Murder in A-Major (7 page)

T
he old gentleman who overhauls my gold pocketwatch is permanently hunched from years of bending over his cramped worktable. His eyes are frozen into a permanent squint from peering into the miniature innards of timepieces. His hands have become small lobster claws after a lifetime spent handling the delicate tools of his trade. The fellow, now in his sixties, who services our firearms, has about him the reek of gun oil and the acrid smell of spent gunpowder. His fingers, no matter how thoroughly they are scrubbed, bear the stains of his trade that will go with him some day to the grave. His workshop is a dungeon, and he seems more like a prisoner in it than a free tradesman. Much the same can be said of all the other technicians and tradespeople and artisans upon whom we rely from day to day. There is a uniformity about such men, an air of pride mixed with fatigue. They have reached the peak of their respective vocations but have somehow become beaten down by daily repetition and the limitations that separate craft from art. When they die, their tools die with them, and that is the end of their story.

Or so I was convinced until the morning I met for the first time Wilhelm Hupfer—“Willi” to the Schumanns. His workshop was as spotless and orderly as a medical clinic. Though he was shorter than I, he stood ramrod-straight, which made him seem taller. His white cotton coat—the kind worn by physicians and research scientists—was starched and immaculate. He was clean-shaven and clear-eyed. His hands, resting comfortably on the lid of a giant Bösendorfer he'd been repairing, were like those of a surgeon. When I mentioned this to him, he smiled a bit. “Ah yes, Inspector,” he said, “skilled like a surgeon to be sure…but much, much more sensitive. Let me show you what I mean.”

Lifting the heavy mahogany lid of the Bösendorfer grand and propping it up, he pointed to the inner workings that resembled a harp laid flat. With the knuckle of his right index finger, he rapped first the gold-lacquered cast-iron frame that formed the foundation for the wooden pin blocks and wire strings, then the thick solid spruce planking, braced by horizontal struts that formed the inner rim of the casing. “Looks strong, doesn't it, Inspector. Strong enough to withstand an earthquake, eh?” I agreed. “And strong it certainly is,” Hupfer continued, looking down lovingly at the instrument as it lay bare beneath him. “The great Liszt plays one of these. Been playing one since he was a young man. Used to break the strings on other makes. They said he could tear open the guts of a grand piano the way a lion tears open a gazelle. Not so with a Bösendorfer, however.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “If a piano like this is so sturdy, why does it require the delicacy of a surgeon to maintain it in proper working order?”

Hupfer gave me the smile of an expert who loves any opportunity to enlighten the ignorant. “That is my favourite question, Inspector,” he said. “Look here, if you will—” He motioned to me to bend closer to the piano's busy interior. “I'm going to press a key…say middle C…like so—”

I watched as the felt-tipped hammer struck the double steel and copper strings that gave off the sound of middle C, then fell back into place in the row of hammers.

“Looks simple, doesn't it? You bang the key, it bangs the strings, it comes back. God's in his heaven, and all's well in the world, right?”

By this time, even a dullard would discern that what this man was talking about was anything but simple. “You're the doctor,” I said. “Please go on.”

“The motions of the action must be adjusted to within a tolerance of a millimetre…or
less
. For instance, the backcheck—that's the part that catches the hammer on the rebound after it has struck the string—the backcheck must be regulated so that the hammer is caught precisely twelve millimetres from the string; otherwise the instrument will not be capable of proper repetition.”

I looked on fascinated as Hupfer reached across to his workbench and selected a fine needle. Holding the needle like a scalpel, he gently but firmly prodded the felt tip of one of the hammers, loosening its dense fibres. “This is how we ‘voice' the piano, one hammer at a time, to achieve the warm, mellow tone, the right volume, the evenness of scale that the piano virtuoso demands. This instrument was built in 1839, Inspector, about ten years or so after the Bösendorfer firm was established. As a matter of fact, it was purchased by a member of the Hapsburg family at the Vienna Industrial Exhibition that year, after it was awarded first prize and a gold medal. Alas, the Hapburgs paid more attention to the royal stables than to their pianos, and so I have had to perform major ‘surgery' here. But when I am done…” Hupfer paused to give the keyboard an affectionate pat. “When I am done it will be like new. No,
better
than new! Shall I tell you something, my friend? You could transport this piano to the far ends of the earth, and the minute a simple scale is played on it, any expert will recognize one thing immediately.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“That I, Wilhelm Hupfer, voiced the instrument. I know one standard and one standard only, sir…perfection.”

“You do indeed possess all the abilities of a skilled surgeon,” I said, shaking my head admiringly.

“All except one: the ability to become as rich as a skilled surgeon. An expert like me never receives the public recognition and the rewards he deserves. Who does? The performer. His impresario. His manager. Even the flunkies who lay out his wardrobe, shave him, and empty his chamber pots.”

I attempted to lighten the moment. Smiling sympathetically, I said, “Your rewards will come in heaven, I'm sure.”

Hupfer was not amused. His face took on a hard expression. “Oh no, Inspector,” he said, “they will come much sooner, and here on earth. I have been a patient fool long enough.”

“Do you work on other makes?” I said.

“Of course,” Hupfer replied, his tone implying that my question was foolish. “A surgeon does not confine himself to one kind of patient only. No, Inspector, I am qualified to operate on just about any piano known to mankind. Naturally, I do not meddle with cheap mass-produced instruments that are beginning to come onto the market. One does not engage the services of a French chef to cook a meal of sausages and sauerkraut.”

Hupfer removed the prop and carefully lowered the lid of the Bösendorfer. “Tell me, Inspector, are you thinking of acquiring a fine piano for your own use? Is that why you wanted to see me this morning?”

“No,” I said. “As a pianist, I'm afraid I fall into the category of ‘sausages and sauerkraut'. I'm guilty of having bought one of those cheap mass-produced pianos as befits my talent. I would never dream of requesting an expert of your renown to so much as
smell
what passes for a piano these days in my living quarters.”

I hoped my humble admission would strike Hupfer as appealing. After all, what delights a proud man more than when another debases himself before him? I wanted this fellow to feel thoroughly superior. More to the point, I wanted to catch him completely off his guard when I posed my next question.

I said, trying to sound idly curious, “How do you account, sir, for the fact that Madam Schumann's piano was out of tune last evening?”

Hupfer's eyes snapped open with shock. “I beg your pardon. I do not understand the question.”

“You worked on the Schumanns' pianos yesterday, did you not?”

“Yes. Mostly on the one she was going to play, not the other one. The Maestro gave Madam Schumann a brand new piano a few months ago for her birthday…from the Klems factory in Düsseldorf. Hardly a masterpiece as instruments go, but for a price of a couple of hundred thalers, nothing to sniff at either. The case is embellished with a floral pattern. I wish to God they had spent more time embellishing the
action.
But, as I said, it's a decent enough instrument for home use. Each and every piano has its own problems, Inspector, but because the Klems was almost new, all it required was a thorough tuning.” Hupfer's eyes narrowed. Almost sneering, he said, “And who, may I ask, ventured the opinion that it was out of tune?”

“Franz Liszt.”

You want me to believe that Franz Liszt said her piano was out of tune?”

“Yes.”

“Surely this is some kind of joke.”

“No, I heard him very distinctly.”

“He said this to her, to Madam Schumann?”

“No, to young Brahms, during a brief exchange as Liszt was departing. After he left, I had a conversation with the Schumanns and Brahms regarding this very subject.”

Hupfer's expression brightened instantly. He let his shoulders go slack, at the same time heaving a sigh of relief. “Good. I'm sure
they
agreed that the Klems was in perfect tune. I mean Brahms and the Schumanns.”

I pretended to be preoccupied with a minute scratch on the Bösendorfer's outer keyboard flank. “That's not quite how it happened,” I said, bending close to examine the blemish, as though I was keenly interested in it. I sensed that Hupfer was growing tense again.

“What do you mean, ‘that's not quite how it happened'?”

“Well…” I took my time, my nose almost touching the polished mahogany now. “Madam Schumann and their friend Brahms were absolutely certain that the piano was perfectly tuned and that Liszt was wrong.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I'm not at all surprised.”

“But—”

“But what?”

I straightened myself. “But Maestro Schumann disagreed with his wife and Brahms. In fact, he agreed with Liszt. Emphatically so. He said the moment middle A was sounded in order for the quartet to tune their instruments, he sensed that it was off. And a friend of mine who plays in the quartet verified this. Pretty strong evidence, wouldn't you agree?”

“I would agree and I would
not
agree, to be frank, Inspector.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that a grand piano is a complex piece of machinery. There are close to twelve thousand parts, from the tiniest screws to the largest slice of spruce planking, that make up an instrument of that sort. Sometimes what goes on in the bowels of a piano is as mysterious as what goes on in the human body.”

I began for the first time to detect a tone of defensiveness in Hupfer's voice. It seemed that only a moment ago he was boasting about his standard of perfection; now he was asking me to make allowances. Although I was no expert when it came to pianos, I knew that many of these instruments—even the finest of them—occasionally developed cracks in their sound-boards. I felt that I had now found a crack in Willi Hupfer's personal soundboard.

“How long would you typically spend tuning a piano like Madam Schumann's?” I said.

“As I told you before, her Klems is relatively new, so I spent no more than an hour, maybe a bit longer, because the action was slightly heavy in the bass. On an older piano, tuning can run to about two hours, depending of course on its condition. Too much humidity or too much dryness can cause the hammer arms to bend out of shape. Also there may be a problem with moths. Moths can eat into the felt on the hammers, which then fail to strike the strings with the proper angle and force. One must have regard for all these variables, Inspector.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“Did I what? Have regard for all the variables? Are you questioning my thoroughness, sir?”

“Not for a moment, Herr Hupfer, I assure you.”

“Then why these questions?”

Should I reveal the purpose behind my visit? After all, if there was a purely technical explanation for Schumann's persistent complaint about hearing the A sound, who better than Hupfer to assist me to get to the bottom of it? On the other hand, if there was—as Schumann was convinced—some form of skullduggery at work here, what if Hupfer was involved in the plot? The self-confidence he had displayed during the initial part of my visit was beginning to fade with each of my questions. His hands fidgeted nervously with a small brass screwdriver, and his right eyelid suddenly developed a noticeable twitch.

“Herr Hupfer,” I said, “what I am about to discuss with you must be treated in strictest confidence. I understand that your ties to the Schumanns are extremely close, and I trust therefore that I may rely completely upon your discretion.”

“Naturally,” Hupfer replied, then smiled shrewdly. “Funny thing, Inspector. Something told me you didn't come to my shop merely to learn how to tune a piano.”

“No, Herr Hupfer, I came for the opposite reason. I need to know how to
un
tune a piano. To be more precise, I need to know whether a piano can be tampered with in such a way that a particular string will resonate without actually being struck. In other words, will some unrelated or indirect action cause a string to emit a sympathetic sound, so to speak, in a consistent pattern?”

Hupfer took a moment to reflect. “Well, we do encounter a very annoying situation from time to time with pianos…a buzz.”

“A buzz?”

“Yes. Striking a key will sometimes set off a rattle…a buzz is more like it…that may come from any of the instrument's moving parts or vibrating surfaces. Tracking down the source can prove exasperating even to a first-rate craftsman like me.”

“And do you always succeed?”

“Of course!” Hupfer chuckled softly. “You see, Inspector, pianos
talk
to Wilhelm Hupfer. That's right, I said talk. I give them voice, and in their way they speak to me. I have only to touch one or two keys…I choose them at random, and immediately the instrument comes alive and confides in me. ‘Willi, I am suffering from a warped soundboard'…‘My damper springs are loose'…‘I've lost the brilliance in my treble'. Each and every piano that is fortunate enough to enter my little domain becomes my mistress, and we quickly become intimate. At least that's what Frau Hupfer, my long-suffering wife, tells people.”

“That's very reassuring,” I said. “But have you any insights as to how a persistent sound can be produced despite the fact that the relative key has not been depressed?”