“About how he came into possession of the Beethoven manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“He told you what, then?”
Again a hesitation. “Well, I don't recall precisely.”
“You don't recall? It was only yesterday, Herr Brahms.”
“I'm doing my best to help you, Inspector-”
“I'm sure you are. Please try to remember Adelmann's explanation.”
“His explanation?”
“Yes.”
“Well…let me see now. His explanation…it was so convoluted that I'm having some difficulty…”
“I have all the time in the world,” I said reassuringly.
“Well,” Brahms said, “as I told you, the story Adelmann related…about the manuscript…and how it came into Liszt's hands…it was all so very convoluted…full of unfinished sentences, innuendos of one kind or another, non sequiturs, if you know what I mean.”
“Herr Brahms, let me lift the veil from your memory,” I said. ‘You undertook to call on Adelmann-”
“Yes, of course.”
“But the truth is that you never fulfilled that undertaking, did you?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I repeat: you never showed up at Adelmann's.”
“Nonsense!”
“I'm quite certain I'm correct, Herr Brahms.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“You never had a conversation with Adelmann about returning Schumann's prized possession. If you'd had such a conversation, you'd have no trouble recalling the reason it came into Adelmann's possession…or at least his version of it.”
“Which was?”
“No, Herr Brahms, not yet. First let me tell you why you chose not to approach Adelmann. I'll come directly to the point,” I said. “You had not the slightest intention of intervening. In fact, you intended the very opposite to occur; that is, you hoped, and probably expected, that Schumann would indeed kill Adelmann. As a convicted murderer, Robert Schumann would be imprisoned, in all likelihood for the rest of his life. And this would leave you free to cement your relationship with Clara Schumann, free to be with her openly instead of furtively. In short, you wanted Schumann out of the way, once and for all.”
Brahms's expression remained impassive. “You believe I simply stood aside and cleared the way for Robert to murder Adelmann? And my reason for doing so was because I want to step into his shoes…to become the master of the Schumann household? Is that what you think?”
“Yes…and no…and maybe.”
“Yes, no, maybe!” Brahms exploded. “What kind of policeman are you! You make accusations one minute, then you pussyfoot the next.”
“Let me ask you something, Herr Brahms,” I said. “When you sit down at the keyboard to compose, do you always know at the outset where a musical notion will ultimately take you?”
“I am an artist, sir,” Brahms said, sounding insulted, “not a simple mechanic.”
“Nor am I a simple mechanic, Brahms. You did not carry through with your undertaking to confront Georg Adelmann on Schumann's behalf. Am I correct? Yes or no?”
Brahms roughly seized a chair and sat down. He took what must have been a full minute to study me. Plainly, I was not prepared to put up with evasions. “Well, yes or no?” I insisted.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, you are correct…I mean about not going to see Adelmann. The reason is simple. You see, Inspector, I have one goal and one goal only in my life-”
“And that is?”
“To be a great composer. Music is my religion. Without music, there is no story to my life. I know this sounds egotistical, but the truth is, I want nothing…absolutely nothing…to stand in the way of my career.”
“Well, at least we have the answer as to whether or not you kept your appointment with Georg Adelmann, and why in fact you didn't.”
“Correction, sir,” Brahms said. “You have only half the answer.”
“I don't follow you-”
“Look, I am infatuated with Clara Schumann…who wouldn't be?…but I am not in love with her, I mean so in love that I am willing to give up the thing I value most at the moment…my freedom.”
I shook my head. “I'm sorry, Herr Brahms, but I've seen how you look at her.”
“And I've seen how you look at her, Herr Preiss.”
I felt a sudden rush of blood to my cheeks. Brahms gave me a shrewd smile. “Ahah! So now it's out in the open. We're both caught in this woman's net. And how does your cellist friend…I believe her name is Helena Becker, yes?…how does she figure into your domestic life these days?”
“I have no domestic life, Herr Brahms,” I said, “not that it's any of your business.”
“No thoughts of a sweet little hausfrau setting a steaming plate of dumplings before you after a hard day, then?”
Brahms seemed to enjoy making fun of me. I'm afraid I allowed my irritation to get the best of me. “You mistake me for some kind of railway station guard,” I said. “Fact is, I happen to value my freedom as much as you value yours, Brahms. It's not in my nature to come home every night to a hausfrau, a plate of dumplings and a rocking chair.”
“I assume you've had the decency to make your position clear to your young cellist, Inspector.”
“As much decency and courage as you display in your relationship with Madam Schumann,” I shot back. “You are how old?”
“Twenty-one.”
“And she?”
“Thirty-five.”
“So every time you and she share some forbidden moments, you make it clear to her that you are prepared to commit yourself fully and honourably?”
“Of course not. The idea is preposterous, Preiss.”
“And yet you lead her on, while availing yourself of her fame, her connections, her hospitality, her passion. You're a rather cold-blooded fellow.”
“I am from Hamburg,” Brahms said. “We North Germans as a rule do not wear our hearts on our sleeves.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but surely the odd North German must be capable of feeling pangs of guilt?”
“If there is reason for me to feel guilty,” Brahms said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, “I'll have plenty of time to deal with my conscience later in life. For the time being at least, my art comes first.”
“I'm not sure I believe you,” I said.
“If you don't believe me, there can be only one explanation.”
“And that is?”
“You are so totally enthralled by Clara Schumann that you cannot imagine a man like me, one who is close to her, being less than totally enthralled. But the fact of the matter is that I would no more seek to get rid of Robert Schumann, give up my precious freedom and take up with his wife than you would, Inspector Preiss.”
Brahms rose from his chair and stood over me with a curious smile. “Come to think of it, it turns out that you and I have much in common, certainly more than either of us may have thought before this little conversation of ours.” Suddenly Brahms broke into a laugh. “And come to think of it, perhaps you murdered Georg Adelmann hoping it would look like the work of Robert Schumann-”
I jumped up. “This is not a joking matter, Brahms.”
Brahms turned sober. “Of course it's not,” he said. “I was merely pointing out that I am no more a suspect than you yourself are. You're right, Preiss; I never met with Adelmann, but I never deliberately paved the way for Schumann to murder the man, either.” Eyeing me coolly, he said, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector?”
I was tempted to get into the matter of the piano tuning but decided to leave that touchy subject for another time. I wanted Brahms to think he had succeeded in persuading me of his innocence in this whole affair.
And yet, as I left him, I found myself with my feet firmly planted in mid-air as far as this Brahms fellow was concerned. Handsome, brilliant, articulate, witty…he was all these things. But was he also a liar?