Murder in A-Major (8 page)

Hupfer shook his head. “With all due respect, my friend,” he said, “I was already completing my apprentice-ship while you were still in swaddling clothes. In all my many years of experience, I have never encountered the situation you describe, and I doubt very much if it can occur. It would be highly improbable.”

“But it is
possible?
”

“Possible?” Hupfer shrugged. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you bear in mind the thousands of components that make up one of these grand pianos. But I must tell you that if tampering was a criminal offense in Germany, more than half of the piano tuners in this country would be behind bars. The vast majority of men who dare to call themselves piano technicians belong in railway yards oiling steam engines.”

“Are you saying, then,” I asked, “that if it were possible to corrupt the workings of a piano so that, no matter what was being played, one note protruded and kept protruding and protruding, the tamperer would have to possess a high degree of skill and be highly knowledgeable in the field of sound?”

“Certainly such a person would be no run-of-the-mill piano tuner. Indeed he would have to be fifty per cent genius…and fifty per cent devil. I doubt such a person exists, Inspector.”

“Humour me for a moment, Herr Hupfer,” I said. “Let us suppose that your half-devil half-genius
does
exist. Could he manipulate the mechanical apparatus to achieve the result I've described?”

“Humour
me
for a moment, Inspector,” Hupfer said. “What has all this got to do with the Schumanns? You are asking me about matters which are pure conjecture…no, more than conjecture…bizarre, even grotesque. I cannot bring myself to think anyone would want to commit such a foul act, especially where the Schumanns would be the victims. Granted, it's common knowledge that the Maestro's moods can be extremely difficult to deal with at times. Up one day, down the next; more often than not these days as unpredictable as the weather. And poor Madam Schumann has not had an easy time of it for as long as I've known the couple. It is a miracle the way she carries on. Surely the two of them are regarded by everyone as objects of sympathy. Nobody would deliberately set out to cause them harm and embarrassment. Nobody in his right mind would dare commit such an act even as a prank.”

“I think you are missing my point,” I said. “Forgive me for being blunt, Herr Hupfer, but I am not seeking your advice as to who the tamperer might be and what his motive might be. I must ask you to focus on one question and one question only: can a piano be tuned or untuned in such a way that, regardless of what is being played at any given moment, one note will stand out?”

Giving him what I hoped was a friendly smile, I said, “I do apologize, sir. You see, Herr Hupfer, I'm unaccustomed to being in the awkward position I'm in. I mean, sir, in all frankness, I'm not certain whether I've embarked on a genuine criminal investigation, or whether I'm foolishly chasing the wind.”

“Then you must forgive
me
for being blunt, Inspector Preiss,” Hupfer said, looking me straight in the face. “In my opinion, sir, you are chasing the wind.”

T
he house of Dr. Paul Möbius at No. 12 Dietrichstrasse had the advantage of a corner location, which meant that, unlike the block-long row of which it was part, it offered a side entrance for the use of the doctor's patients. Were it not for the discreet brass plaque above the doorbell engraved “Paul Möbius, Doctor Of Medicine, Please Ring”, this could have been the residence of any of the well-to-do families who inhabited Dietrichstrasse. The exterior of the four-storey structure was a hodgepodge of wood, brick, stucco and stone, the kind of mongrel architecture that certifies not that the occupants have taste but that they have money.

I did as the small sign at the entrance bade. Three minutes went by. I rang again. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman, out of breath and flustered, holding a mop, greeted me.

“I'm Inspector Preiss,” I said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Möbius.”

The woman dropped her mop. “Oh my God,” she said, speaking in a hoarse whisper, a look of alarm in her eyes, “the doctor is not yet back from his morning rounds at the hospital.” One look at her told me she was Möbius's housekeeper, harassed, overworked, probably underpaid, a person for whom the world came to an end at least once every hour of her working day.

“I don't understand,” I said, more than a bit annoyed. “I was to meet with the doctor
before
, not after, he made his hospital rounds. Has there been some mistake?”

“Oh my God,” the housekeeper repeated. “This is terrible. I'm so sorry, sir.” The woman seemed about to fall on her knees and beg forgiveness for some error or oversight of which she was entirely innocent. “Please,” she said, “sometimes the doctor changes his schedule without telling anyone. You know how it is with important men, sir. It is not for me to question his comings and goings. The Lord willing, he will return soon, that is all I can tell you.”

“I should like to come in, then. I assume one is permitted to wait in his office?”

She looked uncertain. “Your name again?”

“Inspector Hermann Preiss. Of the Düsseldorf Police.”

“My God, the police! Yes, yes, we mustn't keep a police officer waiting at the door like this. Please forgive me.”

I entered, stepping carefully over the mop, and followed her along a dark corridor which led to a room at the rear of the ground floor. In a hushed tone, as though she had guided me to a holy site, she said, “This is Dr. Möbius's office. You may wait here.” Then she retreated, walking slowly backwards, bowing her head humbly, the choreography of a person born into lifelong domestic servitude.

If it is true that a man's office is a reliable reflection of his personality, then what was I to make of the eminent physician whom I was about to meet for the first time?

Consider the furnishings: seating for two, no more. I suppose this made sense in a room where intimate thoughts were disclosed. But observe the seating arrangement: an oversized wing chair, severe, authoritative, its bottom cushion permanently disfigured by an occupant with an abnormally large rump; next to it, a writing table, its position and condition indicating the doctor was left-handed and very careless about cigar ashes and spilled drinks. The other chair, which I took as I awaited his arrival, must have been salvaged from a rummage sale. Too low, too narrow, very uncomfortable. Not the kind of chair you would lean back in, taking your time, rambling on about whatever was troubling your mind. The message this chair conveyed was: come to the point, time's up. Next patient.

An additional point here about Dr. Möbius that had nothing to do with the state of his office: for a man who was very caring when it came to his own precious time, he seemed to care very little about other people's. He was now more than a half hour late for our appointment. It was he who had insisted on our meeting sharp at nine in the morning. Now, glancing for the tenth time at my watch, I began to fume. In fact, I rose from my skimpy chair and was gathering up my coat, hat and gloves, intending to leave, when suddenly his private office door was thrust open, and in strode the doctor.

Without a word of explanation or apology, he motioned me to sit, pointing imperiously to the miserable piece of furniture from which I had just freed myself. He, of course, settled himself down in the wing chair, extracted a fat cigar from a leather pouch in his breast pocket, and, rolling it slowly between his O-shaped lips, began to light it, sucking and blowing and momentarily obliterating his face behind a cloud of smoke and flame. From behind that cloud, his first words managed to find their way into my ears.

“In the profession of Medicine, Inspector, punctuality is next to Godliness. I would therefore be very much obliged if we may come directly to the point. Ethically I am bound, sir, not to disclose any confidences regarding my patient, Dr. Schumann. Doctor-patient confidentiality is the most sacred cornerstone of the practice of Medicine. We must therefore restrict ourselves to generalities, by which I mean certain theoretical questions, the answers to which I have applied myself throughout my career with, if I may say so—no small diligence and success.”

I had the distinct feeling that this was going to be a one-sided discussion, based upon the doctor's opening statement and tribute to himself. “Have I made myself clear, Inspector?” Möbius said, his thick eyebrows knitting together and forming a single dark streak above his spectacles. My inclination at this point was to tell him to go to the devil and that I was not accustomed to being lectured to in this fashion.

After acknowledging the ground rules, I began my interrogation. “Dr. Möbius, you have opined in your lectures and writings that creative activities, such as those engaged in for example by Dr. Schumann, necessarily lead to a serious state of degeneration.”

“Most definitely,” Möbius replied. “Not a doubt in the world about it.” He leaned back in his chair and patted a heavy gold chain that extended across the vast expanse of his abdomen like a suspension bridge. “Years of research have produced evidence that is beyond dispute, sir.” Möbius sniffed audibly, his way of both punctuating a sentence and expressing self-confidence.

“Examples are legion,” he went on. “Take Mozart. Died at thirty-five. Schubert? Dead at thirty-one. Mendelssohn barely made it to thirty-eight. By the age of only thirty-three, poor Beethoven had become stone deaf. Moreover, he suffered from fits of rage. Degeneration, that's the reason. Everything breaks down…the body, the mind. Inner forces push and pull these so-called creative people apart, don't you see? Creativity and disease are blood brothers among people in the arts. Painters, composers, writers…they flirt with illnesses of every description. Had I the authority, I would confiscate every easel and palette in Europe…every musical instrument, writing stand, pen, ink pot…and I would retain these instruments of disaster under lock and key until Medicine has found a way to cure men and women of their addictions. Believe me, sir, creativity is a form of incurable addiction, plain and simple!”

“But what about Haydn and Handel?” I said. “They lived to ripe old ages. Bach, too, lived a full life, not only musically, but domestically and spiritually.”

Möbius's hand waved dismissively. “Rare and unimportant exceptions.”

“I take it, then, that you place little stock in Dr. Schumann's complaint concerning the ‘A sound'.”

Möbius gave me a cold look. “I have already made it clear, have I not, that I am not at liberty to discuss a patient's condition?”

Straining to remain civil, I said, “Very well, then, let us continue to speak in theoretical terms. Can one legitimately claim to be hearing a particular musical sound even when that sound is not in fact being produced anywhere within earshot?”

“People who engage in the auditory arts,” said Möbius, “are inclined to suffer from auditory hallucinations. They hear music when no one else can possibly do so. There are studies, incidentally, that indicate people in the
visual
arts suffer a similar fate, except that they are constantly confronted by forms and colours not visible to others. It's a maddening process, to be sure, and one would do well to avoid such so-called creative activities because of the often frightening consequences and the terrible price they exact.”

“Surely you're not suggesting that people turn their backs on music, painting, even literature, and devote themselves solely to running banks and shops and factories!”

Möbius poked his thick cigar into the air, indifferent to the length of ash that tumbled to the carpet. “Stability, my dear Inspector…stability of character, that's what society rests upon. Engineers, doctors, scientists,
they
are the meat and potatoes of the nation. All the rest is mere desserts, items on the public's menu that are frivolous and therefore entirely dispensable.”

“Is it possible, Doctor, that what you call auditory hallucinations can be stimulated by some outside means? Could someone other than the creative artist himself trigger a hallucination?”

Behind the small oval-shaped spectacles set in delicate silver frames, Möbius's eyes seemed to fade into blank patches of grey. “I have no idea what you're referring to, Inspector, not the slightest,” he said with a shrug.

“Very well then. Let me re-state the question. Maestro Schumann maintains that someone is, or some persons are, deliberately attempting to drive him insane by producing, perhaps by some direct mechanical means, the sound of middle A on the musical scale, which sound occurs regardless of what piece of music is being played at any given moment. Indeed, even if
no
music is being played, that middle A sound may suddenly find its way into Schumann's ears. Is this possible?”

Again a blank stare from the doctor. “Is
what
possible?”

I put my question to him again. “Is it possible that the ‘auditory hallucination' in this case is being created or produced from some source outside his own mind, and is therefore not, strictly speaking, an auditory hallucination?”

Dr. Möbius was silent for a few moments. He seemed more interested in examining his cigar, which had gone cold. Without looking up at me, he said, “I deal in matters of science, Inspector, not idle speculations.”

“Is this your way of informing me, sir, that there is no legitimacy to Robert Schumann's suspicions?”

Still looking away, Möbius said, “You may draw any conclusion you wish, Inspector. I can say nothing more on the subject.” From his vest pocket he withdrew a heavy gold watch. “And now, sir, if you will excuse me—”

I rose, collected my outerwear, and made my exit without another word.

On my way out the side door of the house, I began to throw over my shoulders my greatcoat and muffler, and failed to notice a man mounting the steps as I was descending. We collided midway. I swung round. “I do beg your pardon,” I said.

Ignoring my apology, the man dashed up the remaining steps, and I was able only to catch a quick look at him. In the split second of this encounter, I recognized him.

The man being let into Dr. Möbius's house was Wilhelm Hupfer.