The palm reader sat frozen in her chair, glaring up at the young man. “Tell him to let go,” he pleaded, looking over his shoulder at the woman. “He's killing me!”
“And so he should.” Her voice was pitiless. “You clumsy fool! How many times have I told you not to hang around after-”
The resemblance was unmistakable. The blackish hair, the sunbeaten complexion, the eyes that looked like black olives. These two were mother and son.
I handed Schumann his wallet, expecting, if not a glow of gratitude, at least a sigh of relief. Neither I, nor the culprits, were prepared for what came next. His face almost purple with rage, he gripped with both hands the small table at which he and the palm reader had been seated. With one mighty effort he sent it flying, a deck of playing cards that had been kept there scattering in the air like leaves blown by a sudden windstorm. The woman sat in horror, watching the simple implements of her trade disappear, in all likelihood never to be recovered. Indeed, the flimsy table, landing close to a group of startled spectators, disintegrated into dozens of fragments.
But Schumann was not finished. Now he lunged at the woman, his outstretched hands reaching for her neck. I had no choice. Letting go my grip on the young man, I threw myself between Schumann and the woman.
“Out of my way, Preiss, damn you!” Schumann demanded, straining to get at her. The force of his onslaught and my attempt to interfere caused us both to topple heavily against her, and her chair tipped backward, leaving her flat on her back, her arms and legs flailing the air.
Somehow my own physical strength prevailed, and I managed to put an end to the chaos in a minute or two, by which time the palm reader's accomplice had disappeared into the crowd. But at least I had his mother back on her feet and firmly under arrest.
And here is the strange scene that followed: instead of venting her rage at me-which I as a policeman had every reason to expect-she aimed her screaming imprecations at Schumann. No French château and noble Spanish bride this time. Now she had him rotting in hell, slowly and painfully.
Shaking her grubby fist in Schumann's face, she yelled in a voice that could be heard from one end of Germany to the other: “May everything you fear become a reality in your life!”
Hearing this, Schumann shrank back, a look of alarm on his face such as I'd never before seen on him. It was as though the woman were a leper or a carrier of smallpox whom he had touched and who had fatally infected him. White with fear, he was breathing with difficulty, so much so that he seemed about to collapse.
I let the woman go, roughly shoving her away. “Go, and never set foot anywhere in Düsseldorf again,” I said, “or so help me God, I'll see you behind bars for the rest of your miserable life!”
The woman dragged herself off without another word, but she had already said more than enough, for Robert Schumann was now reduced to a trembling wreck. “What did she mean, Preiss?” he said.
“Dr. Schumann,” I said, trying to sound dismissive, “if I took every criminal's curse seriously, I would never leave my bed in the morning.”
“No, no,” he said, “that was no ordinary curse. I remember every word she said, ‘May everything you fear become a reality in your life’ And she said this to me, not you. My God, look at me, Preiss. I can't stop shaking. What kind of man am I?”
Schumann's question haunted me long after I had escorted him back to No. 15 Bilkerstrasse, where I left him still badly shaken after his experience with the palm reader on Königsallee.
What kind of man was he? One moment in high spirits, fun-loving, going along with all the palm reader's absolute nonsense, enjoying it to the hilt. Next moment terrified by what I regarded as nothing more than a hag's evil eye.
But what struck me with sudden force was the similarity between the woman's curse, and Dr. Möbius's dictum as told to Helena. Weren't these two saying the same thing? The ghosts you fear are the ghosts you invent; the consequences you dread are the ones you bring upon yourself.
More to the point, was Robert Schumann himself bringing to reality everything he feared? If this was so, then what was the point of my continuing to involve myself? Schumann simply may have been the inventor of his own tragedy. Tragic as that fact might be, his case would have to be written off just as a bad debt is written off, I would return to my normal duties, and the world would go on spinning on its mysterious axis.
But then two things happened.
Following my last conversation with Helena, I decided that a gift to show my gratitude for her devotion to duty was long overdue. Walter Thüringer's jewellery shop was located in an arcade in the fashionable Königsallee and, while I was hardly in a position to be counted a regular patron on an inspector's salary, I managed from time to time to purchase the odd ornament from Thüringer. The old jeweller was aware, of course, that discounts on merchandise sold to a public official or civil servant were capable of being construed as a form of bribery, but it was uncanny how, whenever I expressed interest in some bauble or other, it was at that very moment due to go on sale for less than the ticketed price. I never took the trouble to question these coincidences. Nor did I bother to question the origins of certain valuables on display that were supposedly purchased from estates of deceased aristocrats but which, I had little doubt, had been stolen from houses as far away as Paris, London, Vienna and even St. Petersburg.
As always, Thüringer greeted me as though I were a long-lost brother. “Ah, Inspector Preiss, how marvellous to see you! And looking as impeccably turned out as ever! I get older and older, and you, Preiss, get younger and younger.” The shopkeeper shook his head ruefully. “In my next life, God willing, I shall be a policeman, I swear.”
“Thüringer, save your flattery,” I responded. “You know perfectly well I'm a man of limited means.”
“Nonsense!” Thüringer said. “My entire stock is at your disposal.”
“I'm not in the market for your entire stock,” I said, “only a small gift.”
“A small gift, you say? That sounds to me like there's a woman involved.”
“A very special woman, yes.”
Thüringer spread his arms wide. “Make yourself at home, Inspector. Look about, and I'll be back to you presently. I must finish with another customer, if you will please excuse me.”
He bowed low, as though I were a tax collector delivering an unexpected refund, then hereturned to the only other customer in the shop, a man standing nearby, his back to me.
“It's a charming piece,” I heard Thüringer tell the man. “Of all the lockets in my inventory, it is undoubtedly the finest. French craftsmanship, of course. And the price will include the engraving on the back of it.”
“Speaking of price,” the customer said, “is it the very best you can manage?” The speaker had lowered his voice, but I could still hear. “I really didn't anticipate having to spend this much.”
In his best avuncular manner, Thüringer said, “My dear young man, the recipient of this locket will treasure it surely for the rest of her days. Such a gift has value beyond price.”
A little reluctantly, the customer replied, “Very well, then, I suppose I must make the sacrifice.”
It was at this point that the man turned partly, and I recognized him at once. “Herr Brahms?”
“Inspector-uh-”
“Preiss,” I said. “Hermann Preiss.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Brahms said. “We meet again.”
“We meet again” was an expression I'd become all too accustomed to-usually spoken by someone who was anything but thrilled to see me. Nevertheless, I attempted to sound cheerful. “It seems,” I said, “that you and I are on similar missions. I too am buying a gift for a woman, and if I know this old rascal Thüringer, I too will end up spending more than I'd intended.”