The Mastersinger from Minsk (14 page)

L
ate
that evening, following what Schramm jokingly referred to as “our petite picnic,” I returned to my apartment thoroughly disgusted with myself. In part I blamed the menu my host served. I have long associated wine and cheese with the decline and fall of the French empire, the sort of dainty cuisine effete noblemen and their powdered courtesans thought of longingly en route to the guillotine. My own appetite demanded heartier fare … well-garlicked sausage, potatoes, pickled cabbage, washed down with a reliable Munich lager, sustenance that fortifies warm-blooded Germans to defend hearth and home with sword and shield. Not wanting to insult Schramm, I bravely sampled the food, but only a nibble of this, a nibble of that, leaving my stomach largely hollow.

In part I blamed myself. I had every intention, when I presented the envelope fragments for Schramm's inspection, and after he acknowledged that the envelope was indeed addressed to him, to pursue burning questions concerning his identity and background. I hoped, of course, that faced with the evidence I'd laid before him, he would voluntarily open the vault in which, I was certain, he had locked away his true self …
Very well Inspector, the truth about myself is
… Instead, Schramm, very deftly I must say, turned the tables, and before I could drain what I vaguely recall as my third glass of wine, I found myself in the uncomfortable role of a suspect, Schramm playing the role of persistent grand inquisitor, pressing me to explain how and where I came upon the pieces of the envelope, while I, cursing myself inwardly for having over-imbibed on an empty stomach, managed to remain just sober enough to insist that this was highly classified police information.

The result was a stand-off. Schramm told me virtually nothing. I told Schramm virtually nothing. In the end, the truth — or rather a number of truths — lay hidden still, to be probed some other time.

Depressed over what I saw as failure largely of my own making, I was about to seek comfort in a bottle of brandy when my eyes caught an envelope the concierge must have slipped under my door and which I'd overlooked when entering. And a welcome sight it was, for the handwriting was that of Helena Becker. Even more welcome was the familiar scent that greeted my nostrils when I held the paper to my nose, a perfumed reminder of the times our faces touched, Helena's hair loosened and spread across my eyes like a blindfold, our fingers exploring each other's lips as though, sightless, we were discovering them for the first time.

More welcome still was the news her letter contained.

Hermann dearest:

As luck would have it, I shall be returning to Munich this coming Friday. The Bavarian Quartet has scheduled a performance of Schubert's “Two Cellos” Quintet as part of its Sunday afternoon program and it turns out that the cellist engaged to play the second cello part has had to cancel due to problems with her pregnancy. (I cannot imagine how one could possibly play such an instrument on a full stomach, Hermann. Can you?)

Knowing that I'm familiar with this music, they have summoned me to fill in. It's a magnificent piece, Hermann, one of Schubert's finest! I don't care, my dear, if you are investigating the mass murder of thousands of Munich's good citizens, I've reserved a front-row seat for you and expect you to lead the cheering.

And after the concert, Hermann, if you play your cards right, well, you may find yourself holding a winning hand … mine! (Perhaps there'll be an encore or two as well!)

I do love you, Hermann … as always without having the slightest idea why.

Helena

P.S. On hearing that I'm to play once again in Munich, Madam Vronsky, to my delight, and I hope yours, insists upon travelling with me. Her excuse is that Munich is so much more fascinating these days than Düsseldorf. What do
I
think? I think that despite her age (a secret she guards these days with less and less success) her loins throb with thoughts of you, Inspector Preiss! Again I wonder why.

T
he
prospect of Helena's return to Munich and her presence throughout the coming weekend brought a smile to my face which was in place when I fell asleep that night, and still in place when I awoke next morning. In fact, it lasted all the way to the Constabulary. So evident was my buoyant mood that several of my junior officers, knowing my reputation for early morning irascibility, dared to wish me a good day, a risk they would never have taken most days.

And then Detective Franz Brunner showed up.

The look on Brunner's face — not unlike the look of a hound that had lost the scent of the prey — made words unnecessary. In a flash, my good mood was over.

“Don't tell me, Brunner. Your expression says it all.”

“I swear to God, Preiss,” Brunner said. “There isn't a nook, there isn't a cranny —”

“Yes yes, Brunner, spare me the clichés. Fräulein Vanderhoute remains at large, yes? What more is there to say?”

“At large, yes,” Brunner said, “but there
is
more to say. I visited her last-known address … the one last-known to me, at least … in a rooming house not far, naturally, from the opera house. Fortunately, the landlady was forthcoming, by which I mean that she was a copious container of gossip. It seems Vanderhoute suffered no shortage of male attendants, the chief being one Thilo Rotfogel, who was a regular caller. Of course, the landlady, being as she put it a God-fearing Christian, made it clear that the pair could not carry on their affair on
her
premises. Presumably they did so at Rotfogel's premises, which also happens to be in the vicinity of the opera house. How convenient, eh!”

“You looked up this fellow Rotfogel, then?”

“Yes. Thilo Rotfogel is a French horn player, Preiss. As a matter of fact, until recently he played French horn in the opera house orchestra.”

“Until recently, you say?”

“According to him, there was an incident which resulted in his dismissal. It occurred during a rehearsal when the conductor — Richard Wagner, who else? — became enraged over Rotfogel's playing of a particularly crucial passage, so enraged in fact, that Wagner flung his baton clear across the heads of the other players and straight at poor Rotfogel. Luckily the missile struck Rotfogel's instrument. It was then that Rotfogel made his second mistake. He rose and protested that he had played the passage exactly as Wagner had written it. That protest resulted in Rotfogel's immediate expulsion.
Excommunication
is more like it, Preiss, because he claims Wagner shouted at him as he left the orchestra pit ‘Rotfogel, you will never play in this city again!' Needless to say, Thilo Rotfogel is a very bitter man these days. In this respect, he and Vanderhoute are soulmates, you might say. Tell me something, Preiss: You seem to have a fair knowledge of music. Is there some peculiar quality about French horn players that makes them vulnerable to the sort of treatment Wagner meted out?”

Impatient to get on, I replied, “Look, Brunner, we don't have time for a lengthy discourse on the subject. I will tell you this: of all the instruments in an orchestra, the French horn is the one untamed animal. Back in the sixteen and seventeen hundreds it was simply a coiled pipe with a mouthpiece at one end used as a hunting horn. These days it has innards that resemble human intestines, plus valves which supposedly produce notes more accurately. But it's still a treacherous thing, treacherous for the hornist, treacherous for the listener. So what occurred with this fellow Thilo Rotfogel is the rule, not the exception. Now then, can he lead us to this Vanderhoute woman, or not?”

“Well, that depends, Preiss,” Brunner answered.

“Depends on what?”

“Let me explain,” Brunner said. “Of course, he was curious to learn why I'm seeking Vanderhoute's whereabouts. I couldn't come right out and inform him that she is a suspect in one or more murder cases, could I? I mean, tell him that and — who knows? — he might become as sealed as an oyster. So I took an approach that I assumed would appeal to him. I told him that we — the police, that is — are building a case against Wagner in connection with his alleged abuses of a number of women who have worked under him, including, of course, Cornelia Vanderhoute.”

“Good thinking, Brunner. That loosened Rotfogel's lips?”

“Not quite. He knows where she can be located, but there's a price for this information which he insists we must pay.”

“You mean he's looking for a
bribe
? That's totally out of the question, Brunner! I'm surprised you would even entertain such an idea!”

I'm afraid my colleague saw through me as though I were made of transparent glass. Smirking, he said, “This is hardly the time, and you, Preiss, are hardly the person, to become sanctimonious. Call it a bribe. Call it anything you want. The plain fact is, Thilo Rotfogel is prepared to co-operate, but first we must pay the piper.”

“Pay the French hornist is more like it,” I said, continuing to feign my disgust. “Very well, Brunner, what does the man want?”

“He wants us to see to it that he is reinstated as a member of the opera orchestra.”

“He wants
what
? Is Rotfogel mad? Are
you
mad, Brunner? There's only one individual who can arrange to reinstate him and that individual is Richard Wagner. It would be like a dog chasing its tail. No, no, Brunner, totally out of the question!”

“No so fast, Inspector,” Brunner said. “Rotfogel has a card up his sleeve, one that could trump our friend Wagner, maybe once and for all. Like it or not, the Great Man might have no choice but to put Rotfogel back in the orchestra pit.”

“Please, Brunner, don't waste my time with another blackmail scheme. It didn't work when your friend Vanderhoute tried it. She achieved absolutely nothing with Wagner. The man has the ability to brazen his way through an avalanche of scandal if need be, as he has already clearly demonstrated.”

“Ah yes,” Brunner said, “but he will not brazen his way through the kind of avalanche Herr Rotfogel can stir up. Trust me.”

Trust Detective Franz Brunner? Now
there
was a challenge! But beggars can't be choosers. Even if Brunner were grossly exaggerating the usefulness of this man Rotfogel, all for the sake of ingratiating himself with me, the plain fact was that I was desperately in need of whatever scraps of information I could possibly patch together, no matter whom they came from. I was a curator, not of a collection of tangible evidence, but of a collection of people — living curiosities, flesh and blood to the eye yet unfathomable, untrustworthy, conniving, everyone seemingly filing onto my stage carrying his or her own bundle of plots and lies, and at the centre of the stage, Richard Wagner himself, principal plotter and liar. Under the circumstances I had no choice but to go along with Brunner.

“Very well, Brunner,” I said with a pessimistic sigh, “fetch this man Rotfogel. I want to see him before he, too, somehow ends up a statistic in this whole affair.”

“No fear of that,” Brunner responded, suddenly looking pleased with himself. “Thilo Rotfogel is here, waiting outside in the hall. As you can see, Preiss, I am leaving no stone unturned. But a word of caution: Don't be put off by Rotfogel's appearance. He is not what you might expect.”

A
t
first glance, Thilo Rofogle brought to mind an admonition delivered by my mother whenever, as a child, I expressed repulsion over someone's physical appearance. “Remember, Hermann,” she would say, “we are creatures of God. He loves us all, each and every one. Therefore we too must love each and every one.”

My father, on the other hand, adhered unswervingly to a set of self-made rules that governed his reaction to people's physical characteristics. “Remember, Hermann,” he would say, in tones as solemn as my mother's, but grimacing as though he had just swallowed vinegar, “small eyes are a sign of a sneaky personality; warts are a sign of an evil mind; and beware of men who are underweight because they will cut your throat for a crust of bread!”

I will swear on the Bible that I made an earnest attempt to look at Thilo Rotfogel through my mother's charitable eyes. But it was no use. Rotfogel's features met my father's criteria one by one and to perfection. To regard this fellow as a creature of God would have taxed even the most willing believer. Two things were beyond imagination: that Rotfogel could manufacture sufficient wind to bring alive the most fickle musical instrument ever invented; and that Rotfogel could manufacture sufficient charm that Cornelia Vanderhoute would agree to share a bed with him not just once, apparently, but several times. Like Shakespeare's Cassius, Rotfogel had a lean and hungry look made more pitiable by ill-fitting clothes. Indeed, had he extended a hat, or perhaps a tin cup, I would have made a donation without a second thought. Instead, he extended a bony hand, and as I shook it I realized what Cornelia Vanderhoute saw in Thilo Rotfogel. Two gold rings adorned the fingers of his right hand, mounted on one of them a diamond which I estimated to be at least two carats. My attention was then drawn to his left hand, similarly graced with two gold rings, each bearing a precious stone, one a ruby, the other a sapphire. His jacket was open, revealing across his vest an expanse of gold chain anchored at one end by a gold pocket watch. His neckwear, though a simple unstylish black silk cravat, was nevertheless fixed into place by a diamond stickpin.

What could be more obvious? What Fräulein Cornelia Vanderhoute saw in French hornist Thilo Rotfogel was money!

Shunning perfunctory words of welcome, I came swiftly to the point. “Allow me to compliment you, Herr Rotfogel, on your choice of accessories. I see that you are a connoisseur of fine jewelry.”

This brought an appreciative smile to Rotfogel's face. “Look here, Inspector,” he said, proudly displaying a handsome set of cufflinks. “Genuine black opals no less!”

“Very impressive, sir,” I said. “In my next life I intend to take up the French horn. It's clearly a much more lucrative career than mine.”

Rotfogel quickly demonstrated that he was no fool. “You don't believe a word of what you've just said, Inspector. What you're really wondering is how I, a humble musician, can possibly afford what you call my ‘choice of accessories.' So let me clear the air at once. I have lived all my fifty years as a bachelor, and a content one at that. Fortunately, I have only myself upon whom to shower my largesse, you see. Until a recent lamentable experience with a certain bastard conductor, I was much in demand and earned a steady living because French horn players do not grow on trees. At the risk of boasting, I'm one of the few who can play the
early
version of the instrument, which is no simple trick. Playing Vivaldi concertos on an early instrument, for instance, takes a certain genius because one must master the art of handstopping.”

“I'm familiar with Vivaldi's music,” I said, “most of which sounds to me as though it was composed on one very long sheet of paper, then cut into sections and sold by the metre. But what is ‘handstopping'?”

“Ah, Inspector, it involves inserting a hand in the bell of the French horn, by which means one can flatten the pitch to produce chromatic notes. Believe me, sir, not every Fritz, Heinz, and Jürgen can do this! And bear in mind, too, that even a tiny bit of condensation from a player's breath can cause cracked notes. This does not happen with Thilo Rotfogel, sir. Not on a modern horn nor on an original horn. Never!”

“I'm beginning to understand something, Herr Rotfogel,” I said. “Despite your age, and your apparent contentment with bachelorhood, women must be drawn to you because of this unique power of yours. Do you give private performances on your French horn for them?”

“Of course you are jesting,” Rotfogel responded with a knowing grin. “No, I do not give private performances … at least, not on my French horn, if you take my meaning.”

“You mean your prowess is not restricted to what you call handstopping?”

“Don't be misled by my physique, Inspector,” Rotfogel said. “Despite my age and bachelorhood, as you put it, I know how to give pleasure to a woman.”

“I'm pleased for your sake, sir,” I said, “but does giving pleasure involve showering them with your largesse … that is, when you're not too busy showering your
self
?”

“Ah, you are referring specifically to Fräulein Vanderhoute, are you not? Very well, yes, in her case it was more of a
flood
than a shower. And why not? It was she who opened my eyes, you might say.”

“Opened your eyes to what —?”

“How can I put it delicately —?”

“Please, Rotfogel, I'm as much a man of the world as you. Let's dispense with delicacy. To what did Cornelia Vanderhoute open your eyes?

“Let me put it this way,” Rotfogel replied, after taking a moment to think about his answer. “We Germans can learn a few things from Hollanders about what goes on in our bedrooms. Our Dutch friends display a certain fervency, a certain inventiveness, which we lack in this regard. I think it's because their country, lying so low and under constant threat from the sea, encourages in the inhabitants a sense of urgency, a sense of devil-may-care that frees them from puritan constraints.”

“And so there was an ideal reciprocal arrangement,” I said. “You were generous when it came to money. Fräulein was generous when it came to the boudoir.”

“Ideal? No not quite,” Rotfogel said. “Other men were attracted to her, which is not surprising. As for me, Inspector … well, look at me. Do I look like the kind of man who could have claims to exclusivity with a woman like Cornelia Vanderhoute? Of course not. But I'm enough of a man to be jealous of the attention others paid her.”

“Were you aware that ‘others' included Richard Wagner?”

“No, I was not,” Rotfogel said, “not until your colleague Detective Brunner informed me.”

“Then you must feel especially betrayed … by her, I mean.”

“Believe it or not,” Rotfogel replied, “I feel nothing but
pity
for her. It's Wagner who is the villain here, not Cornelia. You see, she confessed to me that she was pregnant. She declined, however, to say by whom. I knew it could not be by me. The kind of ‘relations' we engaged in ruled out the possibility of pregnancy. More of this I need not mention in detail. You say you are a man of the world, Preiss, so you will no doubt understand. But when Brunner explained to me that you are amassing evidence of Wagner's abuses against a number of women with whom he's been involved, and knowing Cornelia could well be one of such women … after all, she had sung for several years in the opera chorus and even a totally blind man would have been keenly aware of her voluptuousness … well, sir, I feel a moral obligation to do whatever I can.”

“Splendid!” I said. “Then tell us where we may locate Fräulein Vanderhoute. Detective Brunner and I are eager to obtain a statement from her. There are rumours that she returned to Holland but we have reason to believe she is still here in Munich. Needless to say, she could be a very valuable witness.”

Rotfogel shook his head. “She realizes that she has been living — shall we say — a somewhat overactive life and prefers to remain in seclusion for the time being. I feel bound to honour her wishes. You understand, Inspector, that she has a right to privacy which we must respect.”

“But you said a moment ago that you feel a moral obligation to do whatever you can —” I was aware that unconsciously I had clenched my fists and that I was straining to remain civil with this man. The rules of my office prohibited physical assault but the temptation to circle Thilo Rotfogel's scrawny neck with my bare hands was almost overwhelming. “I take it, Rotfogel, that your ‘moral obligation' comes with a price tag. You want us to intercede on your behalf with the Maestro so that you can return to your post with the opera orchestra. But aren't you being selfish? Aren't you placing your personal interests above those of the woman for whom you profess to feel pity?”

“The way I see the situation,” Rotfogel said calmly, as though analyzing a financial statement or the results of a laboratory test, “the gods have handed me a golden opportunity. You see, Inspector Preiss, the humiliation I suffered when Wagner ordered me out that day weeks ago, and without a speck of justification, was enough to crush any man's spirit once and for all. But now … now, at last! I can, and I
will
, bring Richard Wagner to his knees … with the weight of Munich's Chief Inspector of Police, no less, behind me.”

“Be sensible, Rotfogel,” I said. “Fräulein Vanderhoute has nothing to fear from speaking to me. It is Wagner, as you yourself say, who is the villain.” I hoped this lie would be convincing. “Tell us where we may find her. It is for her own good.”

Again Rotfogel shook his head. “No no, Inspector Preiss,” he said. “First give me Wagner. Then I will give you Vanderhoute.”