“What is upsetting,” Schumann said, “is the thought that the laws of the land are in the hands of a pack of narrow-minded constables, men who are little more than night watchmen. When it comes to subtleties in human behavior…to inner truths…you are as hopeless as the fish in the Rhine.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I'm not trained to search for so-called inner truths. I deal in evidence which can be seen, touched and heard. Inner truths? There are none, except those that novelists and liars like to dream up. So, regarding Adelmann's findings, what have you to say? Yes, he's right, or no he's wrong?”
Schumann rose abruptly and snatched up the copy of the Kunstzeitung that lay on my desk. “I refuse to be intimidated. From this point onward, Florestan takes charge of my case.”
Florestan? Where had I heard that name before? Then I remembered: Adelmann had referred to Florestan and Eusebius, the two companions Schumann had long ago invented and who inhabited his imagination and supposedly spoke to him in times of emotional distress. Florestan, the man of action, bold, impetuous, even reckless; Eusebius, soft-natured, introspective, brooding. “Maestro,” I said, “this is not a time to wallow in fantasy. We must stick to reality. I must know, is Adelmann's version as to how he acquired the Beethoven manuscript true…or is it false?”
With a look of grim determination, Schumann donned his hat and turned to leave, the crumpled newspaper in his firm grip.
“You haven't answered my question, Dr. Schumann,” I called after him as he reached my office door and began to open it.
Schumann turned to face me. “Florestan does not answer questions. Florestan is not on trial here. To hell with you, Preiss. Florestan will get on without you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I am not accustomed to being interrupted when I'm rehearsing.” Clara Schumann's voice, sharp-edged, reverberated against the ornate panelled walls of the empty concert hall, where she would be performing in a chamber music program jointly with Helena's string quartet within the coming week.
“I do apologize, Madam Schumann,” I said, walking down the centre aisle and stopping at the apron of the stage. “Ordinarily, I would never presume to disturb you at a time like this, but what brings me here is a matter of extraordinary urgency. You see-”
“I know why you are here,” Clara said, “but you will simply have to excuse me.”
“But madam-”
“Not now, I say.”
“Your husband is a very sick man, Madam Schumann.”
“I told you the night you were summoned to our house that he needed a doctor, not some meddlesome policeman.”
“I'm convinced he needs both a physician and a meddlesome policeman. His judgment is badly unbalanced by everything and everyone around him, which is why he announced in my office this morning that he…or rather Florestan…is going to pursue on his own the investigation I began.”
“Well, there's your proof,” Clara said. “What more do you need, for God's sake, Inspector-an official Certificate of Lunacy signed by a battery of medical specialists?”
“I beg of you; you have influence with your husband. He must not attempt to play amateur sleuth.”
With a hint of irony in her voice, Clara said, “Come to think of it, perhaps what Georg Adelmann needs right now is a good dose of my husband's temper, especially since you apparently prefer to handle Adelmann with kid gloves.”
“Madam Schumann, I wonder if you understand the nature of Maestro Schumann's problem with Adelmann.”
“The man has made off with one of our priceless possessions. Remember, you yourself cautioned me that he's a thief. What more is there to understand? Really, Inspector, you do try one's patience!”
“But there is another side to the story,” I said. “When I confronted Adelmann, he not only denied that the Beethoven manuscript was missing but made a point of producing it right before my very eyes and without a moment's hesitation. He insisted Dr. Schumann gave it to him.”
“Gave it to him?”
“Yes. As a gift.”
“Whatever for? Why would Robert do such a thing?”
“Adelmann had come across certain facts in his research concerning sexual experiments-”
“Experiments?”
“There doesn't seem to be any other way to characterize them, I'm sorry to say. They involved other…other men. In all likelihood, these would have come to light and become public knowledge once Adelmann's monograph was published. Adelmann revealed this to me, and I in turn revealed it to your husband this morning.”
“I'm sure Robert must have denied it,” Clara said, sounding indignant but confident. When I failed readily to agree, she frowned. “Surely Robert denied it?”
I shook my head.
At this point, the first crack in her composure appeared. She looked away and closed her eyes, as though struggling to absorb what she had just learned. At last, she said, “So you did not bother to challenge Adelmann's account? You simply swallowed his tale, knowing him as you do? Is that what you call interrogation?”
“I heard no firm and absolute denial from your husband, I remind you. Instead, he raved on about ‘inner truths’. He accused me of being too crude to understand certain subtleties of human behaviour, then stormed out of my office vowing to take charge of his case, as he put it. Now do you begin to understand my alarm?”
“What I begin to understand,” she said, eyeing me coldly, “is that you've succeeded only in inflaming my husband by your tactlessness. And now, having been responsible for driving poor Robert into the guise of Florestan, you want me to perform what might amount to a miracle…to restore my husband to the passive role of Eusebius, since obviously you are incapable of undoing what you've done.”
I said, “Madam Schumann, this is neither the time nor the place to debate the merits of my conduct. You must go to Maestro Schumann as quickly as possible. You must do everything in your power to see to it that he does not commit some rash and foolish act that all of us will regret. There's no time to waste!”
Clara Schumann's response startled me. Turning away from me, she brought both hands powerfully down on the keyboard of the Bosendorfer, at which she'd remained seated, setting off an explosive discord that must have shortened the life of that instrument by years. “You speak of time,” she shouted angrily, “but no one…no one…speaks of my time. It's as though I've been evicted from my own life, as though my only purpose is to serve my father, my children, my impresario, my audiences…and of course my husband. I am sick to death of all this.”
“Please, believe me, Madam Schumann,” I said, “my only wish is to be of help to you.”
She straightened her back, then looked directly at me. In a quiet voice now, she said, “If you truly wish to help me, then please leave me. I need some time…time to be entirely alone.”
Disheartened by my latest encounter with Clara Schumann, I decided that the best antidote would be to return to my office at the Constabulary and bury myself in some neglected paperwork. Saturday afternoons were traditionally quiet times in my department. Lulls before the storms is what my colleagues and I called Saturday afternoons, the reason being that in Düsseldorf-and I suspect pretty much everywhere else-most crimes of passion, especially fatal ones, were committed on Saturday nights, when seemingly harmless revellers, by some trick of metamorphosis known only to the Devil, turned into murderers. By late afternoon, a stack of files over which my shadow hadn't fallen for days on end had been reduced to one last file, which I was about to open when a young assistant burst into my office. “Have you heard the news, Inspector?” he said. “Georg Adelmann…you know, the journalist? A report has just come in. His landlady found him in his apartment an hour ago. Apparently murdered.”