The Mastersinger from Minsk (7 page)

M
unich's
hotels that cater to the upper class, like Munich's better restaurants, go to desperate lengths to distance themselves from their stolid German roots, but in a different manner. Where local restaurateurs take liberties with French and Spanish names for their places of business, local hoteliers, with a kind of presumptuousness that knows no shame, christen their edifices with the names of foreign royalty — kings, queens, emperors and empresses, as well as lesser ranks — stopping short only when it comes to popes, cardinals, and archbishops (although why the nobility of the church are excluded from such honours is beyond my comprehension).

The Eugénie Palace is no exception to this tradition. If anything, it has elevated the tradition to heights other hostelries in the city cannot hope to attain. Its public areas are paved with more Italian marble than Caesar's eyes ever beheld; its French crystal chandeliers and mirror-backed wall sconces fill each room with sunshine even on the dullest days. Rumours abound, of course. It's said that the crimson carpets were dyed in the blood of a thousand slaves a century ago in Constantinople. A printer is said to have been shot dead for negligently omitting the
accent
in “Eugénie” on the hotel stationery. True or not, such rumours have lent an aura of grandeur to the Eugénie Palace which its guests acknowledge with proper respect when paying extravagant bills at the end of their stay. I swear that I do not have a socialist bone in my body and yet, whenever for some reason or other I find myself a visitor, I cannot resist being repelled by the unabashed hedonism that oozes from every pore of the place.

I was in the midst of expressing these deep-seated feelings to Helena Becker when, giving me a look that told me she'd had enough of my self-righteousness, she pressed a finger to my lips and said, “Hermann, darling, do shut up!” Following which she rather forcefully removed my hat and coat and pushed me in the direction of a generously pillowed four-poster complete with satin canopy. In a while, after we had finished testing the limits of that fine piece of furniture and lay catching our breaths, Helena whispered into my ear, “There now, Hermann, the Eugénie Palace isn't
all
bad, is it?”

“I know it's none of my business,” I replied, “but how can a cellist — even a successful cellist like you — afford the rates here? You must have a patron back in Düsseldorf. Come clean, Helena; who is subsidizing this lavish lifestyle of yours?”

Her voice low and resonant like the low notes of her instrument, Helena said, “I have a lover in Düsseldorf, Hermann. I perform for him privately. He lies back in his bed and sighs with satisfaction every time I embrace my cello, and when I begin to play, no matter what the piece, he closes his eyes and lies there with the sweetest smile on his sweet face. Alas, Hermann, you will never know what it is to be adored, but I must tell you it is a sublime experience.”

“And does this sweet man know about you and me?” I removed Helena's arms from around my neck. “Or are you playing a cello with eight strings, so to speak?”

I thought the coldness in my voice would take Helena aback, but instead she threw her arms around my neck again. “He is eighty-three years old, Hermann, bedridden, probably dying —”

“But rich, eh? And who is this angel of yours, may I ask?”

“An old friend of yours, Hermann. In fact, more than a friend; a man who did much to advance your career when you were a member of the Düsseldorf Police.”

“You don't mean —?”

Helena sat up in bed, a hint of triumph in her smile. “The Baron himself. Baron von Hoffman.” She fingered a slender gold chain that encircled her neck, smiling even more broadly at me, awaiting my next question, knowing what it would be.

“From him? From your eighty-three-year-old lover?”

“And more, darling. Much more. A chest full, in fact.”

“The baroness … how does she view all this?”

“From the grave, I suppose. She passed on not long after you left Düsseldorf for Munich. They had no children, you know.”

“So you're the daughter the Baron always wanted. How convenient. The recital you're giving tomorrow night at the concert hall … I understand it's sold out, but even your fee can't possibly cover the bill here. Let me guess, Helena: the Baron showers you with his wife's jewels; you then sell them to —”

“To another old friend of yours in Düsseldorf.”

“Not that scoundrel Thüringer! Please, Helena, tell me it's not true.”

“The old bastard drives a hard bargain but so do I, Hermann. The pattern is always the same. I take a piece of jewellery to his shop. He starts off by offering me half of what I know it's worth. We fence back and forth and then I move in for the kill. I remind him that you managed to keep him out of prison for years even though you were aware he was more often than not selling stolen goods from his shop.”

“That's not quite fair, Helena. After all, Thüringer did fulfill a useful role. He was my most reliable informant. I've lost count of the number of thieves and fraud artists I was able to apprehend thanks to Thüringer's eyes and ears.”

“Nevertheless,
he
knows that
I
know enough about him that one word from me to the right person at the Düsseldorf Constabulary and he'd be behind bars dining on bread and water for the rest of his days.”

I sat up in bed now and held Helena by the shoulders. “My God, Helena, what happened to the sweet innocent young cellist I found so enchanting back in Düsseldorf?”

“The sweet innocent young cellist made the mistake of falling in love with a certain police inspector. Or have you forgotten that fact, Hermann? Whenever I so much as whispered the first syllable of the word ‘marriage' you fled to the other side of the planet. And you still do. Sweetness and innocence and youth have a tendency to disappear when that kind of rejection occurs often enough. So yes, you're absolutely right, my dear. The woman you are holding so firmly has become a tough old bird.”

“But a
beautiful
tough old bird.”

Helena pulled away from me. She sat eyeing me suspiciously for a moment or two. “All right, Hermann, out with it. What is it you want?”

I tried very hard to appear insulted. “Me? What do I want? I was only —”

“You were only flattering me. Don't try to fool me, Hermann Preiss. I know you better than you know yourself. ‘Beautiful old bird' indeed. I've never yet received a compliment from you that didn't have some slime-covered motive attached to it. Out with it, Hermann!”

“You are absolutely right,” I confessed. “You do know me better than I know myself. Beauty, brains, intuition, you have them all, Helena. Which is why I need your help.”

Helena shook her head, looking at me more in sorrow than anger. “Just as I thought. Please tell me it isn't about that Schumann business back in Düsseldorf. Don't tell me that case has come back to haunt us.”

“No, Helena, it's over and done with as far as I'm concerned. But I've got myself involved with another bunch of musicians, here in Munich this time. Does the name Richard Wagner ring a bell?”

Helena said, “You must be pulling my leg, Hermann. Of course the name Richard Wagner rings a bell. Rings a lot of bells, in fact. Let me guess: in addition to the many crimes he's been accused of, he has now murdered somebody. How delicious! Who, Hermann? Who's the victim? One of his lovers? An unpaid creditor? Wait, I know who: a soprano, one of the many young virgins Wagner ravages before hiring them.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but this is one of the rare times when your intuition fails you. Fact is, somebody has issued a threat against Wagner, a rather vague threat but one which must be taken seriously.”

I followed this with a complete account of my involvement thus far in the Wagner case, including my introduction to Henryk Schramm, Karla Steilmann, and Sandor Lantos. I explained as well my dilemma, my duty on one hand to carry out the orders of the commissioner and mayor, and my obligations on the other hand to seek out and apprehend whoever had issued the threatening note.

When I'd finished, Helena frowned. “It's all fascinating, Hermann, but I've never met any of these people. Except for Wagner, of course, I know nothing about any of them. So why would you want
my
help?”

“After your recital tomorrow evening, I've arranged for a small dinner party at a favourite restaurant of mine, Maison España —”

Helena clapped her hands. “Wonderful! I
love
Spanish food!”

“Sorry to disappoint you again, dearest, but Maison España is about as Spanish as Johann Sebastian Bach. The proprietor's name is Ziggy Bolliger, a charming fake if ever there was one, but in fairness his schnitzels are the finest in Europe. Now then, Helena, I have to be honest with you. This is not intended to be purely a culinary treat. You see, I've invited two singers who have the leading roles in
Die Meistersinger
, the tenor Henryk Schramm and the soprano Karla Steilmann. I need your special feminine insights about these two after you've had an opportunity to spend some time with them, even if it's only over dinner.”

“Why?” Helena wanted to know, frowning again. “Surely you don't suspect
them?
”

I replied as patiently as I could, “Helena, darling, how many times must I tell you? A detective suspects
every
body.”

“You mean even
I
could be a suspect?”

“I mean even my own
mother
could be a suspect.”

“Your mother has been dead for years, Hermann.”

“That's entirely beside the point.”

“Be serious, Hermann. What am I supposed to be discerning during this late supper you've arranged? I'm always famished after a recital. I hope I can at least dine on your friend's famous schnitzel before I have to go to work, so to speak.”

“I'll come to the point,” I said. “This man Schramm … there is something about him that —”

“That what —?”

I paused. “No, Helena, I'm not going to say anything more. I don't want to say anything that might influence your opinion of him.”

Helena gave me one of her carnal smiles. “Is he handsome and young?”

“Devilishly so.”

“Tell me more, Hermann.”

“No.”

“
Please
—”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're jealous of him, aren't you, Hermann?”

“Teasing me won't work,” I said. “I'm not saying another word about Schramm. I want your impression of him without being tainted in advance.”

“Tainted? You mean there's a dark side to this tenor?”

“Enough, Helena.” I got out of bed, got dressed while Helena watched in silence, and reached for my hat and coat. “Good luck tomorrow night, my sweet,” I said, planting a kiss on her forehead.

Pouting, Helena said, “I think it's positively beastly of you not to at least give me a hint of what I'm to look out for at this little supper of yours.”

I moved to the door, turned and blew her a kiss, then let myself out, calling back, “Sweet dreams, Helena.” Closing the door behind me, I heard something strike it. Whatever Helena threw, I hoped it wasn't too valuable.

The hour was late and the night air sharp but I decided a walk from the Eugénie Palace to my rooms, a distance of a little over a kilometre, would condition me for a good night's sleep.

No sooner had I stepped from the ornate front entrance of the hotel onto the deserted sidewalk than I heard a voice call out, “Inspector Preiss, thank God I've found you!” I turned to see a small figure hobbling toward me like a piece of fragile old crockery. “Thank God I've found you!” he repeated.

“Mecklenberg! What on earth brings you here?”

He appeared and sounded short of breath, which I was beginning to think was his natural state. “Your colleague Brunner was right, Preiss. He informed me that your cellist friend was in Munich. I learned that she is a guest at the Eugénie Palace, and here you are! I've got hold of you just in time.”

“Just in time for what?”

“There's been a murder, Inspector … a man by the name of Sandor Lantos.”

"S
andor
Lantos has murdered someone?”

“No, no,” Mecklenberg wheezed, clutching his chest as though he were in pain. “Lantos is the
victim
. He … uh … he —”

I hooked an arm through one of Mecklenberg's arms, fearing he was about to collapse. Though he was a small man, his weight, such as it was, anchored me to the sidewalk. “Come with me into the hotel,” I said. “You could use a comfortable place to sit and a good strong cup of coffee.”

Huffing and puffing, and waving his free arm impatiently, the old man responded, “There's no time, don't you see? Besides, I haven't even told you who Sandor Lantos is … or rather was.”

“There's no need to,” I said. “I happen to know.”

“Then you will understand that Maestro Wagner is beside himself, poor man. This is tragic for Wagner. Tragic!”

“Excuse me, Mecklenberg,” I said, “but aren't you missing the point here? Tragic for
Wagner
? What about Lantos's wife and children?”

Abruptly the old man shook loose and stared at me as though I were out of my mind. “His wife and children? What about them? Who gives a damn, Preiss? It wasn't
their
opera Lantos was working on. It was Wagner's. That is what matters.”

Recalling for a moment my one and only conversation with Sandor Lantos and his concerns for his family, I was appalled by Mecklenberg's utter lack of compassion, but for the moment police business came first. “How did you learn of Lantos's death?” I asked.

“Earlier this evening,” Mecklenberg replied. “I was to meet the Maestro at the opera house. We had some urgent business to discuss. I found him in a terrible state of upset. I have to explain, Inspector: The final scene of
Die Meistersinger
takes place in a public square. The entire cast is on stage for the competition about to begin … the principal characters, a large chorus of townspeople, my God the entire population of Germany! In typical fashion, Wagner was busy with a tape measure; he was actually measuring the space available for this crowd scene, right down to the last millimetre. It turned out that the set designed by Lantos would not accommodate all these people and Wagner was having a fit, yelling, cursing, vowing to skin Lantos alive. He insisted we proceed straight to Lantos's studio which, as you perhaps know, is no more than a stone's throw from the opera house.”

“But wouldn't Lantos's studio be closed for the night?”

Mecklenberg gave me a sardonic smile. “Closed? That would mean absolutely nothing to Wagner. When you work for Richard Wagner there is only one time zone on this earth — Wagner Standard Time. Twenty-five-hour days and eight-day weeks. So off we went. When we reached the studio we found the front door slightly ajar. Wagner of course took this as an automatic invitation to enter without so much as a polite knock. I followed after him. None of the lamps had been extinguished and I took for granted that Lantos was working late. The place was a mess, papers strewn all over, many of them in shreds.”

“Yes yes, but what about Lantos?”

Shuddering, Mecklenberg replied, “You won't believe your eyes, Preiss.”

“So it's true after all,” I said, muttering to myself, “the pen
is
mightier than the sword —”

“I beg your pardon?” Mecklenberg called, making certain to keep a respectable distance behind me and well away from Lantos's body which lay sprawled in a chair behind his worktable.

“It's nothing, Mecklenberg. I was just talking to myself.”

Lantos's throat had been pierced by one of his sketching pens, pierced so deeply its long steel nib had obviously penetrated the man's windpipe. His eyes were open, staring, as though he couldn't believe this was how he was about to die.

Two young constables had arrived on the crime scene before me, dispatched by the night duty officer to stand guard and make certain nothing was disturbed. Fortunately two other constables had already ushered Lantos's wife and children away from the premises. “They were screaming and carrying on something awful,” one of the guards reported, adding that an older man also had to be escorted out of the studio. “Kept shouting ‘Who could do this to me?'” the guard said. “I wrote down the man's name here in my notebook. Wagner, Richard Wagner, or something like that.” The blank look on the constable's face indicated Wagner's name meant nothing to him.

Careful still to maintain a safe distance from the corpse, Mecklenberg called to me again. “What kind of monster could have done this?”

“No monster,” I said, “just a human being with inhuman strength.”

“But why? Lantos was an artist, a quiet decent hardworking man. I can't imagine he had an enemy in the world.”

“I can,” I said quietly, again speaking to myself, not thinking old Mecklenberg could hear me.

But hear me he did. “You can?”

“Forgive me, Mecklenberg,” I said. “It's just the cynic in me. A meaningless remark, the result of too many years of seeing this kind of thing.”

For the moment this lame excuse seemed to satisfy Mecklenberg's curiosity.

I made certain that the next thing I said to myself could not possibly be heard by anyone in the room. “Wolfgang Grilling. Who else?”