be disgusted with himself. “Ach! How careless of me! I must have dropped it somewhere in my rush to get here.” He turned to Clara Schumann. “Whatever would we do without detectives!”

“Thank you, Herr Hupfer, for the compliment,” I said. “By the way, would you like to know where I found it?” I watched Hupfer's face for any sign of unease, but to my surprise I saw none.

“What does it matter where it was found? The important thing is, it was found.”

He started toward me and reached for the fork, but I swiftly drew back my hand, placing the instrument beyond his grasp. I gave him a quizzical smile. “Aren't you the least bit curious, I mean about how I came upon your tuning fork?” I said.

“Please, Inspector, we have no time for games.”

“We? You mean
you
have no time for games. Very well, Herr Hupfer, I too have no time for games.”

“Good,” Hupfer said. “The tuning fork, please.”

“But first let me tell you where I found it—”

“I said it does not matter!”

“In the apartment of Georg Adelmann, Hupfer, that is where I found it. Perhaps you have an explanation for your presence in his apartment, bearing in mind that among the myriad treasures with which Adelmann managed to surround himself, the one thing he never got around to was a
piano.
”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hupfer said. “Come to think of it, I can't even be certain if what you're holding in your hand
is
my tuning fork. All tuning forks look alike.”

“There's one distinguishing feature. Allow me—” I struck the tuning fork firmly against the edge of Helena's wooden music stand.

“That's
it!
” Rudy von Schirach exclaimed, “that's the A we tuned to at the musicale.”

“You're sure, von Schirach?” I said, not taking my eyes off Hupfer.

“Sure?” von Schirach said. “I'd wager my Guarneri del Jesu on it!”