“I think you are missing my point,” I said. “Forgive me for being blunt, Herr Hupfer, but I am not seeking your advice as to who the tamperer might be and what his motive might be. I must ask you to focus on one question and one question only: can a piano be tuned or untuned in such a way that, regardless of what is being played at any given moment, one note will stand out?”
Giving him what I hoped was a friendly smile, I said, “I do apologize, sir. You see, Herr Hupfer, I'm unaccustomed to being in the awkward position I'm in. I mean, sir, in all frankness, I'm not certain whether I've embarked on a genuine criminal investigation, or whether I'm foolishly chasing the wind.”
“Then you must forgive me for being blunt, Inspector Preiss,” Hupfer said, looking me straight in the face. “In my opinion, sir, you are chasing the wind.”
Chapter Thirteen
The house of Dr. Paul Möbius at No. 12 Dietrichstrasse had the advantage of a corner location, which meant that, unlike the block-long row of which it was part, it offered a side entrance for the use of the doctor's patients. Were it not for the discreet brass plaque above the doorbell engraved “Paul Möbius, Doctor Of Medicine, Please Ring”, this could have been the residence of any of the well-to-do families who inhabited Dietrichstrasse. The exterior of the four-storey structure was a hodgepodge of wood, brick, stucco and stone, the kind of mongrel architecture that certifies not that the occupants have taste but that they have money.
I did as the small sign at the entrance bade. Three minutes went by. I rang again. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman, out of breath and flustered, holding a mop, greeted me.
“I'm Inspector Preiss,” I said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Möbius.”
The woman dropped her mop. “Oh my God,” she said, speaking in a hoarse whisper, a look of alarm in her eyes, “the doctor is not yet back from his morning rounds at the hospital.” One look at her told me she was Möbius's housekeeper, harassed, overworked, probably underpaid, a person for whom the world came to an end at least once every hour of her working day.
“I don't understand,” I said, more than a bit annoyed. “I was to meet with the doctor before, not after, he made his hospital rounds. Has there been some mistake?”
“Oh my God,” the housekeeper repeated. “This is terrible. I'm so sorry, sir.” The woman seemed about to fall on her knees and beg forgiveness for some error or oversight of which she was entirely innocent. “Please,” she said, “sometimes the doctor changes his schedule without telling anyone. You know how it is with important men, sir. It is not for me to question his comings and goings. The Lord willing, he will return soon, that is all I can tell you.”
“I should like to come in, then. I assume one is permitted to wait in his office?”
She looked uncertain. “Your name again?”
“Inspector Hermann Preiss. Of the Düsseldorf Police.”
“My God, the police! Yes, yes, we mustn't keep a police officer waiting at the door like this. Please forgive me.”
I entered, stepping carefully over the mop, and followed her along a dark corridor which led to a room at the rear of the ground floor. In a hushed tone, as though she had guided me to a holy site, she said, “This is Dr. Möbius's office. You may wait here.” Then she retreated, walking slowly backwards, bowing her head humbly, the choreography of a person born into lifelong domestic servitude.
If it is true that a man's office is a reliable reflection of his personality, then what was I to make of the eminent physician whom I was about to meet for the first time?
Consider the furnishings: seating for two, no more. I suppose this made sense in a room where intimate thoughts were disclosed. But observe the seating arrangement: an oversized wing chair, severe, authoritative, its bottom cushion permanently disfigured by an occupant with an abnormally large rump; next to it, a writing table, its position and condition indicating the doctor was left-handed and very careless about cigar ashes and spilled drinks. The other chair, which I took as I awaited his arrival, must have been salvaged from a rummage sale. Too low, too narrow, very uncomfortable. Not the kind of chair you would lean back in, taking your time, rambling on about whatever was troubling your mind. The message this chair conveyed was: come to the point, time's up. Next patient.
An additional point here about Dr. Möbius that had nothing to do with the state of his office: for a man who was very caring when it came to his own precious time, he seemed to care very little about other people's. He was now more than a half hour late for our appointment. It was he who had insisted on our meeting sharp at nine in the morning. Now, glancing for the tenth time at my watch, I began to fume. In fact, I rose from my skimpy chair and was gathering up my coat, hat and gloves, intending to leave, when suddenly his private office door was thrust open, and in strode the doctor.
Without a word of explanation or apology, he motioned me to sit, pointing imperiously to the miserable piece of furniture from which I had just freed myself. He, of course, settled himself down in the wing chair, extracted a fat cigar from a leather pouch in his breast pocket, and, rolling it slowly between his O-shaped lips, began to light it, sucking and blowing and momentarily obliterating his face behind a cloud of smoke and flame. From behind that cloud, his first words managed to find their way into my ears.
“In the profession of Medicine, Inspector, punctuality is next to Godliness. I would therefore be very much obliged if we may come directly to the point. Ethically I am bound, sir, not to disclose any confidences regarding my patient, Dr. Schumann. Doctor-patient confidentiality is the most sacred cornerstone of the practice of Medicine. We must therefore restrict ourselves to generalities, by which I mean certain theoretical questions, the answers to which I have applied myself throughout my career with, if I may say so-no small diligence and success.”
I had the distinct feeling that this was going to be a one-sided discussion, based upon the doctor's opening statement and tribute to himself. “Have I made myself clear, Inspector?” Möbius said, his thick eyebrows knitting together and forming a single dark streak above his spectacles. My inclination at this point was to tell him to go to the devil and that I was not accustomed to being lectured to in this fashion.
After acknowledging the ground rules, I began my interrogation. “Dr. Möbius, you have opined in your lectures and writings that creative activities, such as those engaged in for example by Dr. Schumann, necessarily lead to a serious state of degeneration.”
“Most definitely,” Möbius replied. “Not a doubt in the world about it.” He leaned back in his chair and patted a heavy gold chain that extended across the vast expanse of his abdomen like a suspension bridge. “Years of research have produced evidence that is beyond dispute, sir.” Möbius sniffed audibly, his way of both punctuating a sentence and expressing self-confidence.