Murder in A-Major (15 page)

S
o, Inspector Preiss, we meet again. Is this an official visit?” Brahms asked, “or have you come to discuss piano tuning? Don't look surprised, Inspector. I have my sources of information. By the way, how did you locate my lodging?”

“
My
sources of information,” I replied. “And yes, this is an official visit.”

I took a quick look around the room. My face must have betrayed disappointment, which my reluctant host did not fail to notice. “I must apologize for my humble abode. The realm has not yet seen fit to shower me with its coinage.”

“Speaking of living quarters, Herr Brahms, I understood that you occupied a guest room at Number 15 Bilkerstrasse, the Schumanns' residence. Was I misinformed?”

“You were not misinformed,” Brahms said, “but your information is slightly outdated. I moved here several days ago.”

“Really? May I ask why?”

“You may ask,” Brahms said, eyeing me steadily with those incredibly blue eyes, “but what's the point of asking when you already know the answer?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Living under the same roof as Robert Schumann would be next to impossible, wouldn't it? I mean, the man's unpredictable moods, his tempers—”

“Don't play games with me, Inspector. You know perfectly well my move had nothing to do with Robert. The truth is, I found it next to impossible to live under the same roof as Clara Schumann, and I think you know the reason…or reasons,” he said. Brahms's tone was so quiet, so confident, that for a moment I felt off balance.

“Did you happen to visit Georg Adelmann the day he was murdered?” I asked, anxious to change the subject and regain my sense of control. “That's really why I'm here, Herr Brahms.”

“If you must know, I did go see the old bastard, because earlier that day Robert threatened to kill him. I persuaded the Maestro to let me deal with Adelmann. I didn't want Robert to get into trouble.”

“You actually heard Schumann threaten to kill Adelmann?”

“Not in so many words, but whenever the Maestro is in one of his ‘Florestan' moods, there is no telling what he will do, how far he might go if left unchecked.”

“Did he tell you why he was ready to kill Adelmann?”

Brahms paused. “Well, you're not going to be pleased with the answer to that question, Inspector. Robert was bitterly disappointed over your failure to confront Adelmann and retrieve the stolen Beethoven manuscript.”

“That's as much as Schumann revealed to you, then? Nothing more?”

“What more was there to tell?”

“The Maestro gave as his only reason the fact that, in his eyes, I had fallen down on the job?” I said.

“Inspector, with all due respect, when the man who is supposedly the finest detective in Düsseldorf catches a thief red-handed, fails to apprehend him, then to make matters worse, fails to retrieve a priceless item of stolen property, wouldn't you expect a man like Robert Schumann to become almost insane with rage?”

“So, the plan was,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that you would approach Adelmann yourself, hoping perhaps to accomplish what I allegedly failed to accomplish.”

“Precisely, Inspector.”

“And I take it that you were met with the same responses from Adelmann that I received?”

Brahms hesitated. I sensed for the first time since my arrival that he was unsure of himself. Looking steadily at me—which convinced me he was lying—he said, “Yes, I imagine he said the same things to me as he said to you.”

“About how he came into possession of the Beethoven manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“He told you what, then?”

Again a hesitation. “Well, I don't recall precisely.”

“You don't
recall?
It was only yesterday, Herr Brahms.”

“I'm doing my best to help you, Inspector—”

“I'm sure you are. Please try to remember Adelmann's explanation.”

“His explanation?”

“Yes.”

“Well…let me see now. His explanation…it was so convoluted that I'm having some difficulty…”

“I have all the time in the world,” I said reassuringly.

“Well,” Brahms said, “as I told you, the story Adelmann related…about the manuscript…and how it came into Liszt's hands…it was all so very convoluted…full of unfinished sentences, innuendos of one kind or another, non sequiturs, if you know what I mean.”

“Herr Brahms, let me lift the veil from your memory,” I said. ‘You undertook to call on Adelmann—”

“Yes, of course.”

“But the truth is that you never fulfilled that undertaking, did you?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I repeat: you never showed up at Adelmann's.”

“Nonsense!”

“I'm quite certain I'm correct, Herr Brahms.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“You never had a conversation with Adelmann about returning Schumann's prized possession. If you'd had such a conversation, you'd have no trouble recalling the reason it came into Adelmann's possession…or at least his version of it.”

“Which was?”

“No, Herr Brahms, not yet. First let me tell you why you chose
not
to approach Adelmann. I'll come directly to the point,” I said. “You had not the slightest intention of intervening. In fact, you intended the very opposite to occur; that is, you hoped, and probably expected, that Schumann would indeed kill Adelmann. As a convicted murderer, Robert Schumann would be imprisoned, in all likelihood for the rest of his life. And this would leave you free to cement your relationship with Clara Schumann, free to be with her openly instead of furtively. In short, you wanted Schumann out of the way, once and for all.”

Brahms's expression remained impassive. “You believe I simply stood aside and cleared the way for Robert to murder Adelmann? And my reason for doing so was because I want to step into his shoes…to become the master of the Schumann household? Is that what you think?”

“Yes…and no…and maybe.”

“Yes, no, maybe!” Brahms exploded. “What kind of policeman are you! You make accusations one minute, then you pussyfoot the next.”

“Let me ask you something, Herr Brahms,” I said. “When you sit down at the keyboard to compose, do you always know at the outset where a musical notion will ultimately take you?”

“I am an
artist
, sir,” Brahms said, sounding insulted, “not a simple mechanic.”

“Nor am
I
a simple mechanic, Brahms. You did
not
carry through with your undertaking to confront Georg Adelmann on Schumann's behalf. Am I correct? Yes or no?”

Brahms roughly seized a chair and sat down. He took what must have been a full minute to study me. Plainly, I was not prepared to put up with evasions. “Well, yes or no?” I insisted.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, you are correct…I mean about not going to see Adelmann. The reason is simple. You see, Inspector, I have one goal and one goal only in my life—”

“And that is?”

“To be a great composer. Music is my religion. Without music, there is no story to my life. I know this sounds egotistical, but the truth is, I want nothing…absolutely nothing…to stand in the way of my career.”

“Well, at least we have the answer as to whether or not you kept your appointment with Georg Adelmann, and why in fact you didn't.”

“Correction, sir,” Brahms said. “You have only
half
the answer.”

“I don't follow you—”

“Look, I
am
infatuated with Clara Schumann…who wouldn't be?…but I am
not
in love with her, I mean so in love that I am willing to give up the thing I value most at the moment…my freedom.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Herr Brahms, but I've seen how you look at her.”

“And I've seen how
you
look at her, Herr Preiss.”

I felt a sudden rush of blood to my cheeks. Brahms gave me a shrewd smile. “Ahah! So now it's out in the open. We're both caught in this woman's net. And how does your cellist friend…I believe her name is Helena Becker, yes?…how does she figure into your domestic life these days?”

“I have no domestic life, Herr Brahms,” I said, “not that it's any of your business.”

“No thoughts of a sweet little hausfrau setting a steaming plate of dumplings before you after a hard day, then?”

Brahms seemed to enjoy making fun of me. I'm afraid I allowed my irritation to get the best of me. “You mistake me for some kind of railway station guard,” I said. “Fact is, I happen to value my freedom as much as you value yours, Brahms. It's not in my nature to come home every night to a hausfrau, a plate of dumplings and a rocking chair.”

“I assume you've had the decency to make your position clear to your young cellist, Inspector.”

“As much decency and courage as you display in your relationship with Madam Schumann,” I shot back. “You are how old?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And she?”

“Thirty-five.”

“So every time you and she share some forbidden moments, you make it clear to her that you are prepared to commit yourself fully and honourably?”

“Of course not. The idea is preposterous, Preiss.”

“And yet you lead her on, while availing yourself of her fame, her connections, her hospitality, her passion. You're a rather cold-blooded fellow.”

“I am from Hamburg,” Brahms said. “We North Germans as a rule do not wear our hearts on our sleeves.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but surely the odd North German must be capable of feeling pangs of guilt?”

“If there is reason for me to feel guilty,” Brahms said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, “I'll have plenty of time to deal with my conscience later in life. For the time being at least, my art comes first.”

“I'm not sure I believe you,” I said.

“If you don't believe me, there can be only one explanation.”

“And that is?”

“You are so totally enthralled by Clara Schumann that you cannot imagine a man like me, one who is close to her, being less than totally enthralled. But the fact of the matter is that I would no more seek to get rid of Robert Schumann, give up my precious freedom and take up with his wife than
you
would, Inspector Preiss.”

Brahms rose from his chair and stood over me with a curious smile. “Come to think of it, it turns out that you and I have much in common, certainly more than either of us may have thought before this little conversation of ours.” Suddenly Brahms broke into a laugh. “And come to think of it, perhaps
you
murdered Georg Adelmann hoping it would look like the work of Robert Schumann—”

I jumped up. “This is not a joking matter, Brahms.”

Brahms turned sober. “Of course it's not,” he said. “I was merely pointing out that I am no more a suspect than you yourself are. You're right, Preiss; I never met with Adelmann, but I never deliberately paved the way for Schumann to murder the man, either.” Eyeing me coolly, he said, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector?”

I was tempted to get into the matter of the piano tuning but decided to leave that touchy subject for another time. I wanted Brahms to think he had succeeded in persuading me of his innocence in this whole affair.

And yet, as I left him, I found myself with my feet firmly planted in mid-air as far as this Brahms fellow was concerned. Handsome, brilliant, articulate, witty…he was all these things. But was he also a liar?

I
t took a half-dozen sharp raps on the front door before the Schumanns' housekeeper opened it and greeted me with an apology. “I'm sorry, Inspector,” she said, having trouble looking me in the eye, “but you'll have to come back later. Madam Schumann is extremely busy at the moment.”

“That makes two of us,” I said, and brushed past the hapless woman. “Kindly tell Madam Schumann I must see her at once.”

My voice must have carried, for a moment later Clara Schumann emerged from the parlour. “What now, Inspector?” she demanded, adding quickly, “I have a very full schedule today, as always.” She shot a withering look at the housekeeper. “I thought this was made clear to you.”

I said, “Madam Schumann, perhaps we might speak in private—”

She gave an impatient sigh. “If we must,” she said, and motioned me to follow her. “We'll use Robert's study. He's dashed off somewhere, as he has a habit of doing these days, whenever he's faced with something he finds disagreeable. God knows it doesn't take much to set him off.”

I said, “Forgive me, Madam Schumann, aren't you at all concerned about his erratic behaviour?”

“We already have an army of doctors to cope with Robert's problems. You have to admit that their training and experience exceeds your own in such matters.”

“But your husband has no confidence in the doctors. Take for instance this fellow Möbius—”

“
Doctor
Möbius.”

“Witch doctor is more apt. The man belongs in a jungle.”

“You seem so sure of yourself,” she said. “Perhaps you've been a patient of his?”

“I've consulted him, though not as a patient.”

“Then you're hardly in a position—”

“On the contrary, I am very much in a position. In addition to my own encounter with Möbius, a close friend of mine has had reason to consult him…as a
patient.
The man's a quack, nothing more.”

“A friend, you say?” Clara Schumann's tone turned contemptuous. “What kind of ‘friend' would confide that he or she was compelled to seek treatment for mental illness? It's hardly fashionable to talk openly of such intimate matters. Believe me, I speak from experience. Do you have any idea how mortifying it is, Inspector, that Robert and I find ourselves baring our private lives before one doctor after another? And how doubly mortifying when we must do so before a policeman? Be honest, Inspector,” she said, “and admit the plain truth. You have no business being involved in our troubles. My biggest regret is that I gave in to Robert and wrote the damned note summoning you that night. It was a moment of weakness on my part, for which I will never forgive myself.”

“About your friend, Brahms—” I began to ask.

“What about my friend Brahms?”

The expression on her face tightened, and a fierceness in her eyes gave me the feeling that somehow
I
was on trial here. I said, “I have some questions I must ask…about him…about you.”

“I will not lie to you, Inspector,” she said quietly, “though I assume you anticipate lies in these situations. It is true that I have some affection for Johannes, a great deal, in fact. What normal woman would not?”

“Enough affection that—to put it plainly—you have given yourself to him?”

“I repeat, Inspector: what normal woman would not?”

“But you are no
normal
woman, surely,” I said.

“In some respects,” she replied, “I am normal. In other respects…well, see for yourself: daughter of a tyrant, wife of a man who has become as wildly unpredictable as the weather, mother of six demanding children, performing artist, and these days more and more the sole source of income for our family. I carry not one but several albatrosses about my neck.”

“The only thing I observe about your neck is a locket, which I recognize.”

“Really? How so?”

“I happened to be at Thüringer's Jewellery Shoppe the day Brahms purchased it. There's an inscription on the back—‘To dearest Clara, my life's blood'.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Clara Schumann said. “What inscription?”

“Come now, Madam Schumann, you indicated there would be no lies.”

She promptly reached behind her neck, unclasped the locket, and handed it to me. “Look for yourself, Inspector.”

There was no inscription.

Had my ears and eyes played some kind of trick on me? Or was Johannes Brahms, clever devil, the trickster here?

“You see, Inspector,” she said, “once again your policeman's imagination has run away with itself.” She extended her hand in an imperious manner. “The locket…please give it back.”

I confess to feeling sheepish and more than a little confused as I handed back the locket and watched as Clara replaced it around her neck. “Now, sir, if we are quite finished—” she said.

“No, madam, we are
not
quite finished,” I said. From an inner pocket of my coat I withdrew one of my finest Irish linen handkerchiefs and unfolded it carefully to reveal a tuning fork. “Do you recognize this?” I said, watching intently for her reaction.

Without bothering to examine it closely she said, “You're asking me if I recognize a
tuning fork?
” She gave a little laugh. “Seriously, there must be thousands of such tuning forks.”

“Quite so,” I agreed. “I doubt, however, that all of them have bloodstains on the prongs, as this one does.”

Her expression betrayed little interest. “You must forgive me,” she said, “if I fail to find the artifacts of crime as fascinating as you do.”

“This is no mere ‘artifact',” I said. “This happens to be a murder weapon. This innocent-looking instrument, applied with immense force to the skull of Georg Adelmann, took the man's life.”

“Then that must have been the last musical note the poor fellow heard, mustn't it?” she said, pretending to be stricken.

“Madam Schumann,” I said, “this is not a time for clever jests. I'm certain this tuning fork belongs to your husband. He is known to carry one much of the time. I'm told, for instance, that whenever he's conducting, he and the orchestra's oboeist battle constantly over tuning, and the Maestro insists his own tuning fork must settle the pitch.”

“Go on.”

“He is also renowned for his seemingly uncontrollable fits of rage.”

“I take it, then, that you think you have sufficient grounds to arrest my husband and charge him with the murder of Georg Adelmann?”

Before I could reply, the housekeeper burst into the study. “Madam Schumann, come quickly!”

Suddenly the house was filled with the sounds of a scuffle. With Clara close behind, I followed the housekeeper into the entrance hall, now the setting for a scene of complete chaos. The front door of the house had been flung open and there, in the centre of the hall, three burly men in fishermen's apparel were struggling to restrain a fourth man who, despite the odds against him, appeared on the verge of overwhelming them and breaking free. A raw wind from the street blew through the open door, scattering that morning's newspaper, a stack of unopened mail, and a thick sheaf of music paper. Puddles were forming under the feet of the four men, and my nose caught the rank odour of river water. That same smell was on their clothing. There were cries, shouts and garbled words that made no sense.

The loudest of these came from the fourth man who was, of course, Robert Schumann.

Ribbons of what looked like seaweed dangled from his matted scalp. His complexion, which in moments of contentment had been a reassuring pink, was now colourless, the skin wrinkled as though it had been marinated in brine. His clothing—he wore only a thin suit but no coat despite this cold, rainy season—was soaked. I had seen drifters in the slums of Düsseldorf who looked less dishevelled.

Both Clara and the housekeeper had rushed to fetch shawls and towels to cover and dry him. His arms flinging about wildly, Schumann rejected everything. The man was clearly beyond being comforted. He cursed everyone, Clara and the housekeeper included, but aimed most of his hostility at two of the three men, accusing them of meddling. “Why didn't you leave me be?” he demanded, shouting at them in a voice growing hoarse, as though his lungs were filled with water and silt.

Then, in a sudden change of mood which I had come to know as typical of the man, Schumann sank into total surrender. He became lifeless, his face a blank canvas devoid of any visible emotion. Clara and the housekeeper could now resume with some success their attempts to warm him, for he had begun to shake and shiver, yet somehow he did not seem to be at all aware of his condition. It was as though his mind and body were disconnected.

I turned to one of the fishermen, who had now released his grip on Schumann. Without waiting for my question, without knowing who I was, he said, “We saw him…the other two were in their boat…I was on shore…and we saw him…well, actually, I saw him first. You know the toll bridge near here? Well, he started to cross, got part way, he was running at that point…then he stopped for maybe a second or two…and then, I swear to God, he just threw himself into the water. The others, the ones in the boat, went after him. God knows how they managed to pull him out; he was giving them such a hard time. They didn't know who he was, but I work at the toll bridge, and I was the one who recognized him, because he often takes walks along the riverbank.”

Subdued and incredibly calm now, Schumann allowed himself to be led upstairs, saying only that he needed to sleep, repeating it over and over, paying no attention to Clara, who held his hand and urged him to hush, assuring him that Dr. Heller would come soon.

I introduced myself to the fishermen, praised them for their efforts, and made a note of their names and addresses explaining that I would be calling upon them to furnish their accounts of the incident in writing for a police record.

The wind had grown cruel as I started back to the Constabulary; however, I denied myself the luxury of a cab, feeling instead an urgent need of a long solitary walk and time to stitch into some logical pattern the events of the past hour. Schumann, the intended victim, had himself become a murderer. Of this I was now certain beyond a split second of doubt. My duty, therefore, was clear; it was not to be misted over by counterfeit sentimentality and misplaced sympathies.

Within sight of my headquarters, I touched the inside of my coat to make certain that the fateful tuning fork was securely stored. And over and over again, I repeated, as though bracing myself, “My duty is clear.”