“Are you suggesting that my office has been lax in this regard?” A crack in his voice told me he was now backing down.
“Sir, I assure you that I meant no criticism of the Commissioner's personal staff. It would most certainly not be my place to-”
“Indeed, it most certainly would not,” he broke in. “Rank and discipline still have their place, you know.”
“Absolutely, Commissioner.” I paused, as though letting his little sermon sink in, then said, “But I feel compelled to mention that I did happen to have a brief chat with the Baron and Baroness just the other night…at the Schumanns’, as a matter of fact” I knew of course that Baron von Hoffman was chairman of the regional board that determined retirement benefits awarded to dutiful (and obsolete) senior civil servants. Facing his own retirement, the Commissioner was keenly aware that the Baron held the key to the old policeman's future. With the mere stroke of a baronial pen, that future could be a grove, or a grave.
“You're saying the Baron and Baroness have a personal interest in the outcome of this investigation, Preiss?” The Commissioner's voice had now lost its edge.
“With all due respect, sir,” I replied, again keeping my voice low, “I must emphasize that I have been urged by them…I mean the Baron and his wife, of course…to attempt to keep my investigation as secret as possible. There are, as I said, a number of suspects, people in high places.”
“Say no more, Preiss. I am not pleased, I must tell you, that you have undertaken this investigation entirely on your own. However, I'm prepared to make allowances.”
“I do thank you, sir. You are most understanding.”
“Mind, Preiss-” The Commissioner rose from his chair and stood to his full height. “This is not to be deemed an open ticket, you understand. I am prepared to go along with all of this…but not forever.”
“Meaning, sir?”
“Meaning that you must conclude this business one way or another. If you manage to resolve it, well, I suppose it'll be a feather in your cap of sorts. If you don't I will expect you to make up for much lost time. You have a fortnight, and not one hour more. That's all, Inspector. You may go.”
Chapter Fifteen
I was hungry for any new piece of information that might be of help to me, and, faced now with the Commissioner's ultimatum, I lost no time arranging that evening to meet Helena Becker for a late supper at Café Amadeus on Prinz Mannheimstrasse in Düsseldorfs commercial district, where at that hour there was little likelihood of our being recognized and interrupted. With its thick carpets, heavily-draped windows and generously upholstered booths and banquettes, it was ideal for intimate conversation. In the booth Helena and I occupied, the glow from a glass-encased candle at the centre of the table had painted her skin a soft shade of gold. “You look more ravishing than ever, Helena,” I said.
She did not return the compliment. “You look worn-out, Hermann.” She was studying my face, to which the candlelight was apparently not at all kind.
“I've not been sleeping well for several nights, now,” I admitted.
“Ah yes, the Schumann case-”
“Case? I'm still not sure it's a case, Helena. Everywhere I turn, it seems, there are blank spaces. No smoking pistols, bloody daggers, poison-pen letters. There's nothing but a possible lunatic who insists he hears a particular musical note in strange places and at strange times. And yet I cannot for the life of me let go!”
“Perhaps I can relieve your frustration a little,” she said. Taking her time, she glanced to either side of her, then behind her and over my shoulder. At last, satisfied she could speak without being overheard, she leaned closer. “Well, Hermann,” she said, “I've a piece of news for you…an important piece from a very reliable source. It will cost you, though. I'm thinking of the veal schnitzel and a very good Riesling to go with it.”
“Done! What news?”
“Johannes Brahms has slept with Clara Schumann.”
“And how do you know this, Helena?”
“Because I slept with Franz Liszt.”
“You…you…slept with-” I could not bring myself to complete the sentence.
Without the slightest hesitation, without so much as a tinge of embarrassment, Helena nodded. “But I don't understand why you're so shocked, Hermann. I thought a policeman learns to expect the unexpected.”
“The unexpected is one thing; the preposterous is quite another.”
Helena's complexion suddenly reddened. Instantly, I realized I'd blundered.
“You mean,” she said, “it's preposterous that Franz Liszt would want to sleep with me.”
“No, of course not!” I protested. “What I meant was, it's preposterous that you would want to sleep with Liszt. Not since Nero has any man had such a reputation as a debaucher of women!”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy in your voice, Hermann? Maybe I'd better clarify something…just to ease your pain. We didn't exactly sleep together.”
I couldn't resist a sarcastic response to this. “So by a strange coincidence, Helena Becker and Franz Liszt are simply a woman and man who suffer from insomnia and happen to find themselves in the same bedroom.”
“Not quite,” Helena said. “What we did was, we shared a bed…in his suite at his hotel. You see, he'd noticed me that night at the Schumanns’ and gotten my name and address from Georg Adelmann. A beautifully-penned note and a magnificent bouquet of flowers followed next day. And that evening we had a late repast in his hotel suite. And then-”
Her account ended abruptly, punctuated by a shrug as if to say “Well, what would you expect to happen next?”
“And then the two of you went off to bed,” I said, trying my damndest to be insouciant about all this. “Do go on, Helena.”
She pretended to be remorseful. “You've mentioned how much you loathe surprises, Hermann dear, and I am truly sorry to be so blunt about all this. What is it the British say…‘Truth will out’?”
“I hope for your sake, Helena, Liszt's capability was up to the task at hand. He's no spring chicken, you know.”
“Liszt's ‘capability’ is probably every bit as impressive as your own. The fact is, however, that it did not need to be tested. In other words, there was no task at hand.”
“Oh really? Well now, let me guess the reason,” I said. “Liszt was scheduled to play a strenuous recital program the following day and had to conserve his strength. Funny thing, Helena; I thought that excuse applied only to operatic tenors.”
Helena said, “We lay in bed, yes. But Franz-”
“Ah, so it's ‘Franz’, is it? How charming. The great man permits you to address him by his first name!”
In a matter-of-fact tone, Helena said, “When a man's head is resting on your lap, you can hardly be expected to address him as ‘Maestro’ or ‘Doctor’. Now let me continue, and please, do not interrupt. Franz and I lay together, and he spoke about the hollowness that fame has left in his soul. Do you know what he plans to do, Hermann? He plans to retire for a period of time to a monastery. He refers to it as making a pilgrimage. He is desperate for spiritual renewal.”
I wanted to avoid the temptation to be snide, but somewhere near the tip of my tongue there was a trap door, and the words unstoppably came tumbling out. “For a period of time? What are we talking about, twenty-four hours? Be serious, Helena. It's common knowledge that Liszt has been in and out of law courts defending himself against charges of breach of promise to marry, libel and slander, failure to pay bills. I could go on and on. His career before the bar is almost as illustrious as his career on the concert stage. And you're telling me this man is desperate for spiritual renewal?”