The Mastersinger from Minsk (2 page)

B
eneath
Munich's polished surface of culture and prosperity and good manners, evil burrows its way through a thousand subterranean passageways. And because evil has no sense of time or timeliness, I find myself intensely engaged in my work at all hours of the day and night while men living more conventional (should I better say sensible?) lives are enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll with their families, or an evening of cards at their favourite coffeehouses, or a middle-of-the-night spontaneous moment or two of lovemaking, matrimonial or otherwise. Being in demand around the clock, I am like a sentry on endless guard duty and dream of uninterrupted slumber the way a gambler dreams of an uninterrupted winning streak at roulette. (Indeed, the gambler stands a better chance than I of realizing his dream, I'm sure.) And yet even a policeman absorbed in the very down-to-earth business of crime and punishment is entitled to indulge in the occasional fantasy, is he not? Which is what I was doing on this April night. Winter was leaving its harsh aftertaste on the deserted streets in the form of a bitter wind, giving me the sinking feeling that if spring were to occur at all it would be on some planet other than our own. I was experiencing fatigue unlike any I had previously experienced, fatigue so profound that, though I hadn't had time for a decent meal in the past three days, the thought of food was the furthest thing from my mind. My fantasy consisted of a warm bed, and eight hours at the very least of pure unadulterated sleep.

Let me explain: Earlier in the day I had concluded a marathon effort to seek out and capture the perpetrator of a series of vicious rapes in the area around Friedensplatz, a small square in the south end of Munich frequented by prostitutes and, of course, by men seeking their favours. Posing as a pimp (a role I found uncomfortable not only because of its inherent odiousness but because I was obliged to wear such outlandishly tasteless attire) and under the generous guidance of an acquaintance, Rosina Waldheim, a madam of remarkably high principles given the nature of her enterprise, I carried on almost without pause a seventy-two hour surveillance which resulted in spotting the culprit as he was stalking an intended victim. The details of his arrest needn't be spelled out. Suffice to say that word of my success spread quickly throughout the ranks of women who made their living in and around Friedensplatz. As I made my way by carriage back to my apartment for some much-needed peace and quiet, it occurred to me that I might soon be seriously considered for sainthood by a group of happily relieved (though unrepentant) sinners. Oh well, I told myself, one takes one's rewards wherever one finds them.

I must explain, too, that this triumph of detection and arrest was not without its sour side. The mission had originally been assigned by my superior, Commissioner von Mannstein, to Detective Franz Brunner. What ensued was either the result of a fit of zeal on Brunner's part, a shabby attempt to enhance his record of service, or downright incompetence. Whatever the reason, Brunner, with almost lightning speed, apprehended “the culprit” who turned out to be a member of the Norwegian delegation to an international conference in Munich held to discuss improved standards for the manufacture of dairy products. The unfortunate fellow was entirely innocent, a classic instance of the wrong man at the wrong street corner at the wrong time. True, he had ventured down to Friedensplatz for an hour or so of recreation (the work of a food scientist, after all, can be deadly serious) but his only crime, if it can be called a crime, was to get into a heated dispute over the question of price with one of the prostitutes during the course of which the prospective customer flung several insults at her. That this was conduct unbecoming of a Norwegian delegate is undeniable, but Brunner, who happened to observe the argument, saw it as sufficient evidence that the man was the sought-after rapist. Repercussions from the false arrest carried out by my colleague Brunner were felt at the highest diplomatic levels both in Norway and Germany, and the commissioner found himself bearing much of the blame for what the press headlined as “the Friedensplatz Fiasco.”

This, then, is how I came to be involved in the case. “Preiss,” said Commissioner von Mannstein, rocking back and forth on the heels of his polished boots (a habit whenever he was agitated), “Germany expects that you will restore the reputation of our nation …”

Restore it I did. But less than a year before the Friedensplatz affair I had been imported from Düsseldorf to take up the post of chief inspector in Munich, a post Franz Brunner, then a fifteen-year veteran of the city's police force, had expected to be awarded. In a hundred different ways, Brunner has ever since demonstrated his deep resentment at having been passed over by an out-of-towner. My having caught and arrested the real villain of Friedensplatz, I was certain, would stoke the fire of Brunner's animosity toward me into white-hot flames. It had been difficult enough all these months living and working side-by-side with Detective Franz Brunner. Now it would be impossible.

By the time I reached my apartment I was too exhausted to feel the elation that normally follows a successful arrest, and too exhausted to worry about my relationship with Brunner. Without bothering to remove my clothes I threw myself down onto a divan and swore that even if God were to come knocking at my door I would not answer.

Of course that is precisely the kind of resolution I should have known better than to make. If my experience as a policeman has taught me anything it is that, as my Jewish friends say, Man plans and God laughs. Sure enough, just as my eyes, heavy with fatigue, were beginning to close there came a knock at my door.

It was gentle at first and I heard myself groan and call out in a weak voice, thinking it was the concierge delivering a message, “Please leave it under the door.” But the knocking continued, firmer and louder this time. “I said please leave it under the door,” I called out again, angry and ready to strangle the fellow. The next series of raps sounded as though the person were using brass knuckles. Flinging myself up from the divan I marched to the door intending to take years off the caller's life.

Opening the door I began to shout “Why the devil can't you —” and then I saw that it was not the concierge after all.

“Detective Preiss?” the caller cautiously said.

“
Chief Inspector
Preiss,” I replied. So what if I was rude; if the man had the gall to seek me out at my lodgings, and at this hour of the night, the least he could do was address me by my proper title.

The caller glanced at a small card in his hand. “It says here
Detective
Hermann Preiss.”

“It says
what
?”

“Here, see for yourself —” He handed me the card.

“Who gave you this?” I demanded.

“A detective by the name of Brunner … at the Constabulary.”

Brunner! That bastard! Trust Brunner not only to pawn this fellow off on me but to understate my position in the department.

“Did Brunner not take the trouble to mention that I'm off duty at the moment?”

“He said nothing about that,” the caller said. “He simply assured me that you are best equipped to deal with this kind of case. In fact, he went so far as to say there wasn't a detective in the whole of
Europe
who is better equipped. It must be exceedingly gratifying to hear that you are held in such high esteem by your colleague.”

Making no secret of my impatience, I asked, “What sort of case are we talking about? Somebody make off with your prized Dachshund?” I wouldn't have put it past Brunner.

“Please, Chief Inspector,” the man said, “I would not dream of disturbing you were it not that a serious threat has been made and I desperately need your help.”

A serious threat? It was difficult to imagine a serious threat being made against this fellow. He was at least a head shorter than I. So short was he, in fact, that had I passed him in the street for the first time I would have turned swiftly about in disbelief for a second look. The climb to the second storey where my rooms are located had left him breathing heavily, but it was only after he removed his tall hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat that I realized how old he was. His hair — what there was of it — was pure white and matted with perspiration. Drooping jowls and patches of loose skin under his eyes gave him the look of a worried bloodhound.

“I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water, Inspector?” he said, his lungs now issuing a wheezing sound.

I had no choice. “I suppose you'd better come in,” I said.

Watching him down the glass of water under the stronger light in my sitting room, I could see now that he was clean-shaven and that his clothes, which because of his small stature would have had to be custom-made, were well cut and carefully put together. He had removed his gloves to accept the glass of water, revealing a diamond ring on the index finger of his left hand (the hand holding the glass), the stone a good two carats if not more. Only after he had finished off a second glass of water did he introduce himself. “My name is Otto Mecklenberg. Your colleague Brunner did not seem to be familiar with my name but —”

I said, “
The
Otto Mecklenberg … the impresario?”

The old man's face suddenly lit up. “You flatter me, sir. I wasn't certain if —”

“Of course I'm familiar with the name. Whenever music is spoken of in Munich your name is spoken in the same breath, especially when the subject is opera.”

“Then Brunner was right,” Mecklenberg said. “He told me you're the one policeman in the whole of Europe who takes an interest in opera. I have to add, Inspector, that Brunner pronounced ‘opera' as if it were an incurable disease.”

“
Detective Brunner
is an incurable disease,” I said. “Now, please tell me … why would anyone want to threaten
you
of all people?”

“No no,” Mecklenberg said quickly, “
I
am not the one threatened, it is my client who's the potential victim.”

“And your client is —?”

“Richard Wagner.”

“Someone is threatening to kill Wagner?”

“Worse, Inspector.”

“What can be worse than a death threat?”

“You have to know Richard Wagner as I do in order to answer that question,” Mecklenberg replied. Reaching into an inside pocket of his coat the old man extracted an envelope. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “open this please and read the note.”

The envelope was addressed in crude block letters to Richard Wagner. It turned out to contain a single sheet of inexpensive stationery upon which in the same crude hand a one-line message appeared:

JUNE 21
WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION

I read the message aloud several times. Something about it made no sense to me. “If someone were truly out to do serious harm why would he give advance notice of his intention? I mean, since when does a criminal announce his
schedule
for the commission of the crime?” I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Herr Mecklenberg, but this has all the marks of a prank … granted a nasty prank, but nevertheless a prank and no more. Besides, the note speaks of ruination rather than death, which sounds to me like some kind of petty revenge is what the writer has in mind.”

I started to hand back the envelope and note but Mecklenberg raised his hands in a gesture of refusal. “If you're as knowledgeable about opera as your reputation suggests, then you must know all there is to know about Wagner. The man's notorious. Let us be honest about it. There is no other way to describe him. Anyone who reads the newspapers surely is aware that Richard Wagner engages simultaneously in two professions: the first is music, the second is getting into all sorts of trouble.”

“You're referring to his political activities?”

“You call it political activities,” Mecklenberg said with a cynical smile. “Unfortunately, our government calls it treason. And Wagner's denunciation of the church has the Archbishop of Munich labelling him a blasphemer. And that's not all, Inspector. I would not be the least surprised if somewhere at your headquarters there is a file as thick as your fist filled with charges brought against the man by his creditors. Fraud, cheating, issuing bad cheques … Wagner's done 'em all. You know, of course, that he was only recently permitted to return from Switzerland where he was in exile.”

“But Herr Mecklenberg,” I said, “governments don't deliver threats hand printed on cheap slips of paper, nor do princes of the church. As for victims of petty crimes, and even creditors facing significant losses, hints of revenge are not their typical
modus operandi
; prompt acts of brutality are more popular forms of retribution. Take my word for it.”

“With all due respect, sir, this is not what you would call a typical situation. June twenty-first is the date for the premiere of Wagner's new opera, you see.”

“New opera? I must have missed the announcement in the newspapers.”

“Ah, Inspector Preiss, that's the point. There was
no
announcement in the newspapers. The date for the premiere is known at the moment by a mere handful of people … people who are directly involved in the production. In fact, the June twenty-first date was disclosed by Maestro Wagner only yesterday following auditions for the principal male role.”

“And the new opera is —?”

“Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg,”
Mecklenberg replied in a hushed voice, as though he was afraid that the very mention of the opera's title might invite some sudden calamity.

“Well, sir, if indeed the date is known by a relatively few people at this point, then it stands to reason that the number of possible suspects is very limited. If I am correct in this assumption, then my job should be quite simple. No need to cast a broad net here; the fish, so to speak, are all close to the boat. At any rate, June twenty-first is some two months off which gives me plenty of time to —”