Murder in A-Major (5 page)

T
he Robert Schumann now planting himself before me, beaming and ebullient, pumping my hand vigorously as he and his wife welcomed me on my arrival at the Saturday evening musicale, was not the Robert Schumann who, only a few nights earlier, had been in a state of collapse after the concert, overcome by panic. Even more extraordinary was Clara Schumann's greeting. Glowing with amiability, she said, “Ah, Helena, my dear, what a charming idea, bringing along Düsseldorfs finest policeman for protection.” Turning to me, smiling slyly, she said, “And you, Inspector, are you here to guard Fräulein Becker's priceless cello or Fräulein Becker herself?”

“As anyone can see,” I said, “Fräulein Becker is far more priceless than her cello.” I knew this was the response that was called for. But my gaze, which should have fallen then on Helena, instead remained on Clara Schumann. For a moment or two, I wondered if hypnosis, a phenomenon I had long regarded with disbelief, was not a sham after all. Attired in a simple emerald gown, her neck encircled by a single strand of pearls, the woman was proof that elegance did not depend on adornments.

Madam Schumann said to her husband, “Robert, dear, why don't you take Fräulein Becker's wrap and help her store her cello against the piano. Meanwhile, I'll escort our famished-looking Inspector to the buffet.”

Schumann seemed perfectly happy to obey, and happier still when, as Helena shed her wrap and loosened her silk shawl about her shoulders, he caught sight of her high, firm bosom.

Taking my arm, Clara steered me toward the warmly lit dining room. On her face was a broad smile, but now it struck me as fixed, and I sensed beneath her show of hospitality a cold layer of suspicion. I was not wrong. “So, Inspector,” she said, speaking in a low voice only I would be able to hear, “why are you really here tonight? Have you come to spy on us?”

The best way to disarm her, I decided, was to treat the matter of my presence facetiously. “If you must know,” I said, trying to sound secretive and speaking just above a whisper, “the real reason for my attendance is standing over there,” I nodded in the direction of the far corner of the dining room table. There, hovering over a platter of roasted meats and poultry, was Georg Adelmann, fork poised in his right hand like a spear. Balanced on the palm of his left hand was a large plate already laden with a mountain of cheeses, potatoes, salads and slices of bread.

My hostess gave me a puzzled look. “Georg Adelmann? Are you saying
he
of all people is under surveillance?”

I put my finger to my lips. In a hushed tone, I said, “Please, I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone, Madam Schumann. What I have just told you is in strict confidence.”

“The only crime Georg Adelmann commits, if indeed one can call it a crime, is the crime of over-eating,” Clara said.

I had begun this business about Georg Adelmann as a diversion, hastily contrived, I admit, but for what I perceived as a good cause. On Clara Schumann's face there was an expression now of such intense curiosity that I had no choice but to carry on.

“Notice, madam,” I said, “the exceedingly generous cut of Adelmann's coat. Even for a man of his enormous girth the coat is clearly two sizes too large. My father was a tailor, and I have more than a passing interest in clothing. Trust me, there is a reason for this…a sinister reason.”

“Which is?”

“I am willing to wager my badge of office that his coat contains deep inner pockets capable of containing certain items he is in the habit of—to put it politely—appropriating for his own use and enjoyment—small but precious trinkets, household ornaments, perhaps the odd valuable piece of jewellery or tableware.”

I suppose it was somewhat shabby of me to cast a shadow over the eminent journalist, one of the Schumanns' stellar guests, but what I had divulged was not spur-of-the-moment fiction. The fact was that, at my luncheon meeting with him at Emmerich's, I had watched with a mixture of astonishment and fascination as Adelmann, with the clumsiness of an amateur petty thief, had folded his linen napkin over a small silver salver and, thinking his actions were unseen, slipped his prize into some secret depository well down inside his suit coat. Physicians who dabbled in this new branch of Medicine known as Psychology had a word for people like Adelmann—kleptomaniacs. My word for this kind of activity was much more to the point: robbery. At any rate, it was one of those incidents a detective tucks away in the back of his mind, like something put away for a rainy day, something that might come in handy in the future. The “rainy day” was here and now.

“Please, don't let this distract you,” I said to Clara. “You have my assurance that I will keep an eye on our friend over there throughout the evening.” Then, feeling an urge to change the subject, I said, “I'm thrilled at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the great Franz Liszt. Do you think he'll favour us with a selection or two at the piano?”

“The ‘great' Franz Liszt is here officially as a guest, not as a performer. But mark my words, Inspector: he has never needed a second invitation to light up the sky with one of his fireworks displays. Even though he's
not
on tonight's program, don't be surprised if
he
is the one who plays the encores.”

She was smiling when she told me this, but I could taste the acid in her voice. I said, “I could easily detect your dislike of the man, even if I weren't a detective.”

“You must understand something,” she said. “Liszt and his friend Wagner have gone out of their way to discredit everything my husband stands for. They refer to themselves rather grandly as ‘The Weimar School' and regard themselves as superior avant-gardists. In one of his recent magazine pieces, Wagner used an English expression—‘stick-in-the-mud'—to describe what he calls sarcastically ‘The Leipzig School'.”

“Then why all this elaborate fuss in honour of an artist you hold in such contempt?”

“The Italians have a saying,” she replied. “‘If you want an audience, start a fight.' Here, in Germany, we say ‘If you want an audience, drop the name Franz Liszt.' She reduced her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, half the people you see here this evening are only here out of curiosity to see Liszt in the flesh, to be able to say tomorrow to their friends that they were in the same room as he.”

“Please pardon a frank question,” I said, “but aren't you being—”

“Hypocritical?” She gave me a shrewd smile. “Of course.” Her smile vanished. “We don't live in a spiritual world, Inspector; we live in the
real
world. At least,
I
do. I'm not always certain about Robert.”

By this time the rooms were filling with invited guests. I recognized several persons prominent in Düsseldorfs high society. There were, to be sure, Baron and Baroness Hoffman, as close to royalty as one got in this region, a pair who, unlike their hostess, bedecked themselves with medals and ribbons (in his case) and necklaces, brooches, bracelets and earrings (in her) so that together, as they entered the foyer and moved into the dining room, they formed a gigantic human chandelier. Following after them at a slow, respectful pace was an assembly of lesser celebrities—civic officials (who knew little about music and cared less but relished an opportunity to appear cultured); Dr. Julius Illing, chairman of the local music society; a handful of writers and journalists in threadbare evening clothes, all of whom, despite their influence, looked as though they could stand a good meal and some decent wine.

In the dining room, the Schumanns' guests fell upon the food and drink as though fortifying themselves for a stark desert crossing rather than a gentle evening of chamber music. Inwardly, I congratulated Georg Adelmann on his foresight in arriving early and getting to the buffet before the others.

But where was the guest of honour himself? It was well past the time when Franz Liszt ought to have made his appearance. To be fashionably late for an event of this sort was customary among socialites, and indeed a grand entrance was never truly grand if made precisely on schedule. But a half-hour had gone by, and still no Liszt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Schumanns glancing at a mantel clock in the dining room and looking a bit anxious. If Liszt was to enjoy the benefits of the buffet, he would have to arrive very soon or be content with scraps.

Georg Adelmann, at last, had filled his stomach and attached himself to Helena Becker in a quiet corner of the drawing room, feasting now on the sight of Helena's figure. The peculiarities of the cello obliged Helena to wear a full skirt performing. Though such a garment ordinarily would reveal nothing about the natural contours of the player, in Helena's case there was something tantalizing about this costume, which did not fail to register on Adelmann.
Splendid!
I thought. I wanted the old glutton to become enchanted with my cellist friend, so enchanted that he might divulge to her information about the Schumanns that he would hesitate to divulge to a police official like me. Catching sight of me across the drawing room, Helena nodded and gave me a sweet smile. I smiled back with what I hoped was a signal of encouragement.

A full hour had now passed, and still no sign of the guest of honour. The Schumanns kept eyeing the mantel clock. Some of the men began checking the time on their pocket-watches. People were beginning to murmur discreetly, some guessing that Liszt had forgotten, although it seemed preposterous, others taking it for granted that the famed virtuoso traditionally eschewed banquets in order to maintain the lithe figure that he presented on stage. “No doubt he will show up,” Adelmann said, “offer profuse apologies, charm everyone with his pretense of humbleness, and outshine even the jewels on Baroness Hoffman's encrusted bodice.”

At nine o'clock, after exchanging worried glances, Robert and Clara Schumann summoned everyone to take their seats in the drawing room. Looking exasperated, Schumann said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the players are ready, and we are going to proceed with our program despite the absence of our guest of honour, who has probably experienced a delay in his travel arrangements. He should grace us with his presence before long. Before we present Beethoven's D-major Trio, and my own Piano Quintet, we have a very special and pleasant surprise for you. You are going to hear for the first time a young composer, who in my opinion is already a soaring eagle in the musical heaven and who will play for you two of his recent pieces for piano. Because our young genius is inclined to shyness, I will tell you that he calls the first a rhapsody, and the second an intermezzo—”

Schumann turned slightly and, looking over his shoulder, called, “Clara, if you will—”

Behind Schumann, a door opened and Clara Schumann emerged from an anteroom leading by the hand the same tall, handsome fellow I'd seen that night at the concert hall. For someone so athletic in appearance, he seemed to be taking hesitant, small steps, like a schoolboy being trotted out before a roomful of grownups to recite a poem. Letting go his hand, Clara motioned for the youthful composer to seat himself at one of the two grand pianos, her gesture gracious and, I thought, a bit too theatrical.

Nor did I fail to take note of another gesture. “Distinguished guests,” Clara said, “please welcome from Hamburg…Johannes Brahms.” Then, as she passed behind Brahms on her way to her seat, her hand brushed across the back of his neck. The touch was so slight, so subtle, that I doubt anyone in the room noticed, anyone, that is, except me. Ascribe it to the particular angle at which I was seated, or ascribe it to the fact that a detective's vision tends to be binocular, even off duty. But there was no denying: that brush of Clara Schumann's hand against the back of Johannes Brahms's neck was not accidental.

Though I am no music critic, I felt almost from the opening bars of the
Rhapsody
that we were in the presence of an enormously gifted musician, a man with powerful melodic ideas and the technique to give voice to those ideas. The
Intermezzo
, softer, more poetic, sounded to my ears like a long sigh. It was not so much an expression of passion as it was a deep sigh of yearning, of longing for someone who was just beyond reach.

The final lingering note of the
Intermezzo
was followed by enthusiastic applause and a few shouts of “Bravo!” Schumann strode to the piano and lifted Brahms by the shoulders, turned him about to face the small audience, then stepped back, leaving the young man, looking awkward and sheepish, to bask alone in the admiration and approval of everyone in the drawing room.

My attention wandered for a moment to the back of the room. There, standing by herself, as though isolated from the rest, was Clara Schumann. She did not join in the applause. I saw no outer demonstration of enthusiasm on her part for the performance we had just witnessed, but on her face there was a look that seemed to me to go far beyond admiration and approval. It was a look that seemed to match the mood of Brahms's second selection, that same sense of yearning and of longing for someone who was just out of reach.

By now the clock in the drawing room showed the hour as nine thirty, and our host found himself forced to offer lame excuses for the absence of the guest of honour. To rescue her husband in what was so obviously an embarrassing situation, Clara Schumann spoke out. In a cool, confident voice, she said, “You're all well acquainted with the Liszt legend, I'm sure. First he enters a room in
spirit.
His
body
follows much later.”

The room exploded in laughter. Schumann beamed appreciatively at his wife. And Johannes Brahms, who had been ushered to a chair in the front row, gazed up at Clara Schumann with an expression I can only liken to pure undisguised adoration.

With characteristic poise, Madam Schumann took charge. “While the heavens are opening and Maestro Liszt is preparing to descend, we will proceed in the meantime with the Beethoven.”