We rose together, and Thüringer extended his right hand. “Deal?” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I proceeded without delay to fulfill my end of the pact I'd made with the devil, but it was not easy. To begin with, I had to persuade my zealous subordinate Constable Hesse that the charge against the old jeweller should be dropped. This I accomplished in two ways: first, I pointed out that since the robber himself (or herself, for that matter) had not yet been caught, there was no positive proof that Countess de Cecco's diamond earrings were stolen, nor could it be proved that Thüringer knew he was receiving stolen goods; therefore prosecution against Thüringer was not only premature but very likely to fail. Failure would most certainly reflect poorly on the police force in general, and on Hesse in particular, which would be a pity given his splendid record to date. Secondly, I informed Hesse that I was giving serious thought now to transferring him into the branch which dealt with more serious crimes-murders, rapes, kidnappings-which, I felt certain, would challenge his capabilities far more than the crimes he had been dealing with up to this point. Young Hesse virtually sailed out of my office, thrilled at the prospect of his coming promotion and vowing to retrieve the earrings promptly upon Thüringer's release from custody, following which he, Hesse, would personally see to it that they were returned to the Countess, together with whatever suitable “gift” the jeweller threw in to keep the Italian noblewoman happy.
That was not the only challenge I had to deal with. It was customary for copies of my staffs daily reports to me to be furnished as well to the Commissioner. Much of the time my immediate superior, being consumed these days with thoughts about his forthcoming retirement and pension, gave such documents no more than a cursory glance, hastily scrawled his initials to acknowledge he'd seen them, and back they came to my office for filing. But luck was not with me this day. Just as the name Walter Thüringer had leapt from the page when I first spotted it, so did it leap from the page when Schilling caught sight of it.
“Preiss, how the devil are we expected to uphold the reputation of our city, and indeed the entire nation, when innocent tourists are callously relieved of their precious possessions? And not ordinary tourists; no, by heaven, a count and countess, no less, according to the report.” The Commissioner peered at me through his spectacles as though I were the culprit who had received the stolen earrings.
I said, “Permit me to point out that these tourists come from a part of the world where people are used to this sort of thing.”
“I fully agree,” said the Commissioner, “but damn it, man, two wrongs don't make a right. This fellow Thüringer, haven't I heard you recommend his jewellery shop? If memory serves, on more than one occasion you've mentioned him favourably. Don't tell me you're consorting with a man who habitually deals in stolen goods!”
“Sir, I would not say I've been consorting with Walter Thüringer,” I replied, “but I have to explain that he and I have a rather unique relationship. The fact is, being in the line of business he's in, the man has a particularly keen sense of smell whenever there's even the slightest whiff of skullduggery in the air. He has been instrumental in my being able to apprehend a veritable army of thieves over the years.”
“That's all well and good,” the Commissioner huffed, “but if the man himself is a criminal, he must face justice, and that's all there is to it. I trust you'll see to it.”
I paused, and the Commissioner frowned, sensing my hesitation. “Well, Preiss, that's all. You may go, unless there's something further.”
I cleared my throat, then said quietly, “I've ordered Thüringer to be released, sir. In fact, my order has already been carried out.”
“Are you mad, Preiss? Reverse your order, then, and see to it that this man is put back behind bars where he obviously belongs.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “May I respectfully remind the Commissioner that, as senior inspector, I have complete discretion in such matters and am entitled, indeed authorized, to retain or release such persons from police custody if I deem it appropriate or expedient in the cause of justice…as I do, incidentally, in this instance.”
“And may I remind you, that I am accountable to the mayor of this city who, I need hardly repeat, is anxious that Düsseldorf be regarded as one of the cultural capitals of Europe, and not a German version of Sodom and Gomorrah. I have already had hell to pay because our esteemed mayor has taken a personal interest in the murder of Georg Adelmann and cannot understand why the killer is still at large.” Commissioner Schilling took a moment to regard me with a look steeped more in sorrow than in anger. “You know, Preiss,” he said, sadly shaking his head, “I had high hopes for you. But you are fast becoming a thorn in my side. If you wish to redeem yourself, give me your assurance…no, better still, your word…that this business about that fellow Schumann is over and done with once and for all, and that I can expect your return forthwith to the serious business at hand.”
Well, that wasn't difficult to give. After all, by my own definition, the “serious” business at hand came down to a single name.
Hupfer…Hupfer…
In the privacy of my room, I repeated aloud the name of Wilhelm Hupfer over and over again while turning the pages of my memory in an attempt to recall precisely the places and times I'd seen the man. I began to make notes:
Hupfer shows up at the house of Dr. Möbius, making his way in just as I am making my way out.
Hupfer shows up again at the Schumanns’ while they are away for a few days of rest at Bad Grünwald and Professor Wieck just happens to be visiting Düsseldorf, and the two of them, Hupfer and Wieck, obviously cannot wait to be rid of me.
When I question Hupfer in his workshop about the possibility of untuning a piano, he is less than forthcoming, and I'm left with the distinct impression that he is lying.
Then there were these nagging questions:
Why does Hupfer spend two hours on the day of the Schumanns’ musicale tuning the older of their grand pianos, but that evening only the newer of the two instruments, the Klems, is played?
Why does he later gossip to Liszt about what he overheard that day at the Schumann house (the bit of conversation between Clara and Brahms), and why does he mention to Liszt that Brahms apparently regulated the Klems himself using his own set of tools prior to the musicale?
My note-taking was interrupted by a soft knock on my door. “Inspector Preiss?” I recognized the voice of Henckel, the concierge. “A message for you, sir.”
Henckel apologized (as he invariably did out of habit) for disturbing me, then handed me a sealed envelope bearing my name and address written in what can only be described as a ferocious scrawl. “Who delivered this?” I asked.
Henckel replied, “A gentleman. Same gentleman that visited you a few nights back. Came by carriage. Simply took off without a word. I am sorry, sir.” Knowing that for some peculiar reason Henckel enjoyed feeling guilty (even when he had no reason to), I did the generous thing; I withheld forgiveness.
The note turned out to have been penned in the same wild handwriting.
“Preiss, I must see you. Please pardon my past rudeness and offenses. I desperately need your help!”
It was signed simply “R.S.”