What's more, I had grown sick of the locations of crime. The typical sites were tawdry-cheap, sparsely-furnished rooms in flophouses; bordellos with mattresses stained and reeking of every kind of human spillage imaginable; taverns whose ales tasted like recycled dishwater and whose food was repulsive even to the rodents who explored it; alleyways and back streets where footsteps in the dark meant that rape or murder were no more than an arm's length behind. Only in theatrical dramas did these offenses take place in castle corridors and frilly boudoirs, the playrooms of the rich and noteworthy. In real life, evil's preferred domain was the gutter.
Arriving back at my office from this latest investigation, I was in a despondent mood. It quickly brightened, however, when I caught sight of an envelope delivered to my desk just before my return. The handwriting, the imprint on the seal (a treble clef), and the floral scent of the paper, told me this was from Helena Becker.
I broke open the seal and extracted the note. And read:
Dear Hermann-
Robert and Clara Schumann have extended a warm invitation to the Düsseldorf Quartet to participate in a musical evening at their home this coming Saturday at eight o'clock. The guest of honour will be Franz Liszt, who is once again visiting Düsseldorf en route to Weimar. I gather that a number of luminaries in the musical world will be present. Our Quartet will perform Dr. Schumann's Quintet for Piano and Strings with Clara Schumann at the keyboard. The invitation mentions that each of us may bring a guest.
I can think of no one who might benefit more than you from attending this event. Therefore I shall refrain from further tempting you to accompany me except to add that our hosts will offer a light supper prior to the musicale. (And if you play your cards right, I may offer you further refreshments later in the evening, Hermann.)
Helena
Chapter Nine
The Robert Schumann now planting himself before me, beaming and ebullient, pumping my hand vigorously as he and his wife welcomed me on my arrival at the Saturday evening musicale, was not the Robert Schumann who, only a few nights earlier, had been in a state of collapse after the concert, overcome by panic. Even more extraordinary was Clara Schumann's greeting. Glowing with amiability, she said, “Ah, Helena, my dear, what a charming idea, bringing along Düsseldorfs finest policeman for protection.” Turning to me, smiling slyly, she said, “And you, Inspector, are you here to guard Fräulein Becker's priceless cello or Fräulein Becker herself?”
“As anyone can see,” I said, “Fräulein Becker is far more priceless than her cello.” I knew this was the response that was called for. But my gaze, which should have fallen then on Helena, instead remained on Clara Schumann. For a moment or two, I wondered if hypnosis, a phenomenon I had long regarded with disbelief, was not a sham after all. Attired in a simple emerald gown, her neck encircled by a single strand of pearls, the woman was proof that elegance did not depend on adornments.
Madam Schumann said to her husband, “Robert, dear, why don't you take Fräulein Becker's wrap and help her store her cello against the piano. Meanwhile, I'll escort our famished-looking Inspector to the buffet.”
Schumann seemed perfectly happy to obey, and happier still when, as Helena shed her wrap and loosened her silk shawl about her shoulders, he caught sight of her high, firm bosom.
Taking my arm, Clara steered me toward the warmly lit dining room. On her face was a broad smile, but now it struck me as fixed, and I sensed beneath her show of hospitality a cold layer of suspicion. I was not wrong. “So, Inspector,” she said, speaking in a low voice only I would be able to hear, “why are you really here tonight? Have you come to spy on us?”
The best way to disarm her, I decided, was to treat the matter of my presence facetiously. “If you must know,” I said, trying to sound secretive and speaking just above a whisper, “the real reason for my attendance is standing over there,” I nodded in the direction of the far corner of the dining room table. There, hovering over a platter of roasted meats and poultry, was Georg Adelmann, fork poised in his right hand like a spear. Balanced on the palm of his left hand was a large plate already laden with a mountain of cheeses, potatoes, salads and slices of bread.
My hostess gave me a puzzled look. “Georg Adelmann? Are you saying he of all people is under surveillance?”
I put my finger to my lips. In a hushed tone, I said, “Please, I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone, Madam Schumann. What I have just told you is in strict confidence.”
“The only crime Georg Adelmann commits, if indeed one can call it a crime, is the crime of over-eating,” Clara said.
I had begun this business about Georg Adelmann as a diversion, hastily contrived, I admit, but for what I perceived as a good cause. On Clara Schumann's face there was an expression now of such intense curiosity that I had no choice but to carry on.
“Notice, madam,” I said, “the exceedingly generous cut of Adelmann's coat. Even for a man of his enormous girth the coat is clearly two sizes too large. My father was a tailor, and I have more than a passing interest in clothing. Trust me, there is a reason for this…a sinister reason.”
“Which is?”
“I am willing to wager my badge of office that his coat contains deep inner pockets capable of containing certain items he is in the habit of-to put it politely-appropriating for his own use and enjoyment-small but precious trinkets, household ornaments, perhaps the odd valuable piece of jewellery or tableware.”
I suppose it was somewhat shabby of me to cast a shadow over the eminent journalist, one of the Schumanns’ stellar guests, but what I had divulged was not spur-of-the-moment fiction. The fact was that, at my luncheon meeting with him at Emmerich's, I had watched with a mixture of astonishment and fascination as Adelmann, with the clumsiness of an amateur petty thief, had folded his linen napkin over a small silver salver and, thinking his actions were unseen, slipped his prize into some secret depository well down inside his suit coat. Physicians who dabbled in this new branch of Medicine known as Psychology had a word for people like Adelmann-kleptomaniacs. My word for this kind of activity was much more to the point: robbery. At any rate, it was one of those incidents a detective tucks away in the back of his mind, like something put away for a rainy day, something that might come in handy in the future. The “rainy day” was here and now.
“Please, don't let this distract you,” I said to Clara. “You have my assurance that I will keep an eye on our friend over there throughout the evening.” Then, feeling an urge to change the subject, I said, “I'm thrilled at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the great Franz Liszt. Do you think he'll favour us with a selection or two at the piano?”
“The ‘great’ Franz Liszt is here officially as a guest, not as a performer. But mark my words, Inspector: he has never needed a second invitation to light up the sky with one of his fireworks displays. Even though he's not on tonight's program, don't be surprised if he is the one who plays the encores.”
She was smiling when she told me this, but I could taste the acid in her voice. I said, “I could easily detect your dislike of the man, even if I weren't a detective.”
“You must understand something,” she said. “Liszt and his friend Wagner have gone out of their way to discredit everything my husband stands for. They refer to themselves rather grandly as ‘The Weimar School’ and regard themselves as superior avant-gardists. In one of his recent magazine pieces, Wagner used an English expression-‘stick-in-the-mud’-to describe what he calls sarcastically ‘The Leipzig School’.”