“Shall I tell you something funny?” Schumann said as we began our walk, he setting a remarkably vigorous pace. “I'm not a particularly religious man, but I thank God regularly for creating Königsallee. Today I have a mission: for each of my children a small toy, nothing elaborate, just something to brighten their lives on these wintery days, the way they constantly brighten my life. Ah, but for Marie, the oldest, something special, a bracelet perhaps. Eight years old, Preiss, and already she's following in her mother's footsteps. You must excuse a father's pride, but the fact is my Marie is going to be another Clara. As for me, I'm in the market today for a box of good Dutch cigars, a bottle of Napoleon cognac, and one or two of those cravats that Spiegelman's imports from Milan, pure silk they are, much finer than the British. Oh, and a shawl for Clara, too, also from Italy.”
Schumann seemed excited about the prospect of these purchases, but I couldn't help wondering where he got the money to buy all these things. I said, “Maestro, you sound as though you've just won a lottery.”
He chuckled. “No, Preiss, no lottery. But Clara's recent concertizing has been profitable. Besides, a letter came in the post this morning from my publishers. Seems they like my latest suite for piano. Well, hell Preiss, what's money for? Come to think of it, with so much winter still ahead of us, I might treat myself to a new hat today, one of those fur ones that the Russians are famous for. I saw a beauty in the shop window of Menkes the Hatter. Looked like sable.”
Arriving at Königsallee, we carried on north and passed several outdoor cafés where coffee drinkers, bundled up in overcoats and looking almost desperate in their determination, were taking as much sun as they could this time of year.
Passing one of these cafés, my ebullient companion suddenly tugged at my sleeve, stopping me short. “Look there, Preiss, a fortune teller!”
“She's a palm-reader, Maestro,” I said, making no attempt to conceal my contempt. From past experience, I knew how these people plied their trade. They travelled in packs-wolf packs is how I referred to them. Magicians, acrobats, assorted freaks, people who'd seldom if ever done an honest day's work. They were clever, these masters of the art of distraction, and could skin alive anyone who came within reach of their practiced fingers, be he a poor unsophisticated villager or well-heeled man-of-the-world. I had prosecuted more than a few of the rogues in my time, and word was out that pitching their tents in my territory was risky business.
This fortune teller, a hag of a woman probably in her late fifties, apparently hadn't heard of me or, having heard of me, simply didn't give a damn. Looking first to me, she said, “Read your palm, sir? You strike me as a man with a bright future. Only fifty pfennigs, sir.”
I nodded in the direction of Schumann. “My friend here…he's your customer, not I.”
Squinting, she looked Schumann up and down. “Well, now,” she said, breaking into a smile of approval, “there's a distinguished-looking gentleman if I ever saw one. I can tell a senior public official a mile away. I'd bet my crystal ball-if I had one, I mean-that you're a retired general, sir. Do sit down.”
Schumann shot me a wide grin. He seemed, with good reason, to be gaining immense enjoyment out of being mistaken for a military man. Taking a folding chair across the small table from the woman, he asked, “Which hand, madam?”
“Which hand do you normally favour?” she said.
“I work with both,” Schumann said with a perfectly straight face.
“Of course, sir,” the palm reader said. “It's only natural in a leader of men.”
“You flatter me,” Schumann said. I could tell he was struggling not to laugh.
“Not at all, sir. I assume you are a skilled swordsman. So let me examine the palm of your right hand, if you will.”
Obediently, he offered his right hand to her, palm up. “Ah, yes,” she said after a moment or two, “the hand of a man who has seen many a battle for king and country and won ’em all. The palm of a hero. Well, sir, I'm happy to tell you this-” She traced with her index finger a long crease in the palm of Schumann's hand, one that extended from thumb almost to wrist. “This line,” she said, looking him soberly in the eye, “represents the reward that will soon come to you, sir. Before the year is out, you will receive a generous pension for meritorious service-”
Schumann interrupted her. “My God, a pension, you say! My prayers are answered!”
“Wait, sir, that is not all. You will inherit a château in the south of France-”
Murder in A-Major 121
“Do you hear that!” Schumann shouted to me over his shoulder. “A château!”
“Oh, but there is more,” the woman went on. “Your bachelorhood will come to a happy end-”
“And not a moment too soon!” Schumann said, going along with the palm reader with enthusiasm.
“Indeed, sir,” she said, “for you will marry a young woman of the Spanish royal family no less.”
Schumann was beside himself. “My cup runneth over!” he shouted. “Is there more, madam?”
‘Yes, but it will cost you an extra fifty pfennigs, sir.’
“To hell with the cost,” Schumann said, brimming with good nature. “I've not heard tidings of such great joy since Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo.”
“You were at Waterloo, sir?” the palm reader wanted to know. She seemed momentarily impressed, and I began to wonder who was fooling whom here.
“Yes,” Schumann said. “I was a young subaltern seconded to the British Army. On General Wellington's personal staff, as a matter of fact. You've heard of Wellington, no doubt?”
“Oh, yes,” the woman replied quickly. “Who hasn't? Well, in that case, I can tell you that, in addition to the honours I mentioned before, a square in the heart of Düsseldorf will soon be named after you. You said your name was-?”
“I didn't,” Schumann said. “It's Schumannheink. Major General Maximilian von Schumannheink…at your service, madam.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “I should have known. How stupid of me. The name Maximilian von Schumannheink is on the lips of Germans from Bremen to Berlin and beyond. An honour to meet you, sir! That'll be one hundred pfennigs, sir.”
“It's worth two,” Schumann said.
The palm reader's eyes narrowed. She gave Schumann a suspicious look. “Two what?” she said.
“Two hundred pfennigs,” Schumann said. “As a bonus, you understand.”
Her look of suspicion changed instantly to one of relief.
“That's very kind of you, General,” she said.
Schumann reached inside his jacket to fetch his wallet. Smiling benignly at the palm reader, he said, “It's a pleasure, I assure you.” Suddenly his face darkened. “What the devil!” he whispered hoarsely. “I'm sure I took my wallet with me when I left the house-” He looked over at me. “My money's gone! All of it!”
“Not really,” I said, and took a couple of steps to my left, where a young man who'd been watching us was beginning to move away. Seizing the man by the collar, I pulled him sharply toward me. “We'll have your wallet and money in a second or two, Maestro,” I said and roughly twisted the fellow's right arm up behind his back, forcing a scream of pain from him. “Cough it up!” I ordered the young pickpocket.
“You're breaking my arm!” he screamed again as I tightened my hold.
“I can break much more than your arm. Tell me where the wallet's hidden,” I said, giving his arm an extra twist for good measure.
Barely able to speak, he blurted out, “Back pocket, pants, right side. Damn!”
Not letting go of his arm, I reached with my free hand into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out the wallet.