Of particular interest to me were the contents of an enormous mahogany breakfront which presided over the sitting room like a high altar in a church. Behind glass doors, its half-dozen shelves were crammed with silver and gold tableware-trays, candlesticks, gravy boats, tea and coffee sets, and ornate serving pieces.
In a voice coated in smugness, Adelmann said “The cabinet is English, of course, from about 1760. But the pieces displayed are examples of our finest German craftsmen from Hanau and Pforzheim. We're finally beginning to outdo the French. I see, Inspector, that you are an admirer of good things.”
Without taking my gaze from the cabinet, I said, “You are too modest, sir. These are not merely ‘good things’; they are the mark of a man of superb taste, a brilliant acquisitor, if I may say so.”
Adelmann chuckled. “A brilliant acquisitor? Well now, there's a description that's rarely heard. I am deeply flattered.”
“I intended my remark to be a genuine compliment, not flattery, I assure you.”
“You have a remarkable way with words,” Adelmann said. “It's a pity that you chose the constabulary, Preiss. Your kind of articulateness would have been better suited to a more uplifting profession, surely.”
Had I carried a dagger at that moment, I would gladly have used it to cut Adelmann's throat. Stifling my resentment, I said, “Man lives in hopes of a better afterlife. Perhaps in mine, I will pursue words rather than criminals.” Then, without pause, I said, “That silver salver…the small one, there on the fourth shelf…what a lovely little piece! Wherever did you manage to find one like that? I've been looking for something similar for ages without luck.” I recognized the salver, of course, as the one Adelmann had filched that day we lunched at Emmerich's Restaurant.
In an offhand manner, Adelmann replied, “Oh, that salver? Yes, a gift. From some editor or other. A fellow in Heidelberg, as I recall now. I am deluged by grateful editors and publishers and academics with all sorts of fine housewares and art objects. They know my tastes, of course.”
It occurred to me that there was a distinct uniformity to these items. They struck me as having been not so much bestowed by a variety of grateful colleagues as accumulated by a single compulsive individual. “What a pity, Dr. Adelmann,” I said, “that such a splendid collection is not available for public view. There must be many who would welcome an opportunity to view these pieces.”
Adelmann said, a touch of coolness in his voice, “I don't think it would be wise. Prying eyes, idle hands…you of all people must understand. In fact, Inspector, the less said about my collection, the better, I think you'll agree.”
Motioning me to take a comfortable armchair, Adelmann offered me a glass of schnapps. “Thank you, no,” I said. “It's a bit early in the day for me. Besides, I am on duty, Dr. Adelmann.”
“Your message indicated there was a matter of some urgency you wanted to discuss.”
“Some urgency, yes. And some delicacy. I'm not quite sure how to put it, you see.”
“You do not strike me as a man who is short of words, Preiss. How can I help you? It's not about your cellist friend again, is it? A most charming young woman. And such musical talent to boot!” Adelmann leaned forward in his adjoining armchair and gave me an amiable poke on the shoulder. “Makes a man feel inner stirrings, eh?”
“I'm here in connection with the Schumanns, actually…I mean, Robert Schumann specifically.”
Looking disappointed, Adelmann drew back into his chair. With a deep sigh, he said, “Will no one rid us of the Schumanns!” A dark look crossed his face, and he seemed about to withdraw from the conversation.
I came to the point immediately. “It seems there is an extremely valuable manuscript missing from the Schumann household…a first draft of a Beethoven sonata that Felix Mendelssohn left in his will as a gift to his friend Schumann-”
Before I could complete my sentence, a startled look appeared on Adelmann's face; then, suddenly, he burst into loud laughter. Bolting from his chair, he went to a chest of drawers, and from the uppermost drawer withdrew a black leather portfolio tied carefully with a broad band of gold ribbon. Holding it aloft, Adelmann said, “You mean this?” Adelmann came toward me, waving the portfolio in the air. “Missing, you say? Look for yourself, my dear Inspector. Here it is, the Beethoven manuscript…no apparition, but the real thing.” He laughed again. “You call this missing?”
“I was only repeating what Maestro Schumann told me, sir; I was not making a judgment,” I said.
In an instant, Adelmann's mood turned dark again. “The man truly is out of his mind. Missing, my foot! Schumann gave me this manuscript. In fact, he pressed me to accept it”
“He pressed you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why did he insist you have it?”
“As a token of his undying gratitude. Those were his very words, Preiss.”
“Gratitude for what, may I ask?”
“For not revealing something in his past about which he is deeply ashamed…something I uncovered during my research into his life.”
“You mean the business about his sexual activity as a youth…the penis infection? You briefly mentioned these things the day we lunched at Emmerich's.”
Setting down the portfolio on a drum table between our armchairs, Adelmann said, “Oh no, Preiss. I'm talking about something far more serious than the peccadilloes of an oversexed youth.”
I affected a blank expression. “I'm afraid I don't quite follow-”
“What Schumann was urging me to do was to compromise my professional integrity. You see, I came across several friends of his, male friends, but men of some standing in society…educated, not from the lower classes, I assure you…with whom some years ago our friend Schumann engaged in more than a little sexual experimentation.”
“Can you speak plainly, Dr. Adelmann?” I said. “Are you referring to homosexual activity?”
“Activities…plural,” Adelmann replied. “One of these male friends told me Schumann had the appetite of a glutton when it came to such carrying-on. ‘Hell-bent’ was the way he put it. When I touched on this matter with Schumann,” he continued, “the man's blood rushed to his face, his brow became damp with sweat, his lips trembled, his speech became thick, he stammered. I tell you, Preiss, it was a terrible sight to behold. Seeing him in this state moved me, and I agreed-reluctantly-to avoid any mention of this matter in my monograph.”
“Whereupon Schumann prevailed upon you to accept the Beethoven manuscript…as a token of his undying gratitude.”
“Precisely,” Adelmann said. On his face there was a look of complete satisfaction, as though he had neatly tidied up a minor piece of unfinished business. In a pointed tone, he added, “The affair is best forgotten, really. I assume we need speak no more of this matter.”
I nodded in agreement. “Indeed, sir,” I said, “you and I need speak no more of it.”
But Schumann and I would most certainly speak of this. And not tomorrow, but this very day. One of these two-Schumann or Adelmann-was making a fool of me.
I had arranged to have a cab call for me and was about to take my leave when, as my host held the door open, I turned suddenly and said, “By the way, Dr. Adelmann, would you consider returning the Beethoven manuscript to Schumann in exchange for some other form of compensation?”
“Oh no, it is out of the question, Preiss!” Adelmann replied.
“Why is it out of the question?”
“You may ask, sir,” he said, smiling at me in a condescending way, “but the reason I cannot return the manuscript is very private and could not possibly be of interest to you.”