“I see,” I said, not seeing at all. My sense of smell was at work, however, and something very foul was in the wind that fanned my face as I climbed into the cab and ordered the driver to take me at once to 15 Bilkerstrasse.
Chapter Eighteen
The person greeting me after I was admitted to the Schumann residence was a stranger to me. Yet, ordering the housekeeper to go about her duties while he conducted me into the study, he impressed me at once as someone accustomed to being in charge no matter where. His manner was formal, the voice crisp. Deep-set pale grey eyes seemed to look through me, focused instead on some person I imagined standing behind me. His mouth, a simple mean slit, was unsoftened by thin lips formed into a cautious smile. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Professor Friedrich Wieck. I am already familiar with your name, Inspector Preiss, thanks to my daughter Clara. I'm afraid she and her husband are away at the moment.”
“Away?”
“Yes. Early this morning, shortly before my arrival here, it was apparently decided that they urgently need to spend several days at a spa some distance down the Rhine, at Bad Grünwald. My daughter left a note. Her husband, it seems, requires massages and water treatments, or whatever they do in places of that sort.” The professor's explanation made it plain that he had little use for “places of that sort”. Nor did I fail to note that whenever he mentioned his son-in-law, he could only bring himself to refer to Schumann as his daughter's husband. I had no difficulty believing the stories I'd recently heard about his influence on the young Clara. It was said that the girl rose when she was told, went to bed when she was told, performed when she was told, even dressed and combed her hair under Wieck's strict and incessant supervision.
“Is there something I can help you with, Inspector?” Wieck said. It was clear he could scarcely wait to be rid of me. To the evident displeasure of the professor, I unbuttoned my coat, laid my hat on a nearby chair, and said, “It's very kind of you to ask, Professor. And yes, as a matter of fact, you may be able to help me.” I let my eyes drop to another nearby chair, hinting that I would prefer to sit. My host-if one could call him that-chose to ignore this signal.
“You will have to pardon me, Inspector, but the fact is, I do not have more than a few minutes to spare,” Wieck said.
“I beg your pardon, then,” I said forcing myself to sound forgiving. “I did not realize, of course, that you might have another appointment. I'm sorry if I've detained you. Perhaps later in the day?”
The features of Wieck's face tightened. “Later in the day, I shall be on a train returning to Leipzig, sir.”
“But I don't understand, Professor,” I said. “You mentioned that you arrived here only this morning. Must you leave so soon?”
“Let me ask you something, Inspector. Do you have children?”
“No, sir. I have never been married.”
“Then thank your lucky stars,” Wieck said. “There is no ingratitude on this earth as hurtful as filial ingratitude. So long as that raving lunatic continues to manipulate my daughter and draw her farther and farther from me, there is no place for me in this house. I must say, Preiss, you strike me as a reasonably intelligent man. How can you possibly allow yourself to be caught up in this hysterical nonsense my daughter's husband is foisting on the public?”
I began to protest. “Your daughter's husband is a man of great accomplishment-”
With a contemptuous smile, Wieck cut in. “A generation hence, if not sooner, his name will not be remembered, Preiss. You are a policeman and not expected to understand these things, but take my word for it, neither he nor his music will matter by the time the present decade gives way to the next. What will be remembered is this caprice he's indulging in.”
I said, “This ‘caprice’ as you call it, Professor Wieck…I gather that you hold little credence in Dr. Schumann's complaint about the A sound that persists. He insists that it is the product of some kind of conspiracy.”
Wieck gave a cynical laugh. “Little credence, you say? No credence is more to the point. None. Absolutely zero!”
“But Professor, I myself have been witness to several of his recent episodes. Not even the greatest actor in Europe could feign such anguish.”
“Listen to me, Preiss,” Wieck said. “He comes to me as a twenty-year-old pupil. From a good family, a family with money, educated people, rather handsome himself I'll admit, and gifted with musical talent. Oh, but on the debit side…a lack of manliness, a constant escaping into childish fantasies, impetuous. I have taught a number of Europe's finest pianists…disciplined young men, and even women, who have valued my ideas and methods. Robert Schumann was never one of them, and never could be if he lived to be a hundred…which, God forbid, he may yet do.”
“With all due respect, Professor Wieck,” I said, “Madam Schumann's career does not appear to have suffered by reason of her marriage to Dr. Schumann. If anything, she is held in the highest esteem by both critics and public.”
“Only when she plays truly great music, Inspector. Perhaps you've heard of Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert? Those names may not mean much to a police inspector-”
“Oh, I assure you, Professor, I've had some passing acquaintance with them. More than passing, in fact.”
Wieck gave me a skeptical look. “Really?” he said. “Well, whether you are familiar with their music or not, take my word for it: when Clara plays their music, she plays in the heavens, so to speak. Trouble is, that madman insists that she play his music. Have you heard that so-called piano concerto of his?” Without waiting for my reply, Wieck went on. “Thirty minutes of romantic drivel. He says he wrote it for Clara. Some gift!”
One question troubled me now. “You'll have to excuse the inquisitiveness of a simple policeman,” I said. “Why, under all these unhappy circumstances, did you choose to come to Düsseldorf?”
“In past years,” he said, “I have made it a point to visit, not often mind you, but from time to time, only to see poor Clara, and my grandchildren. But in Clara's letter delivered to me a few days ago, there was a sense of urgency…something to do with the state of the two pianos here. She is concerned that they may be deteriorating due to unfavourable atmospheric conditions…the proximity of this house to the river, humidity, insufficient heat this time of year…matters of that sort, you know. When Clara was a girl, we hoped, she and I, that one day she would inhabit a proper manor house.” Wieck's eyes made a quick survey of our surroundings. “Well, Inspector, as you can see…Be that as it may, I will stay only long enough to examine the instruments, then I will be off. I assume, Preiss, that you came here to see Schumann. I'm sorry this proved to be a waste of your time. Good day, sir.”
As I began to button my overcoat, there was a knock on the study door.
“Ah,” said Wieck, checking the hour on his pocket watch, “right on time. Good.” Looking up from his watch, he called “Enter.”
The door opened, and in walked Wilhelm Hupfer.
At the sight of Hupfer, Wieck's manner instantly changed from formal to genial. “Ah, Hupfer my good man, wonderful to see you! And thank you for being so punctual.” Glancing in my direction, he added: “I was just saying goodbye to this gentleman. Perhaps I should introduce him.”
“That won't be necessary, Professor,” I said. “Herr Hupfer and I have met.”
In a spirit of levity that struck me as forced, Wieck shook a finger at Hupfer. “So, Hupfer, it seems you are already known to the police, eh. What have you been up to? Better come clean, you old scoundrel.”
Hupfer looked over at me, a weak smile on his face. “A little jest now and then never harms anyone, does it?” he said. “Professor Wieck is famous for his sense of humour, Inspector.”