The Mastersinger from Minsk (18 page)

"W
hat
news, Brunner?”

“Some good, some bad,” Detective Franz Brunner replied. “Which do you want first?”

The session with Friedrich Otto had left me morose. I had wanted so much to believe that whoever Hershel Socransky was, acts of violence couldn't possibly be committed by a man possessing such copious gifts of talent and charm. Nevertheless I said to Brunner, “The bad first.”

“Very well, then,” Brunner said. “A few minutes ago I was spotted by Commissioner von Mannstein on his way to a meeting with Mayor von Braunschweig. Pulling me aside, he demanded to know what progress has been made with regard to what he terms ‘the case against Wagner.' I suggested that the proper protocol was for an up-to-date report to come from the officer in charge, namely yourself, Preiss. ‘To hell with protocol!' the commissioner shouted in my ear, practically splitting my eardrum. The commissioner was
not
happy when I told him that we are still gathering evidence, that nothing at this precise moment is conclusive. ‘Inform Chief Inspector Preiss that I want a full report by this hour tomorrow … and it had better be one that I can proudly present to the mayor!'”

“What about the good?”

Brunner removed from his coat and placed on my desk a small black velvet box. “Take a look inside, Preiss,” he said.

I opened the box. “Well well, where have I seen
these
before, eh?” I turned the box upside down. Out fell a pair of cufflinks, the stones black opals. “Rotfogel's cufflinks. Pawned, I suppose.” Brunner nodded. “And the person who pawned them? Let me guess: Cornelia Vanderhoute.”

“Well, she gave a false name. No surprise there, of course. But the pawnbroker's description leaves no doubt. I confiscated these, but there are numerous other items still at that shop, pawned by the same woman. There's for instance a sterling silver cigarette case with the initials TR, and a pocket-size brandy flask with the same initials engraved on the silver cap. I checked on the address she gave. False as well. A rooming house. They had never heard of her.”

I said, “A professional thief would have tried to sell these things outright to an underground dealer rather than deal with a legitimate pawnbroker. Obviously Fräulein Vanderhoute is not a professional thief, only clever enough to provide false identification. So the problem still exists: where to find her.”

“That may not be too difficult. Here's why, Preiss: When I entered the shop and showed him my badge, the pawnbroker became very uneasy. Probably thought I was there to charge him with some impropriety and revoke his licence. When I spotted the cigarette case and flask I swear the old man openly began to perspire. He said to me, ‘Of all the pawnshops in all the world, why did she have to walk into mine … and not just once but twice!' The fact that she made
two
trips to that particular shop, the most recent only yesterday … and remember, Preiss, there are at least a dozen pawnshops scattered throughout Munich … well, odds are she must live somewhere in the neighbourhood of Simon Regner. That's the owner of the shop in question. Trouble is, there'll be ice storms in hell before Vanderhoute returns to Regner's to redeem these items. Whatever money she managed to get from the pawnbroker she has probably already used to buy passage out of Munich bound for God-knows-where. She would have to travel by train. Riverboats are few and far between this time of year. We can set up surveillance at the railroad station immediately.”

“You may be right, Brunner,” I said, “but something tells me this woman is on a mission and that she has unfinished business which she means to attend to here in Munich.”

I related to Brunner what I'd heard in the course of interrogating Friedrich Otto and my doubts about Otto's version of events leading to the deaths of Grilling and Steilmann. “That there is something profoundly suspicious about the man I now know as Hershel Socransky, I am certain,” I told Brunner. “That he is capable of murder, however, I cannot imagine.”

“Surely you're not saying Jews are incapable of murder!” Brunner said.

I knew Brunner was baiting me. There was still enough spite in him that by tomorrow the word would have spread throughout the police force that Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss was a lover and defender of Jews. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Brunner,” I said, “but I am
not
saying anything of the sort. I am simply saying that this particular Jew, Hershel Socransky, in my opinion does not have the makings of a killer.”

“Then what
does
make you suspicious of him?” Brunner asked.

“The threat that was delivered to Wagner —” I reached into a cabinet and produced the note from my file on Wagner. I read the message aloud: “JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION.” I slid the note across my desk. “Here, Brunner, you read it aloud.”

Brunner obliged, then shrugged. “Cornelia Vanderhoute,” he said, as though the matter were beyond question.

“No, Brunner,” I said, “it makes no sense whatsoever that she would mark time until June twenty-first before carrying out whatever plan she had in mind.”

Brunner reread the note, this time silently. He looked across the desk at me, a faint smile turning up one corner of his mouth, nodding as though a sudden revelation had struck him.

“Yes, Brunner,” I said, reaching for the note and tucking it away in the file. “Only one person would write that note … Hershel Socransky, alias Henryk Schramm … the man I now call the Mastersinger from Minsk.”

I
n
the pale gaze of Commissioner von Mannstein I thought I caught a flicker of longing, in his voice a wisp of heartbreak. His grey eyes seemed to be straining for a vision of some unexplored horizon beyond the horizon immediately visible from the windows of his office. “You know, Preiss,” he said, “other nations are blessed. The British have penal colonies in Australia, the French have Devil's Island, the Russians have Siberia. But what have we Germans got? Switzerland! A place of magnificent mountains, shining lakes, fine chocolate, and spotless chalets. What Germany needs, Preiss … needs desperately, is some lonely, out-of-the-way pile of rock set in the midst of a vast ocean so treacherous no captain worth his papers would sail a ship there more than once. And there …
there
… is where Richard Wagner should be deposited for the rest of his natural life. Correction: the rest of his
un
natural life. Now then, Preiss, how close are we to realizing our dream?”

“Our dream?” I said. “You mean Germany's dream about possessing a more suitable location for exiles?” Of course I knew exactly what “our dream” referred to, but every moment of delay was precious to me, given that the report I was about to deliver was
not
one that the commissioner would be able to present “proudly” (as he put it to Brunner earlier) to Mayor von Braunschweig.

“No no!” the commissioner said testily. “I'm asking you about Wagner.”

“
Richard
Wagner —?”

“Good heavens, Preiss, how many
Wagners
are there?”

“Well, sir, as a matter of fact, I have been looking into that very question. Genealogically speaking, it seems the name can be traced back to the invention of the wheel, which of course led to the invention of
wagons
. Hence the name Wagoner, or Wagner. It is especially interesting to note —”

“Damn it, Preiss, I didn't summon you here to deliver a lecture.”

“Pardon me, Commissioner, I was only about to add that, in the course of peeling back the layers of history, I discovered that one Erich Langemann von Mannstein back in the late 1700s had married into a family of Wagners in the city of Essen, owners of the largest and most prosperous carriage business in that part of the country. Am I correct that Erich Langemann von Mannstein was your grandfather, sir?”

“I'll thank you to keep that information under your hat, Inspector,” von Mannstein said. “The last thing I need is for word to spread to the effect that the name von Mannstein is tied to the name Wagner by even the thinnest thread of coincidence! Under your hat, Preiss!”

“Understood, sir. Under my hat. Absolutely!” I recalled that the commissioner had recently lauded me as a man of “exquisite discretion” after I had recognized him departing from Madam Rosina Waldheim's whorehouse. I was comforted, facing the unpleasant task ahead of me at the moment, knowing that I now possessed additional capital in my mental ledger, another asset to fall back on, a card to be played, so to speak, in the likely event that von Mannstein, hearing the report I was about to give, threatened demotion (at best) or outright dismissal (at worst).

“Once again then, Preiss, where do we stand with Richard Wagner?” The chill in the commissioner's grey eyes was palpable as he sat forward in his high-backed seat expectantly.

I began slowly. “Well, sir, perhaps the word ‘stand' is not quite appropriate. I would have to say that … well, we are
leaning
rather than standing. In fact, it's probably more accurate to describe our present posture as sitting … yes, that's more like the reality of our situation regarding Maestro Wagner.”

Glowering at me, von Mannstein brought both fists down hard on his side of the desk. “Leaning … sitting … what the devil are you talking about, Preiss? No, don't bother to answer.
I'll
answer my own question. What I am hearing is the sound of failure, miserable incompetent inexcusable failure! Look here, Preiss —” The commissioner drew a piece of stationery from a file that lay before him. I could see that the file bore the official gold seal of Mayor von Braunschweig. “This arrived this morning by special courier,” von Mannstein said, “marked ‘Urgent.'” Von Mannstein's hands shook as he read aloud:

“It has come to the attention of the Government of Bavaria that the musician and revolutionary Richard Wagner is about to embark on a fresh course of attacks against the existing regime with ever more radical ideas about German unification that could lead to a loss of autonomy for our State as well as of our beloved traditions. It is therefore incumbent upon the City of Munich to deal with the Wagner crisis with utmost dispatch, failing which payment of certain appropriations set aside by the State, in particular to subsidize the completion of new waterworks and gasworks for the city, will regrettably be suspended for an indefinite period of time.”

“The letter,” von Mannstein said, “is addressed to the mayor and signed by the governor of the state. So what we have here, Preiss, is an abundance of communication — from the governor to the mayor, from the mayor to the commissioner, from the commissioner to the chief inspector Hermann Preiss. Meanwhile, it is apparent, Preiss, that your report to me this morning is as devoid of content as a … as a —”

“
Tabula rasa
?” I offered.

“Damn it, Preiss, I don't speak Italian —”

“Tabula rasa is Latin, sir —”

“I don't care if it's what Jesus Christ said to the Pope!” von Mannstein shouted. “Have you
nothing
you can report this morning?”

“I
can
report, sir, that we are getting closer to solving the question of who has committed the murders of Sandor Lantos, Karla Steilmann, and Wolfgang Grilling and may be out to do similar harm to the Wagners. You previously expressed doubt that such killings could be the work of a woman —”

“You're referring to that business about the hatpin —”

“Exactly, sir. But the fact is, the female in question is more and more a suspect and I have good reason to fear that either one or both of the Wagners may be on her list.”

Suddenly the commissioner's expression changed. It was as though he had just witnessed his first sunshine after days of rain. “Wait a moment, Preiss! Hold on! You say this woman may be out to do away with Richard Wagner? Is this a serious possibility?”

“Yes,” I replied hesitantly.

Von Mannstein was positively beaming now. His lips moved and he seemed to be talking to himself, seemed to be mulling over what I had just told him. In a quiet voice, his tone almost reverent, he said, “You see, Preiss, there
is
a God —”

“There is?”

“Yes, indeed. And He has just made his countenance to shine upon our fair city. Here are your orders, Preiss: You are
not
to arrest this woman, whoever she is. We'll call her Fräulein Hatpin. Heaven has sent her to do the work
we
are forbidden to do. Let it be so. Do you follow me, Preiss?
I
will give you the proper signal when the proper time comes to arrest her.”

I was incredulous. “Those are
your
orders, Commissioner?”

“No, Preiss … that is God's will!”

I
left Commissioner von Mannstein and made my way up three flights of stairs to my office, finding the climb more laborious than usual, shaking my head with disbelief all the way, pondering how bizarre it was to be handed an order so perverse as to be downright criminal while being assured at the same time by the commissioner that it was a manifestation of God's will! Many impressions about von Mannstein had crossed my mind over the years, but never had he struck me as a man skilled in divinity. As far as I could tell, his sole connection to the supernatural consisted of being born into a family of sufficient wealth and influence that, following a lackluster decade spent in the militia, he was awarded a senior post in Munich's civil service. There, thanks to his years in the army, he was delegated the onerous responsibility of overseeing the designs of dress uniforms for various municipal officials. It was soon said of him that he never met a brass button or a gold-encrusted epaulet he didn't love. His own wardrobe of tunics, trousers, riding breeches, and ceremonial helmets, once he was appointed commissioner, made King Ludwig's by comparison look like remnants from a royal rummage sale.

This was the officer who would have me stand aside, complaisant as a batman, while the life of Richard Wagner was conveniently snuffed out by a deranged creature now given the code name Fräulein Hatpin. The irony of it all stuck in my throat.
Cornelia Vanderhoute unintentionally does a favour of incalculable benefit for an eternally grateful realm, thus becoming in her own right an instrument of divine will!

In the privacy of my office, behind a firmly closed door, I said aloud to myself over and over, “No, this cannot be!” Never imbued with an overwhelming curiosity about God (for a policeman steeped in the culture of solid evidence, there isn't all that much to go on, is there?) I nevertheless could not bring myself to believe that the fate which von Mannstein proposed for Richard Wagner was something upon which God would bestow a smile of approval.

Orders were orders, yes. But
this
was one order I hadn't the slightest desire to carry out. I had commanded Brunner to find Cornelia Vanderhoute and was not about to rescind that injunction. “To hell with von Mannstein,” I whispered to myself. “And to hell with the mayor and the governor. I will
not
be a partner in this nefarious business. Never!”

This was how it would be: We — that is, Brunner and I — would continue to spare no effort to locate the Vanderhoute woman and put her out of commission. If my supervisor was displeased, well, then let
him
make his peace with God.

With a warming sense of satisfaction over my decision, I sat down at my desk intending to pen a memorandum of my conversation with the commissioner for my private file, a self-serving measure that might stand me in good stead should my conduct come into question later by some higher authority. Scarcely had I touched pen to paper when I heard a knock on my door, called out, “Enter,” and was greeted by Franz Brunner shaking his head much the same way as I had shaken mine earlier.

“Don't tell me,” I said, laying aside pen and paper. “I can see by your expression that you've just had another of your random encounters with the Commissioner. Well?”

“I've been instructed in no uncertain terms to halt the search for Vanderhoute,” Brunner said. “No explanation, Preiss, not a word. Just like that, von Mannstein corners me upstairs in the lounge, no one else present, I'm just sitting there minding my own business … well, with a mouthful of a leftover chicken leg, actually, and His High And Mighty gives me one of those looks, you know, where his eyebrows and mustache come together, and he says to me, ‘Brunner, I've issued an order that Chief Inspector Preiss and you are to waste no further time on the alleged killer Vanderhoute.' He used the word ‘alleged,' Preiss. What the devil is going on?”

I explained the commissioner's motivation for ordering a temporary cessation to the hunt for Vanderhoute.

“The search for the woman goes on unabated, Brunner,” I said. “You and I took the same oath to uphold justice and neither of us needs the blood of Richard Wagner on our hands. Call off the search? Not for one moment, Brunner. In fact, we are going to
double
our efforts. It is the right thing to do. This is one of those times, Brunner, when conscience comes before obedience to orders.”

From Detective Brunner I expected an instant pledge of support. After all, von Mannstein's directive should have been as repellent to him as it was to me. (Besides, if Brunner owed anything to anybody, his debt of gratitude to me for my earlier forbearance surely ranked ahead of all other debts.)

I should have known better.

Instead of a pledge of support, Brunner gave me a look of bemused skepticism. “Our oath to uphold justice … the right thing to do … conscience before obedience …” Stroking his mustache, rubbing his chin, he seemed to be turning over these phrases in search of hidden meanings.

A bit impatiently, I asked: “Is there something you don't understand, Brunner? I thought I spoke plainly.”

“Plainly?” Brunner said. “I would have thought a better description would be sanctimoniously. Yes, sanctimoniously is more like it. Oaths to uphold justice … doing the right things … putting conscience ahead of obedience. My God, Preiss, you sound more like an archbishop than a chief inspector. But I wasn't born yesterday, Preiss. I see what's behind that little homily of yours. You want
me
to ignore the commissioner's order, you want
me
to double
my
efforts, and then when I produce the woman … ah, then you have the immense satisfaction of thinking you've ‘done the right thing' while I, Franz Brunner, end up scrubbing the Constabulary latrines … or worse. Well, Preiss, if this is how you are scheming to get rid of me, think again. And as for the future safety and welfare of this man Wagner, frankly I care more about the safety and welfare of the organ grinder's monkey!”

I rose from my chair behind the desk, strode purposefully to my office door, and threw it open. Quietly I said, “You'd better get out, Brunner, before I kill you.”

Fortunately for both of us, Detective Brunner didn't need a second invitation.