“Precisely.”
“So it stands to reason, Hupfer, that if one distorts the tuning by sharpening A, the resulting partials entering sensitive ears like Schumann's can become not simply irritating but downright maddening if carried on over a sufficient period of time. Am I correct?”
Hupfer dropped his head. I thought I heard him whisper, “Yes.”
“Why would a man with your skill, your reputation, become an accomplice…why?”
“As I said to you at my shop, the performer gets the adulation and the money. But all a man like me earns is a reputation. Wieck paid me much more generously than Schumann ever would or could.”
“But the Schumanns trusted you, Hupfer,” I said. “You were ‘Willi’ to them, you were like family. You knew-how could you of all people not know? — how fine a line Schumann walked when it came to his emotions and his tempers.”
Hupfer looked me straight in the eye. “Think of me what you will, Preiss,” he said, “but I have told you the truth about my part in Wieck's plot. And I am telling you the truth about Adelmann's death. The tuning fork is mine. But I swear before God I did not kill him.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
"So, Preiss, let me see if I understand what you've been up to-”
Over the years, I had learned that whenever Commissioner Schilling commenced a review of my activities with these words, the threat of crucifixion hung in the air. Fingering my report, a one-page document containing as little specific information as I could hope to get away with, he cleared his throat noisily several times (I hated to imagine what he was coughing up) while I stood awaiting his summation.
“It seems, firstly, that you saw fit, acting as usual solely on your own initiative, to give this jeweller Thüringer his freedom in exchange for some tidbit of information no doubt of questionable value considering its source.”
“Well, sir, that's not quite-” I started to explain.
“Kindly do not interrupt,” the Commissioner barked. “Walter Thüringer…a thief and habitual receiver of stolen goods…that is a fact, is it not?”
“Well, Commissioner-”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Secondly, having gone to the trouble of acting upon the tip from the jeweller and arresting this piano-tuner…what's his name?”
“Hupfer, sir. Wilhelm Hupfer.”
“Right. Hupfer. Apparently a devious lowlife who confesses-confesses, mind you-that he's been the technical mastermind behind a plot aimed at driving that fellow Schumann insane…am I correct thus far, Preiss?”
“You are indeed, sir.”
“Yes, and what do you do about him, eh? You release him as well and send him back to society! And why? On what grounds? On the excuse that the victim of this evil plot is ensconced in an asylum somewhere and in no position to testify against the perpetrators? Since when is that a reason not to proceed with prosecution?”
“If I might explain, sir-”
“Again you interrupt! I will not be interrupted, Preiss, is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Now then, I want you to examine this so-called report-” Schilling thrust the page across his desk “-and be so good as to tell me what it says about the one important case on your assignment list. I'm referring of course to the murder of Georg Adelmann. I would have expected,” Schilling said, “that by this time you would have produced a suspect, a murder weapon, a clear motive, perhaps even a witness or two, certainly enough that we could assure the public that Düsseldorf is not Hamburg, that we do not tolerate crime and molly-coddle our criminals. But what does your report say of all this, eh?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“In other words, Inspector,” Schilling said, reaching across his desk and seizing the sheet of paper, “this sorry account…two men arrested, the same two released…this is all you've managed to accomplish, while whoever killed Georg Adelmann in cold blood is presumably dining at this very hour on roast goose with a good bottle of Moselle at Emmerich's. And what's worse, probably laughing up his sleeve!”
“Not quite, sir,” I said.
A deep scowl darkened the reddish blotches on the Commissioner's face.
“Not quite? What the devil does that mean, Preiss?”
“I'm certain the person who killed Georg Adelmann is not dining at Emmerich's. Nor is he laughing up his sleeve. On the contrary, he is probably suffering greater tortures than any convict you or I have ever sent to prison.”
“You're talking in riddles,” the Commissioner said, his anger rising another notch. “You know, Preiss, I've always suspected that at heart you're a romantic, but all these cultural pretensions of yours don't fool me, not for a minute. It's plain to me that you haven't the slightest notion who Adelmann's murderer is, and so you attempt to mask your failure with some fictional nonsense. Tortures indeed!”
Schilling made a scoffing sound through his nose as he once again thrust my report back at me. “Tell me something, Preiss,” he said, “can you think of one good reason why I should not, here and now, on the spot, dismiss you from the force?”
I stood pondering the question for a few moments.
“Well?”
I took another moment or two, then said “Baron von Hoffman.”
Schilling eyed me suspiciously, but nervously now too. “What about the Baron?”
“I simply point out, sir, that he has on several occasions recently made certain overtures to me-”
“Overtures? What sort of overtures?”
“As you will no doubt appreciate,” I said, “the Baron and Baroness are concerned in these increasingly crime-ridden times about their personal safety as well as the security of their manor here, their country estate, and their valuable contents. And since the Baron's time is very much taken up with his public duties-you will recall that, among other functions, he is chairman of the committee which determines retirement benefits for senior civil servants such as yourself-he has too little time to attend to certain personal needs of an urgent nature. He has therefore suggested that, with your concurrence of course, it would be most beneficial…I mean beneficial for him and the Baroness…if I were delegated to look into arrangements concerning their safety and security, especially when they find it necessary to travel abroad. I assume this would not unduly inconvenience you, sir?”
I put this last statement in the form of a question, knowing full well what the old man's response would be.
“The Baron wants this, eh? Well now-” Again much throat-clearing. “We'll have to give this some very serious thought, will we not? One certainly cannot overlook the wishes of one of our most important citizens, can one? Imagine the shame that would befall our fair city should the Baron and Baroness come to grief! Very well, Preiss, I will expect a detailed plan by the end of this week regarding the von Hoffmans. In the meantime, give me something-anything-that I can present to the mayor regarding this damned Adelmann affair.”
There followed a strange moment of silence, and I had the feeling that Commissioner Schilling wanted to say more but was holding back. Cautiously, I said, “Does the Commissioner have any further instructions? Otherwise, I take it that I may return to my office and resume my duties.”
The Commissioner rose and came around to my side of his desk. In a quiet confidential tone, he said, “It occurs to me, Preiss, that a day or two ago you had quite a confrontation with an itinerant group of gypsies.”
“That is correct, sir. So I did. And a not-too-pleasant band they were.”
“Ah, yes,” Schilling said, nodding agreeably. “Trouble-makers, every single one of ’em, eh?”
“Why do you mention this?” I asked.
Lowering his voice still more, Schilling said, “It would be very convenient…for all of us, you understand…if we could report to the mayor that Adelmann was likely done in by one or more of these here-today-gone-tomorrow gypsy types. You know how these journalist types like to mess about. Never saw one that didn't have a bohemian streak in him. You understand, Preiss, I'm sure.”