The Mastersinger from Minsk (9 page)

A
s
Helena described them to me, the telltale signs that convinced her Henryk Schramm was Jewish were subtle. Producing a flask of brandy that was a routine part of her accoutrements whenever she was on tour, she filled two small glasses, offered one to me, took a sip from the other, and began: “He has a way of using his hands when he talks. Not animated, mind you, Hermann, but expressive. If he's making a point he uses his index fingers, moving them from side to side as though he's saying maybe yes, maybe no.” Helena seemed to be smiling to herself. “Rather charming, really, when I come to think of it.”

Dryly, I said, “I'm sure, Helena. What else?”

“Before he takes a first bite of a slice of bread he sprinkles a pinch of salt on it. It's a habit of his; I noticed he did so several times.”

“Maybe he's simply superstitious. I believe that particular habit is common among Eastern Europeans.”

Helena shook her head. “This man is not a superstitious type, Hermann. But he
is
a pessimist. So many of his views of things are stitched together by a dark thread of pessimism.”

“For instance?”

“He's quite convinced that German culture will fall victim eventually to all the industrial activity that's consuming our people, that we'll become a nation of crass materialists. As for himself, he predicts that, as wonderful as Wagner's new opera is, it will fail and that he, Schramm, will therefore suffer an early end to his career as a singer.”

“Pessimism is not the exclusive territory of Jews, Helena,” I said.

“Of course not,” she agreed, “but they seem to visit that territory more than most tourists, at least in my experience. One other thing, Hermann: did you observe something when he said goodbye to Olga and me?”

“Yes. He kissed your hands. Nothing unusual about that. Even
I
occasionally stoop to such endearing gestures … that is, when I'm too weary to try something more energetic.”

“Ah, it's not what he
did
,” Helena said, “but what he
said.
A thoroughgoing German would look into my eyes and whisper
auf Wiedersehen
at such a moment.
He
looked into my eyes and whispered ‘Be well.' Those were his parting words.”

“And you're saying that's typical of those people?”

Helena said, sounding sure of herself, “I've lived much of my life with ‘those people.' I
am
one of ‘those people.' Remember? I know what I'm talking about, Hermann. My father changed his name from Gershon Bekarsky to Gerhardt Becker after my mother persuaded him he was better off with a new name. But one thing a new name can't do … it can't change old habits. So yes, pessimism remained in his bones. And yes, he used his hands a great deal whenever he was involved in some deep discussion. Loved salting his bread. Never said goodbye to anyone without adding ‘Be well.' I repeat, Hermann, although Schramm never said a word to me during our conversations tonight about being Jewish, he is, he definitely is.”

Without asking permission, I reached for Helena's flask and helped myself to a second brandy. “That's not like you,” Helena said, watching as I downed it in a single draft. “You seem to be trying to drown out something.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “In wine there's truth, but in brandy there's clarity. Not answers, but at least
questions
begin to make sense … one question, at any rate.”

Helena teasingly brought the brandy flask to the lip of my glass. “If you're wondering about making love tonight, Hermann, perhaps a third?”

Gently I pushed the flask aside. “Listen to me, Helena. Given Richard Wagner's renowned hatred of Jews, why would he engage a Jew to sing the leading male role in one of his operas? It stands to reason Wagner hasn't the slightest suspicion about Schramm. But there's an even more intriguing question, isn't there? Why would a Jewish tenor take the trouble to conceal his background and, of all things, want to sing in an opera composed by one of the most virulent anti-Semites on the face of the earth?”

Once again Helena took up the flask, this time with a serious expression. “Maybe you should have a third drink after all —”

“No, no, thank you. Enough is enough. You must be exhausted after such a full evening, Helena. And as for me, I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. Between you and me, it's not going to be very pleasant. I've summoned another tenor for questioning at the Constabulary. Name's Wolfgang Grilling. It's in connection with the murder of Wagner's designer Sandor Lantos.”

“Do you think Schramm has a point … I mean about some enemy of Wagner setting out to —” Helena cut herself short. “That's simply too preposterous.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Crime and preposterousness are blood brothers. Sometimes they are even blood sisters.” I rose from my chair, moved to where Helena was seated, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered “Goodnight, my sweet. Be well.”

“You're leaving me up in the air like this?” she asked, full of indignation.

“Yes, Helena,” I replied, “but with a word of advice. Whatever you decide to throw at the door as I'm closing it behind me … make sure it's not too expensive.”

B
efore
attending Helena Becker's recital I had dispatched one of my young constables, Emil Gruber, to the residence of the tenor Wolfgang Grilling bearing a summons to appear at my office at ten o'clock the following morning. I gave, as the reason for our meeting, my need to obtain as much background as possible into the character and work of Sandor Lantos from people who were in contact with him either socially or professionally, all in the hope of forming a picture of Lantos's killer. I made a point of stating my reason innocuously, even humbly (“… your insights and experience would be of incalculable assistance, Herr Grilling …”), avoiding even the slightest hint that, for the moment, I considered him the prime suspect. Knowing that most artists and entertainers are not what are known as “morning people,” I planned to make this session as comfortable and informal as I could despite the fact that my office, like all offices in the Constabulary, can only be described as a formidable collection of unrelieved squares and rectangles. I would deliberately sit next to Grilling, rather than sitting in my usual place behind my desk; I would keep the conversation at the level of a chat rather than an interrogation. I even went so far as to order a pot of coffee to be delivered from the commissary, a demand so rare that the steward who took the order, when he thought I wasn't looking, shook his head as though questioning my sanity.

Ten o'clock arrived, but not Wolfgang Grilling. Very well, I told myself, allowances must be made. God knows, I should have grown accustomed to a certain amount of tardiness among musicians; Helena Becker, for example, was notoriously late for every appointment she and I made, and I had come to regard this habit as part of her charm — the profound and totally insincere apology accompanied by a sweet smile and the brush of her lips on my cheek. On the other hand, word was that if an artist were late for an appointment with Richard Wagner the fires of hell flamed up through the floor while lightning flashed through the ceiling. Face it, I said to myself, I am not Richard Wagner. Grilling will therefore make his entrance a quarter of an hour late and offer a profound and totally insincere apology. (No kiss of course.) I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the steaming pot (which did arrive on schedule) and sat back awaiting Herr Grilling.

Fifteen minutes past ten and no Wolfgang Grilling. I helped myself to a second cup. Half past ten. Still no Grilling. Coffee no longer steaming, lukewarm, barely drinkable. Eleven o'clock. No sign of Grilling. Coffee cold. My temperature beginning to rise.

I sent for Constable Gruber. “Gruber, I want you to go round to Grilling's rooms,” I said, “and I don't give a damn if he's still in his nightshirt or in his bath, I want the bastard here! And no excuses, do you understand? I don't care if he's
dying
, Gruber!”

One hour later, at the stroke of noon, Constable Emil Gruber stood before me removing his helmet and wiping his sweaty brow. “Sorry, Inspector,” Gruber said, his voice hoarse with excitement, “but this fellow Grilling —”

Impatiently I said, “Well, what about him, damn it —”

“He won't be keeping his appointment.”

“And why the hell not?”

“He appears to be dead, sir.”

“
Appears
? You mean he's
playing
dead?”

“Oh no, Inspector, in my opinion he is genuinely dead,” the young constable said with such earnestness that for a fleeting second I regretted my sarcasm. “I have to report,” he went on, “that upon arriving at the subject's premises I proceeded to make my presence known by knocking several times, each time with increased vigour, on the door of his apartment, whereupon, failing to achieve a response I sought the assistance of the concierge and immediately upon gaining entry with the master key I discovered the body of a scantily attired male person lying in a position consistent with —”

At this point I'm afraid I exploded in the face of the well-meaning constable. “For God's sake, Gruber,
please!
Enough police terminology! Tell me in plain language!”

“The subject … sorry … Herr Grilling … was lying on the floor. I immediately checked his pulse and determined that he was deceased.”

“Other than feeling for his pulse, you touched nothing?”

“Nothing, sir, absolutely nothing.”

“And you instructed the concierge to touch nothing?”

“I not only instructed her —” Here Gruber produced a key. “I made certain by relieving her of the master key.” Gruber seemed about to add something but stopped himself.

“Well, Gruber, speak up. What is it?”

“I have to warn you, sir,” Gruber said, “it's not a pretty sight. I mean the body, and the place itself. The concierge, poor woman, nearly fainted. As for me —”

“Gruber,” I said, “I was investigating crime scenes and mutilated bodies when your mother and father were still wondering what they had to do to conceive you. Now be so good as to order a cab at once.”

I
should not have dismissed Constable Gruber's warning so curtly. The sitting room where Wolfgang Grilling's lifeless body lay looked as though it had been invaded not by a single intruder but by an army of intruders, so violently was everything strewn about. Underfoot lay a veritable stew of broken glass and crockery intermingled with crumpled bits of newspaper obviously swept from a large table used to hold books and periodicals which occupied a prominent spot near the fireplace. Someone, either the victim or his assailant, had desperately grasped the curtains covering the set of windows in the room, bringing down not only the thick green velvet draperies but the brass rod on which they hung as well as the wall fittings. Streaks of blood crisscrossed the curtains, stained the light grey upholstery of the armchairs on either side of the fireplace, and defaced in a particularly grotesque way a pen sketch of Grilling lying within reach of his body, its frame and mat bent out of shape. Every lamp in the room had been knocked over, every chair upended, every rug left askew.

Central to this disorder was the corpse of Wolfgang Grilling, lying face up, the head close to the fireplace, arms outstretched and wide apart as though held down by a superior force, legs similarly positioned. His throat, just below the Adam's apple, had been deeply pierced. Left carelessly across Grilling's chest was a sharply pointed iron poker, part of the fireside implements that stood in the overturned stand nearby, its shaft wet with Grilling's blood.

I removed my greatcoat and hat and handed them to Gruber. “Find a place to hang these. And better do the same with yours, Gruber. Looks like we're going to be here for quite a while.”

Opening my notebook to a fresh page, I prepared to make a rough sketch of the position of Grilling's body when the door to the apartment opened and in strode my colleague Franz Brunner.

“I came as soon as I heard the news, Preiss —” Brunner stopped short. “My God,” he said, looking about, “it looks like the Battle of Waterloo!” Then his eyes fell on Grilling's body. “Well, Preiss,” Brunner said, shaking his head as though some extraordinary wisdom was about to be imparted, “one thing is for sure: this man will never sing again.”

“Thank you for that insight, Brunner,” I said. “Now then, right off I need you to interview the concierge. Did she see anybody arrive or leaving? Did she hear anything? There's a suite of rooms directly below this one. Did the occupants see or hear anything?” I turned to Constable Gruber. “It appears I won't require you after all, Gruber. Detective Brunner is on hand to assist. What I want you to do is this: find Maestro Richard Wagner.”

Wide-eyed, Gruber said, “
The
Richard Wagner?”

“Yes, Gruber,
the
Richard Wagner. You have some acquaintance with the man?”

“My older brother sings in the chorus at the Opera House.”

“So much the better, then. Find Wagner. You may inform him that Wolfgang Grilling has been killed, but he's not to be told any other details. Understand? Tell him I must meet with him, preferably at his residence no later than four o'clock.”

“What if —”

“No ‘what ifs,' Gruber. Four o'clock. At his house.”

Fervently Brunner asked, “You think Wagner may have done this, Preiss? The Commissioner will be thrilled!”

“Not so fast, Brunner,” I said. “All I know at the moment is that Grilling was extremely unhappy about his role in Wagner's new opera and made no secret of it. He certainly made Sandor Lantos aware of it, and I believe Grilling's manager Friedrich Otto brought the situation to Wagner's attention.”

“What could possibly make Grilling unhappy? I'm no opera lover, but one would assume that a singer would sell his soul to the devil for an opportunity to work with a famous composer, even one with Wagner's reputation.”

“This is what I've managed to learn thus far, Brunner: At the audition for the leading tenor role in Wagner's new opera, Grilling lost to a virtually unknown singer by the name of Henryk Schramm and dared to express his displeasure to the Maestro very openly in front of a number of people who were present. The role he was forced to accept is that of a despicable secondary character, the foil for the hero. To make matters worse, Grilling loathed the costume Lantos designed, based of course on Wagner's instructions. And, heaping discontent on top of discontent, Grilling complained bitterly that his facial makeup would make him look like a Jew. Grilling went so far as to threaten to burn down the Opera House. He said so in no uncertain terms to Lantos.”

“You knew about Grilling's threat, Preiss?”

“Yes. The information came from Lantos himself.”

“And yet you did nothing about it?”

“In case you've forgotten, Brunner, the next time I had occasion to see Sandor Lantos, which was the day after my visit to his studio, he was as dead as your memory appears to be.”

“Now hold on, Preiss!” Brunner said, taking a step toward me, his hands tightening into clenched fists. “You may be my superior but that doesn't entitle you —”

“Shut up, Brunner. I know exactly what's on your mind. My God, you
are
so terribly obvious, aren't you? You'd like nothing more than to run back to the Commissioner and have him cite me for dereliction of duty. I can hear you now, Brunner: ‘Yes, Commissioner, Inspector Preiss knew all about the bad blood among Lantos, Grilling, and Wagner, did nothing about it, and now two of them are dead while that devil Wagner remains free!'”

Turning petulant, Brunner protested that I was being grossly unfair, that all he was attempting to do was assess the facts, that he hadn't the slightest intention of impugning my reputation behind my back. For a split second I was almost convinced Brunner meant what he was saying. But then he added, almost throwing the sentence away, “Of course, Preiss, you do seem to have lost the primary focus —”

“
What
primary focus —?”

“Well,” Brunner began cautiously, “the Lantoses and the Grillings of this world come and go, and while it's unfortunate that their lives ended the way they did, life still goes on without too many ripples in the water, doesn't it?”

“Get to the point, Brunner.”

“The point, yes, Preiss. The point is that we … you and I, that is … are charged with a serious responsibility —”

“You mean, to deliver up Richard Wagner to von Mannstein and the mayor on a silver platter, preferably bound and gagged and ready for summary trial, execution, and burial at sea.”

Returning to petulance, but this time in a voice so quiet I wanted to throttle him, Brunner said, “You misconstrue everything I say, Preiss. I am absolutely committed to seeing that justice is done, as I'm sure you are —”

“Don't patronize me, Brunner. And understand this: so long as I am in charge, our primary focus, as you put it, will be as much to find and arrest whoever is threatening Richard Wagner as it is to satisfy the commissioner's and mayor's agenda.”

“In other words,” Brunner said, “you seriously insist upon viewing Wagner as a
victim
in all this?”

“I continue to view him as a genius.”

“A
corrupt
genius —”

“A genius nevertheless —”

“— who believes that, being an exceptional man, he is permitted to do exceptional things even if he breaks laws that ordinary men are bound to obey. Come now, Preiss, aren't you too forgiving? You do have a reputation for being overly attracted to so-called creative types, even dazzled, one might say. Look here, Preiss: you say Wagner was furious with Lantos, and that he treated Grilling badly. A moment ago you gave instructions for Wagner to be available for interrogation at four o'clock and at his own residence. If it were up to me —”

“Which it isn't —”

“— Wagner would be arrested within the hour and the interrogation would take place where it ought to take place, at the Constabulary. What you are doing is tactically wrong, Preiss!”

“Brunner, this is not a debating society. I consider your remarks impertinent. If you're interested in rescuing your career you would do well to get below and interrogate the concierge without further delay.”

“I fully intend to make a note of this conversation, Preiss, I warn you.”

“Brunner, please feel free to write a complete memoir and publish it in tomorrow's edition of the
Munich Times
!”

With both Constable Gruber and Detective Brunner out of my way, I was at last free to complete my sketch of the room, its furnishings, Grilling's death position, and the general disorder surrounding his body. I tried not to think about Brunner's criticism of me although, in truth, he was not entirely wrong, and I had to admit to myself that if one can be blinded by sound, then I had probably had my vision (not to mention my good sense) clouded by the music of Richard Wagner the night I witnessed, albeit it briefly, the rehearsal in his house with Schramm and Steilmann of an aria from
Die Meistersinger.
Years earlier, in Düsseldorf, I had made the mistake of allowing my enchantment with the famous Schumanns, and particularly with Clara Schumann, to taint my investigation into a murder in which they were suspect. Was I about to make a similar mistake here in Munich?
Enough introspection, Preiss,
I lectured myself, bearing in mind the parting advice of one of my mentors at the Police Academy. “Remember, Preiss,” he said, “examine the lives of others, but live your own life
un
examined.”

My rough sketch completed, I surveyed the room one more time to make certain I'd included the important details. And then one thing struck me: If whoever killed Grilling had accomplished his purpose, why then were dozens of papers, mostly letters and envelopes, deliberately torn, many to shreds, and scattered about in a frenzied manner? I randomly inspected a number of these. Bills, a few personal letters apparently received from Grilling's parents and a sister, several invitations to forthcoming social events, a wedding announcement. Nothing worthy of special attention. If anything, it seemed that Wolfgang Grilling, despite what some would regard as his exotic profession, lived a rather unexciting life.

I was about to give up on this aspect when my eye caught a portion of an envelope lying not more than an arm's length from Grilling's body. It consisted of the upper right-hand corner and bore a cancelled stamp that was unfamiliar to me. With the aid of a magnifying glass, I recognized the crowned head of Catherine the Great beneath which appeared words that I could not read, printed in the Russian alphabet. Of the address only the letters “amm” were visible but the placement of these suggested they were part of the name of a person to whom the letter was sent rather than part of his or her street address. On the reverse side again Russian words, these handwritten, presumably part of a return address.

Why would Wolfgang Grilling be in possession of a letter from Russia seemingly addressed to someone other than him? I began to scour the room hoping to find a match for the portion of envelope but none was found. Nor could I find a letter written in the Russian language that might have been delivered in the envelope.

And then I thought of my Russian friend Madam Vronsky. She and Helena Becker were scheduled to return on the three o'clock train to Düsseldorf and it was now half past two. Carefully I tucked the envelope portion into an inside pocket of my jacket, seized my coat and hat, rushed to the street, and hailed a cab. “To the railway station,” I ordered, adding, “and there's double the fare if you can get me there in ten minutes.”