I was willing to wager that of all the things for which the professor was famous, a sense of humour was not on the list. Nevertheless, I said, “Gentlemen, a police inspector is out of place in the midst of such witty company. If you will excuse me, I'll leave you to whatever business brings you together.” As I said this and reached for my hat, I caught a look of immense relief on Hupfer's face. Wieck too looked relieved at the prospect of my departure.
Opening the door, I turned suddenly and addressed Hupfer. “By the way, Hupfer, not that I want to dampen the atmosphere, but do you have some expert remedy for the problems the Schumanns are having with their pianos?”
“Problems? What problems are you referring to, Inspector?”
“Humidity, for one,” I replied. “No doubt a result of the proximity to the river, isn't that so?”
Without taking his eyes from Wieck, Hupfer groped for an answer. “Humidity, you say? Why, uh, I wasn't aware…I mean, it's always a possibility in our climate…but then there's plenty of heat in the house…at least, it seems so to me. On the other hand-” Hupfer gave up with a shrug.
Without losing a beat, Wieck called to me as I stood waiting to exit, “Good day, Inspector. We must not keep you. I do hope we meet again, soon.”
“I'm sure you do,” I said under my breath as I left.
Chapter Nineteen
I returned to my office at the constabulary feeling uneasy. There was something about the conduct of those two, Wieck and Hupfer, that reminded me of an ill-matched twosome caught stealing a pie from a baker's shelf, one much too composed, the other shaking in his boots.
Then, too, there was the constant worry that time was running out for me.
I opened my office door expecting to find on my desk yet another of Commissioner Schilling's unwelcome memoranda. Instead, there stood Schilling himself, looking pink-faced and pleased. Next to him, seated demurely, was Helena Becker.
“Ah, Preiss, there you are, you clever devil,” said Schilling, chortling like a walrus. “I've heard rumours about this beautiful young woman of yours. I must compliment you on your taste, Preiss! Well now, I've done my duty; therefore I'll leave you two.” Bending clumsily, the Commissioner kissed Helena's outstretched hand. “A great pleasure,” he whispered and left the room.
I looked down at Helena. I could tell she'd been making a valiant attempt not to burst out laughing. “What did he mean, Helena, ‘I've done my duty’…what duty? I don't like the sound of it.”
She rose and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “You've nothing to fret about, Inspector. He simply showed me to your office. He'd spotted me in the main floor lobby, heard me ask the receptionist if you were in, and insisted on accompanying me. Very gallant. I'm glad you showed up when you did, though. I had the feeling I was about to be inhaled. Does he always breathe so heavily?”
“My interest in the Commissioner's breathing is limited to the day he stops breathing,” I snapped.
“My my, we are in a testy mood, aren't we.”
“And with very good reason,” I said. “I feel like a child playing a blindfold game. Every time I take a step in the Schumann affair, I seem to bump into a wall.”
“Well, Hermann, before you give up, I have some news that may brighten your day. You are now looking at the newest patient of Dr. Paul Möbius.”
With a touch of pride in her smile, Helena Becker removed a small piece of paper from her clutch purse, unfolded it, and dangled it before my eyes. “A prescription,” she said, “for some kind of sleeping potion.”
“The handwriting is indecipherable,” I said, blinking at what appeared to be a series of animal scratches. “Maybe it's some Wagnerian brew that transforms women into dragons. Or maybe it's an aphrodisiac. Have you considered that?”
Helena said, “When have I ever needed an aphrodisiac? No, I succeeded in persuading Möbius that I suffer severe headaches and can't sleep because of persistent musical sounds ringing in my ears.”
“And he really believed you?”
Helena paused to give me one of her coquettish looks. “Well,” she said slowly, “he did need a little convincing.”
“A little convincing?”
“I insisted that my pains were confined to the region of my head and neck, but he insisted that I undergo a complete physical examination. Blubbered something about toxins that form in the lower extremities and that, despite the forces of gravity, work their way up into the chest and beyond, eventually affecting auditory faculties. Said this occurred especially in women of my occupation. You know something, Hermann, he almost had me believing him.”
“You mean, Helena, that you-”
“Oh yes, Hermann. Naked as a newborn babe. In the militia they call it service beyond the call of duty, don't they?”
“The phrase is ‘above and beyond’.”
“Well, in my case it was below and beyond. Listen to this: Möbius-after he's done probing here and there and signalling that I can put my clothes back on-then says there are a number of…and here he coughs and clears his throat…a number of rather intimate questions he must ask, and will I consent to answer, all for the sake of scientific diagnosis of course.”
“Good God, Helena, surely-”
She pressed her fingers to my lips, sealing them. “So I pretend to be prim and bashful, and I ask what he means by ‘intimate’. And he comes right out and says that he thinks my condition, you know, the sleeplessness and auditory hallucinations, are the result of sexual repression-”
“Sexual what?” I said and broke into laughter.
Feigning indignation, Helena said, “Hermann, you dare to laugh in the face of a woman who has sacrificed her honour on the altar of your manhood. For shame!”
“Sacrificed your honour on the altar of my manhood? Helena, where in hell did you ever unearth that collection of words?”
“Well, by the time I'd answered a couple of dozen ‘intimate’ questions, and he'd made careful notes, he put down his pen, gravely looked at me, and that is precisely what he said to me. ‘Young woman, you have sacrificed your honour et cetera et cetera.’”
“You told him about us, then? You know, of course, that if Möbius thinks there's even the thinnest thread of a connection between you and me, your visit to him may turn out to have been entirely useless.”
“Trust me, Hermann,” said Helena. “I was perfect. But there's more, much more. Dr. Möbius then proceeds to deliver a lengthy lecture on the degenerative nature of the life of a creative or performing artist. Words like ‘unstable’ and ‘intemperate’ and ‘frivolous’ and ‘licentious’ come tumbling out of his mouth, along with clouds of foul-smelling cigar smoke, and I'm beginning to think I'm in the presence of some Druid high priest rather than a doctor who treats mental patients.”
I sat back for a moment, digesting Helena's account. At last, I said, “That's all very intriguing, Helena, but frankly-”
“Wait,” Helena chided, “let me finish! I went so far as to express contrition over the turn my life has taken. I realized by now that I had raised the curtain on a few of Dr. Möbius's riper fantasies. I could see by the look in his eyes that he saw in me the living example of every lascivious thought that ever entered his head. So I figured his guard might be down.”
“His guard? You mean the business about patient-doctor confidentiality?”
“Exactly,” Helena said. “And so, in a very casual manner I said, ‘I assume, Dr. Möbius, that my symptoms are very much like those of Maestro Schumann. After all, we are both musicians, both steeped in the arts, both frequent performers in public. Rumours have been widely circulated concerning Dr. Schumann's condition, and mine would seem to be the very same, would it not?’ Without giving my question a second thought, Möbius replied, ‘Oh no, not at all, my dear young woman. Schumann's case has nothing in common with yours, nothing whatsoever. Have no fear of that.’”