The Mastersinger from Minsk (12 page)

“It may not surprise you that a rather thick dossier exists at the Constabulary containing records of your activities which extend far back, in fact long before I arrived to take a post here in Munich. The item concerning your relationship with this Vanderhoute woman found its way into that dossier. She had consulted an officer in our department with a view to bringing charges against you. I assume, however, that the resulting scandal would have tarnished her own reputation and she decided — or was persuaded — not to proceed. The matter
was
duly recorded, but the record itself was buried deep in the official file as though someone in the department for some peculiar reason hoped it would be overlooked.”

With a touch of sarcasm Wagner said, “But you, naturally, went out of your way to unearth it, I suppose.”

“Let's just say I was meandering through the dossier on a dull evening when I had nothing better to do. Tell me, Maestro, would you by some miracle possess a sketch, or better still a photograph, of this woman?”

Wagner thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe —” he said slowly, “but why do you ask? Do you seriously think the threatening note … no, Preiss, Cornelia would never be capable of such an act. The only thing is —”

Wagner abruptly silenced himself.

“Yes, the only thing? Please Maestro Wagner, I need you to be absolutely open about this.”

“The only thing she did … later, after the initial confrontation … she met with me and demanded money. ‘Pay up,' she said, or she would inform everyone in Europe that she and I … well, I needn't go into details. Without admitting anything, simply to be rid of her, I offered her a sum of money. No trifling amount, I tell you, Preiss. She said it was not enough. I offered a bit more. Still insufficient. I refused a further increase, told her to go to hell. She cursed me and swore vengeance. But I'd been through this kind of experience before, and when she stormed out of that second meeting I put the whole ugly business out of my mind. As far as I was concerned Cornelia Vanderhoute was nothing but a blackmailer … and not a very good one at that.”

“And these confrontations took place where?”

“At an out-of-the-way tavern, the kind of establishment people like you and me seldom if ever frequent, Preiss.”

“The picture … may I see it?”

With a weary sigh, Wagner rose and bade me follow him across the room to a wall covered almost from floor to ceiling with framed drawings and photographs of himself, some alone, others in company with persons I took to be associated with him in his musical enterprises and productions. “Look here, Preiss,” he said, directing my attention to a large photograph of what appeared to be the entire cast of an opera, all in costume. “This was taken the closing night of
The Flying Dutchman
. The young woman in the front row —” Wagner pointed her out with his finger “— is Cornelia Vanderhoute.”

I peered closely at the subject, so closely in fact that my nose almost touched the glass. Wagner said, as though he were appraising a prize farm animal at an auction, “She's certainly well-endowed, isn't she?”

I looked closely again. “I didn't know you were given to understatement,” I said. “Speaking of blessings, I would say she's
doubly
blessed.”

“Well, Inspector, there have been no repercussions since she departed for Holland. If I were you, sir, I would waste no further time and effort in this regard. And now, Inspector Preiss, you must excuse me. I have Schramm and Fräulein Steilmann due here any moment for what will doubtless be an intense session.”

As though on cue, the door to Wagner's study opened and Cosima announced, “Richard, Herr Schramm —”

“Ah, Schramm, right on time,” Wagner responded, his approving manner reminding me of a stern schoolmaster. “But where is Steilmann? I thought you would be coming together as usual.”

“Maestro, she apparently preferred to come on her own today,” Schramm said. I thought he looked a bit embarrassed, but then I remembered that Schramm's instant rapport with Helena Becker at our dinner party the other night had not sat well with Karla Steilmann. Possibly a lovers' tiff had ensued as a result of Schramm's attentions to Helena. No matter, I thought. As far as I was concerned, Helena had done her work well on that occasion. Besides, my beloved cellist was now safely out of range, having returned to Düsseldorf, thus avoiding further entanglement with Schramm and, I was certain, staunching the flow of Steilmann's resentment.

Frowning, Wagner said, “Ach, these sopranos are all alike. Temperamental, arrogant, conceited. I should have written the part for a contralto. Next time I'll know better.”

Turning to me, Schramm said, “Inspector Preiss, how nice to see you! Thank you once again for a splendid evening. Your friend Bolliger … I must say I've never seen a restaurateur strive so hard to please a patron. What did you do, Inspector, to merit such service? Save him from the hangman's noose or a firing squad?”

“Nothing quite so dramatic,” I replied. “I simply saved him from his own base instincts.”

“How so?”

“When I first encountered Ziggy Bolliger some years ago he was an excellent chef. Alas, he also had a penchant for stealing expensive ingredients … you know, items like rare truffles, Beluga caviar, and such. One of his victims, an importer of such foodstuffs, came after him with a pistol. I happened to come on the scene, persuaded the would-be assailant to put down his gun, convinced Ziggy to mend his ways, and the rest is culinary history, Schramm.”

“Well, sir,” Schramm said, ignoring Wagner's increasingly impatient look, “you must allow me to reciprocate. May I suggest dinner tomorrow evening, if you are free, of course?”

I answered with an exaggerated bow.

Wagner cleared his throat noisily. “And now, Inspector —”

“Of course, Maestro. Sorry to hold you up,” I said. “However, before I go, might I have one more quick look at that photograph —”

I returned to the Constabulary by carriage, instructing the driver to cover the distance slowly. I wanted the time to think. The picture of Cornelia Vanderhoute … I had seen her before. Of this I was certain. But
where
?
When? And with whom?

And then it came to me. Came to me just as the cab pulled up before the main entrance to the Constabulary. Oktoberfest … last Oktoberfest … the woman dancing with Brunner, she with the impressively full bosom and a complexion as pure and fresh as farmer's cream.

Cornelia Vanderhoute
. Who else?

I
wasted no time summoning Detective Franz Brunner to my office. Entering, he had a wide-eyed look of expectation, as though he were anticipating good news. “So, Preiss, I assume your little tête-à-tête with The Great Man himself yielded some real results. What have we got that will make the Commissioner a happy man?”

“What have
we
got? Well now, Brunner, I'm not certain what
we've
got, but
I
have come across something of more than passing interest. Does the name Cornelia Vanderhoute resonate with you?”

“Resonate? What do you mean ‘resonate'?”

“Let me put it more plainly, then. Do the words ‘Cornelia Vanderhoute' sound familiar?”

Brunner's brow furrowed, his eyes closed tightly, he pursed his lips, signs of a man searching earnestly, deeply, into a distant dark past. Finally he shook his head. “The name means nothing to me, Preiss. Why do you want to know?” As he asked this, his eyes, open again, fell on a sheet of paper which I had deliberately positioned on my desk exactly midway between us. The paper contained the report of Cornelia Vanderhoute's complaint against Wagner. I slid the report closer to Brunner's side so that it was now easily readable. He nodded. “Cornelia Vanderhoute … ah yes, I see the woman's name,” he said. “There's her signature, there at the bottom of the page.” Brunner looked up at me. “What about her? What has she got to do with anything at the moment?”

“I have the distinct feeling,” I said, “that you can answer that question better than I. For some reason, Brunner, your name doesn't appear as the complaints officer, but I recognize the handwriting. I'm sure you recognize it, too. The report is dated August 11, 1867. You happened to be on duty on that date.” I paused, figuring Brunner was at least entitled to a sporting chance to offer some acknowledgement. When none was forthcoming, I asked, “Now, Brunner, is any of this beginning to ‘resonate' with you?” Brunner shook his head and I thought I heard “No.”

“Then I will continue. Bear with me, Brunner. When you recorded her complaint it was in August and she alleged that she was pregnant and spoke of the prospect of abortion. It's right here, in black and white. So is the name of Richard Wagner. I repeat: that was in August. Several months later, in October, at an Oktoberfest outdoor event, there you were, Brunner, dancing with the same lady, a woman of exquisite roundness in many parts but with a belly as flat as a veal cutlet. And energy? I confess I've not made a career studying the ways of pregnant women, but I have yet to witness a woman ‘with child,' as they say, kick up her heels with such spirit!”

Brunner's face turned to stone. “What are you getting at, Preiss?”

“Whether or not Fräulein Vanderhoute was telling the truth about Wagner being the father of the child she was bearing I cannot say. Nor, I suppose, can you. But one thing seems clear: between the time you took her story and the time the two of you were dancing at Oktoberfest, her pregnancy must have been aborted.”

“But she
was
close to Wagner,” Brunner protested, though not as defensively as I expected. “Not just close, Preiss; intimate is more like it. But how —?”

I knew what Brunner's next question would be and proceeded to answer before he could speak it. “At Wagner's house I was shown a cast picture taken at the final performance of one of his operas. And there, in the front row, was a young female singer. And I knew I'd seen her somewhere before. And then it dawned on me. The woman Wagner identified as Cornelia Vanderhoute in the photograph is the same woman I saw dancing with you.”

Brunner, who'd been sitting up to this point on the edge of his chair, leaned back, crossed his legs, and looked at me with hooded eyes, as though bored and indifferent to what he had just been told. “And your point is —?”

“My point is this,” I said. “There are three possibilities here: one is that Fräulein Vanderhoute wanted directions to the nearest abortionist, and who better than a senior detective would possess that kind of information?”

“Oh come now, Preiss,” Brunner huffed, “you know as well as I that abortions are against the law. What policeman would sacrifice his career —”

“Let me finish, Brunner. The second possibility is that the lady was lying, that, in fact, she was pregnant by someone
other
than Wagner but did some fine calculating and concluded that implicating the Maestro would not only give a boost to her singing career … you know, innocent ambitious little Dutch girl succumbs to celebrated but notorious German lecher … but might line her pockets with a thaler or two.”

“And the third possibility?”

“Ah, now here's the most intriguing of all, Brunner. The third possibility is that Cornelia Vanderhoute wasn't pregnant at all, that her womb was, shall we say,
un
occupied at the moment she presented herself at the Constabulary. After all, Brunner, there's not a shred of medical evidence to support her tale, no doctor's report, not even a prescription from an apothecary, which is strange considering she professed to be suffering pains and nausea. Did she
look
pregnant, Brunner?”

“
Look
pregnant? Now, how the devil would I know that?”

“You
are
married,” I said. “You have children, four if I'm not mistaken. I assume you're familiar with what happens to a woman's body —”

“Don't be ridiculous, Preiss,” Brunner said. He was still leaning back in his chair, his posture affecting casualness but a distinct note of irritation in his voice now. “Of course I know what happens to a woman's body.”

“Well, then, let me ask you again. Did Cornelia Vanderhoute appear to be expectant? Were there any outer signs?”

“She was wearing a coat of some sort. I really couldn't tell.”

“A coat? In August? What kind of coat?”

“I'm not an expert in female fashion, Preiss. It was a
coat
… you know, with a collar and sleeves and buttons and pockets.”

“Buttons you say? So, was her coat buttoned or open, that is, when she met with you to file her complaint?”

“It was buttoned. I suppose that's why I couldn't tell whether or not she was showing signs of being pregnant. Yes, of course, that's the reason, Preiss.”

“So here we have presumably a warm day in August and this young woman shows up not only wearing a coat but one that is buttoned.”

“I did not say it was a warm day,” Brunner said, beginning to shift forward in his seat.

“August of 1867 was one of the warmest Augusts in years. The local press referred to it as a heat wave. How soon we forget!”

Angry now, Brunner shouted, “Damn it, Preiss, what do you think you're doing, playing some sort of game with me? What kind of coat? Was it buttoned or unbuttoned? Was it a warm day? I suppose the next thing you'll want to know is whether I personally conducted a physical examination to determine if the woman was in heat!”

“How clever you are, Brunner!” I said. “Yes, that is exactly the next question I was going to ask!”

“You may think this is all a joke,” Brunner said, rising from his chair, his voice quivering with righteous indignation, “but I'm afraid I don't share your precious sense of humour.” He pointed to the sheet of paper. “It's all in the report. Maybe you need to read it again … more carefully this time.”

“Oh, but I
have
read it, Brunner. Several times. And word for word.”

“Then that's all there is, and to hell with you, Preiss.”

It was my turn now to rise from my chair and put on a show of righteous indignation. “I'll thank you to remember, Detective Brunner, that I am chief of this branch; therefore, like it or not, you are answerable to me. And by answerable I mean a responsibility to fill in what I believe to be a gaping hole in this report of yours. I don't make it a practice to repeat your bon mots, Brunner, but I'm about to make an exception to the general rule. I believe you
did
personally conduct a physical examination to determine if the woman was in heat. Oh, not then and there, in your office, but in some private quarters in the course of a tête-à-tête — there's another bon mot of yours — the kind of get-together romantics like to refer to as a secret rendezvous. I prefer to regard it as mixing business with pleasure. Mind you, Brunner, I can't say I blame you. She certainly is a curvaceous young specimen and, I take it, a woman who is attracted to men of authority, be they famous composers or senior officers of the law.”

Brunner's stance, all aggression when he rose from his chair, suddenly altered; his shoulders sagged, his long arms hung limp at his sides, the fingers of his hands loose, his head drooping. “I'm only human, Preiss,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “We may be officers of the law, but we're still flesh and blood, aren't we?” He looked up at me, inviting me to accept the notion that he and I were members of an exclusive male fraternity.

It was a notion I was not prepared to entertain. “Brunner, I might be inclined to go along with your ‘flesh and blood' outlook on life but I'm beginning to believe your affair with Vanderhoute was more than a simple adulterous fling. Much more, in fact.”

“Very well, Preiss, I'll admit it. I fell in love with her … the moment I laid eyes on her. She was everything I wanted. We're both men of the world, Preiss, you and I, so you would understand. The difference between us is that I have a wife and four children that I must go home to every day of my life and —” Brunner shrugged, then gave a long sigh. “And there are times when going home to a wife and four children after a long day on duty … well, you stand on the threshold, and you say to yourself, ‘Do I really want to enter, or would I rather disappear?' Cornelia was my escape from reality, you might say.”

“You've left out one other aspect of your burdensome domestic life,” I said, making a point of keeping my tone sympathetic, figuring this approach would best draw some further truths from the man now looking rather helpless and pathetic. “Supporting a wife and four children on the salary of a detective — even a senior detective — must be stressful to say the least.”

Brunner was quick to agree. “Oh yes, stressful, and then some. The wolf is never far from the door. You don't know how lucky you are, Preiss, with only your own mouth to feed.”

“Speaking of luck, Brunner, let's consider for a moment how you sought to change yours.”

Brunner's eyes narrowed. “But I've already explained —”

“Explained half. Now I want the other half.”

“What other half?”

“The half which concerns money … money and the making thereof.”

“Again you're playing some sort of game with me.”

“On the contrary, Brunner this is no game, I assure you. See here —” I waved the report in the air, then replaced it on my desktop within easy reach of Brunner. “There is nothing — not one word — about Vanderhoute having gone to Wagner for financial assistance, is there?”

“But she
did
go to him,” Brunner protested.

“And demanded money. Wagner offered a sum which she refused. Then, hoping to get rid of her, Wagner offered her a larger sum which she turned down as well.”

Brunner suddenly brightened. “Ah, I see where this is leading,” he said. “We would have grounds to charge Wagner with bribery. Yes, of course, that's it! I take it Wagner has already confessed to you, Preiss. A criminal conviction would be an absolute certainty in such a case. I have to congratulate you, Inspector!”

I held up my hands to restrain my effusive colleague. “I thank you for your kind felicitation, Brunner, but before you continue singing my praises let me come back to what I referred to a moment ago as the other half of this sorry business. I draw your attention to the fact that you neglected to sign the report as a complaints officer on duty would routinely do. Moreover, there is no mention whatsoever of the incident involving money which you now characterize as a bribe. I would have expected such details to be meticulously set out. But look, not a word; not even a measly punctuation mark!” Again I waved the report in Brunner's face.

“As I told you,” Brunner pleaded, extending his arms in a gesture of helplessness, the palms of his hands open as though expecting a deposit of alms, “I was instantly and completely taken in by this woman … her beauty, her innocence, her plight, her despair —”

“You left out something, Brunner,” I said. “Namely, her ability to raise some ready cash. I was going to use the term ‘easy money' but then you and I, being the seasoned policemen we are, well know that blackmail is not an idle pursuit. It requires planning, audacity, shrewdness, a perverse kind of courage I suppose. Throw in a pinch or two of greed. Put all of these into a stomach rumbling with a hunger for money. Then look for a collaborator … preferably one who is thoroughly acquainted with the ins and outs of crime in all its varieties.”

“You are actually accusing me of conspiring with that woman!” Brunner blurted out. “I cannot believe my ears!”

“Well, I could be euphemistic, I suppose, and designate your role ‘Technical Consultant' to Cornelia Vanderhoute. Would that suit you better? Let's cease this tedious circling around the topic and go directly to the epicenter. I need to know the woman's whereabouts, and I need to know
now
. Not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, but
now
.”

Bluntly Brunner replied, “She returned to the Netherlands. Gone and forgotten.”

“No, Brunner, that's not true. Every instinct in my being tells me she is here. Very much here, in Munich.”

Brunner brushed this aside. “But she had no reason to remain in Munich.”