Schumann offered no excuse for his untidy appearance, and being aware of the man's reputation as a musical genius, I took for granted that social niceties were somehow inconsistent with creativity. Artists are artists, and that's all there is to it, I told myself.
We stood-or rather I stood-by the hearth in the Schumann parlour. Schumann chose to pace to and fro, rubbing his fingers together as though attempting to force from the bones the damp chill that penetrated everything this time of the year. I was tempted to stoke what little fire flickered in the hearth, but something about the look on my host's pale face told me that creature comforts were not uppermost on our agenda at this moment.
“Madam Schumann's note,” I said, breaking an awkward silence, “indicated she was in the midst of some grave emergency.”
“This does not concern my wife,” Schumann said flatly. I gathered by the chill in his voice that the couple had just engaged in some disagreement, possibly vehement-a feature of married life with which I, though I am a bachelor, am not unfamiliar. “Somebody is deliberately driving me into a state of insanity, Preiss.”
“I'm sorry. I don't understand, Maestro-”
He stopped pacing suddenly, and cocked his head to one side. In a coarse whisper, he called to me: “There, Preiss…there it is, it's returned. My ears…it's piercing my eardrums. Can you not hear it?”
“Hear what, Maestro?”
“The A…the damned incessant A.”
I don't know what, at that moment, irritated him more-the noise he purported to hear, or the look of complete bewilderment on my face. “The note on the musical scale…the A above middle C…as though coming from some hellish tuning fork…or sometimes from an oboe. No, wait…now it's from a keyboard! Don't tell me you can't hear it, Preiss!”
My hearing, like my eyesight, is acute. Yet I heard nothing. And making a quick survey of the room, I saw nothing that could possibly torment this man to the point of madness. There were two grand pianos back-to-back in the parlour, but the lids of both keyboards were shut so that only a ghost could have sent into the air the sound that was now causing this poor soul to tear his hair.
“Are you quite certain, sir,” I carefully ventured, “that someone is deliberately producing the A sound that is so repugnant to your ears? After all, certain noises occur throughout the normal course of a day which are entirely innocent, even though one finds them extremely disagreeable.”
Schumann rejected this possibility with a curt “Ridiculous!”
This rebuff struck me as rude, and I decided that, genius or not, the man owed me at least a modicum of courtesy. “I'm only trying to be of some assistance, Dr. Schumann,” I said with some firmness. “Perhaps you would prefer to postpone this discussion until-”
The testiness in my voice must have had some effect. “I'm sorry, Inspector,” Schumann said, “but you seem to take me for some sort of imbecile. I'm not a stranger to my own surroundings.”
From my years on the police force, I knew just about every corner, every road, every back alley, even the sewer system, of Düsseldorf. As well, I knew every principal building from one end of the city to the other. “There is a Lutheran church in the vicinity,” I said. “When the organist practises, the sounds of his instrument can often be heard through the open doors and windows of the chapel. Two blocks away, toward the river, there is a foundry. Sometimes one can hear the workmen pounding away on their anvils. At times, Maestro, there's a kind of musicality to their hammering and forging.”
This time Schumann shook his head from side to side violently.
“Chimes, Maestro,” I said. “Are there any chimes in the house? Say from a clock, or maybe wind chimes outdoors, that might be activated by drafts or the ordinary movements of people about the place?”
Schumann thought for a moment. “The only chimes are those in the entrance hall clock which you heard as you arrived. I have perfect pitch. The sound they make is E-flat. I tell you, Inspector,” Schumann said, “it's a waste of time to seek some mechanical answer, some-as you put it before-innocent explanation for what is happening to me.”
I said, “Perhaps tomorrow, after a good night's sleep-”
“A good night's sleep! My God, man, I've forgotten what a good night's sleep is like. Look at me, Preiss, do I appear like a man who can simply lay his head on a pillow and go off to dreamland? To find even a moment's peace, a moment's rest, I'm obliged night after night to drink myself into a stupor, and even then the sound…the sound…”
Schumann's voice trailed off. He stood before me speechless, exhausted, a human wreck in a rumpled robe and tattered slippers.
I said, “First thing tomorrow morning, I will get right to work on this. Trust me, sir; I will spare no effort to get to the bottom of this matter.”
“No, no,” Schumann cried, seizing my arm, “tomorrow morning is not good enough, Preiss. I am in agony, don't you see? You must begin now, tonight.”
“Maestro,” I replied, “I see that you're deeply troubled, and rightly so, but-”
Schumann's grip on my arm tightened. “So you, too, are patronizing me now, is that it? You're like the rest of them…my wife, my doctors, my so-called friends. You're thinking I've gone mad and hoping by tomorrow they'll have carted poor old Schumann off to some asylum and you'll be relieved of this nonsense. Admit it, Preiss; that's what you're thinking.”
The man happened to be right. And yet, if Robert Schumann was astute enough to correctly read my mind, then how could I possibly regard him as being out of his mind?
Chapter Two
Throwing my coat over my shoulders, I moved into the dimly-lit entrance hall and happened to glance up the flight of stairs that led to the second storey of the residence. To my astonishment, there on the landing at the head of the stairway stood Clara Schumann. She was clad in a long pale yellow robe tied at the waist with a simple matching satin sash. Her feet were slippered. “Good evening, Inspector,” she called down to me. Her voice conveyed a clear message: though she had written the note summoning me, my presence was not welcome.
She began to come down, lightly touching the banister rail with the tips of the fingers of her right hand while sweeping away an errant strand of hair that had fallen over her brow with her left. She held her head high and took each step with a slow thrust of her right foot. I felt as though I was watching an opening entrance by an actress.
She paused briefly at the bottom step of the staircase, and I was able now to make out her features more clearly. Her complexion had an exquisite paleness, as though illuminated by some soft inner light. Her eyes fixed me with a steadiness and self-confidence that almost caused me to look away. It occurred to me that her choice to remain standing for the moment on the bottom step was far from casual; this way we were pretty much of even height, a position more to her liking.
Then a second surprise. Suddenly her mood changed. Brightening, she said, “Now that we are face to face, sir, I believe we have met before.” She gave me a cautious smile.
I returned her smile, feeling as though my face was flushed. “Yes, indeed, madam, we have.”
“Of course, now I recall. It was at the symphony fundraiser. You were the gentleman who so generously bid at the auction for one of my autographed programs.”
“And succeeded, I'm happy to say,” I said, “but I must tell you-though God knows I'm not complaining-that the prize cost me the better part of a month's salary. Police service, I'm sorry to say, does not pay as handsomely as one might wish. At any rate, it was worth every thaler, I assure you.”
“You're too kind, Inspector. And you surprise me too.”