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“Franz Liszt.”

You want me to believe that Franz Liszt said her piano was out of tune?”

“Yes.”

“Surely this is some kind of joke.”

“No, I heard him very distinctly.”

“He said this to her, to Madam Schumann?”

“No, to young Brahms, during a brief exchange as Liszt was departing. After he left, I had a conversation with the Schumanns and Brahms regarding this very subject.”

Hupfer's expression brightened instantly. He let his shoulders go slack, at the same time heaving a sigh of relief. “Good. I'm sure they agreed that the Klems was in perfect tune. I mean Brahms and the Schumanns.”

I pretended to be preoccupied with a minute scratch on the Bösendorfer's outer keyboard flank. “That's not quite how it happened,” I said, bending close to examine the blemish, as though I was keenly interested in it. I sensed that Hupfer was growing tense again.

“What do you mean, ‘that's not quite how it happened’?”

“Well…” I took my time, my nose almost touching the polished mahogany now. “Madam Schumann and their friend Brahms were absolutely certain that the piano was perfectly tuned and that Liszt was wrong.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I'm not at all surprised.”

“But-”

“But what?”

I straightened myself. “But Maestro Schumann disagreed with his wife and Brahms. In fact, he agreed with Liszt. Emphatically so. He said the moment middle A was sounded in order for the quartet to tune their instruments, he sensed that it was off. And a friend of mine who plays in the quartet verified this. Pretty strong evidence, wouldn't you agree?”

“I would agree and I would not agree, to be frank, Inspector.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that a grand piano is a complex piece of machinery. There are close to twelve thousand parts, from the tiniest screws to the largest slice of spruce planking, that make up an instrument of that sort. Sometimes what goes on in the bowels of a piano is as mysterious as what goes on in the human body.”

I began for the first time to detect a tone of defensiveness in Hupfer's voice. It seemed that only a moment ago he was boasting about his standard of perfection; now he was asking me to make allowances. Although I was no expert when it came to pianos, I knew that many of these instruments-even the finest of them-occasionally developed cracks in their sound-boards. I felt that I had now found a crack in Willi Hupfer's personal soundboard.

“How long would you typically spend tuning a piano like Madam Schumann's?” I said.

“As I told you before, her Klems is relatively new, so I spent no more than an hour, maybe a bit longer, because the action was slightly heavy in the bass. On an older piano, tuning can run to about two hours, depending of course on its condition. Too much humidity or too much dryness can cause the hammer arms to bend out of shape. Also there may be a problem with moths. Moths can eat into the felt on the hammers, which then fail to strike the strings with the proper angle and force. One must have regard for all these variables, Inspector.”

“And did you?” I asked.

“Did I what? Have regard for all the variables? Are you questioning my thoroughness, sir?”

“Not for a moment, Herr Hupfer, I assure you.”

“Then why these questions?”

Should I reveal the purpose behind my visit? After all, if there was a purely technical explanation for Schumann's persistent complaint about hearing the A sound, who better than Hupfer to assist me to get to the bottom of it? On the other hand, if there was-as Schumann was convinced-some form of skullduggery at work here, what if Hupfer was involved in the plot? The self-confidence he had displayed during the initial part of my visit was beginning to fade with each of my questions. His hands fidgeted nervously with a small brass screwdriver, and his right eyelid suddenly developed a noticeable twitch.

“Herr Hupfer,” I said, “what I am about to discuss with you must be treated in strictest confidence. I understand that your ties to the Schumanns are extremely close, and I trust therefore that I may rely completely upon your discretion.”

“Naturally,” Hupfer replied, then smiled shrewdly. “Funny thing, Inspector. Something told me you didn't come to my shop merely to learn how to tune a piano.”

“No, Herr Hupfer, I came for the opposite reason. I need to know how to untune a piano. To be more precise, I need to know whether a piano can be tampered with in such a way that a particular string will resonate without actually being struck. In other words, will some unrelated or indirect action cause a string to emit a sympathetic sound, so to speak, in a consistent pattern?”

Hupfer took a moment to reflect. “Well, we do encounter a very annoying situation from time to time with pianos…a buzz.”

“A buzz?”

“Yes. Striking a key will sometimes set off a rattle…a buzz is more like it…that may come from any of the instrument's moving parts or vibrating surfaces. Tracking down the source can prove exasperating even to a first-rate craftsman like me.”

“And do you always succeed?”

“Of course!” Hupfer chuckled softly. “You see, Inspector, pianos talk to Wilhelm Hupfer. That's right, I said talk. I give them voice, and in their way they speak to me. I have only to touch one or two keys…I choose them at random, and immediately the instrument comes alive and confides in me. ‘Willi, I am suffering from a warped soundboard’…‘My damper springs are loose’…‘I've lost the brilliance in my treble’. Each and every piano that is fortunate enough to enter my little domain becomes my mistress, and we quickly become intimate. At least that's what Frau Hupfer, my long-suffering wife, tells people.”

“That's very reassuring,” I said. “But have you any insights as to how a persistent sound can be produced despite the fact that the relative key has not been depressed?”

Hupfer shook his head. “With all due respect, my friend,” he said, “I was already completing my apprentice-ship while you were still in swaddling clothes. In all my many years of experience, I have never encountered the situation you describe, and I doubt very much if it can occur. It would be highly improbable.”

“But it is possible?

“Possible?” Hupfer shrugged. “Well, I suppose anything is possible when you bear in mind the thousands of components that make up one of these grand pianos. But I must tell you that if tampering was a criminal offense in Germany, more than half of the piano tuners in this country would be behind bars. The vast majority of men who dare to call themselves piano technicians belong in railway yards oiling steam engines.”

“Are you saying, then,” I asked, “that if it were possible to corrupt the workings of a piano so that, no matter what was being played, one note protruded and kept protruding and protruding, the tamperer would have to possess a high degree of skill and be highly knowledgeable in the field of sound?”

“Certainly such a person would be no run-of-the-mill piano tuner. Indeed he would have to be fifty per cent genius…and fifty per cent devil. I doubt such a person exists, Inspector.”

“Humour me for a moment, Herr Hupfer,” I said. “Let us suppose that your half-devil half-genius does exist. Could he manipulate the mechanical apparatus to achieve the result I've described?”

“Humour me for a moment, Inspector,” Hupfer said. “What has all this got to do with the Schumanns? You are asking me about matters which are pure conjecture…no, more than conjecture…bizarre, even grotesque. I cannot bring myself to think anyone would want to commit such a foul act, especially where the Schumanns would be the victims. Granted, it's common knowledge that the Maestro's moods can be extremely difficult to deal with at times. Up one day, down the next; more often than not these days as unpredictable as the weather. And poor Madam Schumann has not had an easy time of it for as long as I've known the couple. It is a miracle the way she carries on. Surely the two of them are regarded by everyone as objects of sympathy. Nobody would deliberately set out to cause them harm and embarrassment. Nobody in his right mind would dare commit such an act even as a prank.”