I must explain, too, that this triumph of detection and arrest was not without its sour side. The mission had originally been assigned by my superior, Commissioner von Mannstein, to Detective Franz Brunner. What ensued was either the result of a fit of zeal on Brunner’s part, a shabby attempt to enhance his record of service, or downright incompetence. Whatever the reason, Brunner, with almost lightning speed, apprehended “the culprit” who turned out to be a member of the Norwegian delegation to an international conference in Munich held to discuss improved standards for the manufacture of dairy products. The unfortunate fellow was entirely innocent, a classic instance of the wrong man at the wrong street corner at the wrong time. True, he had ventured down to Friedensplatz for an hour or so of recreation (the work of a food scientist, after all, can be deadly serious) but his only crime, if it can be called a crime, was to get into a heated dispute over the question of price with one of the prostitutes during the course of which the prospective customer flung several insults at her. That this was conduct unbecoming of a Norwegian delegate is undeniable, but Brunner, who happened to observe the argument, saw it as sufficient evidence that the man was the sought-after rapist. Repercussions from the false arrest carried out by my colleague Brunner were felt at the highest diplomatic levels both in Norway and Germany, and the commissioner found himself bearing much of the blame for what the press headlined as “the Friedensplatz Fiasco.”
This, then, is how I came to be involved in the case. “Preiss,” said Commissioner von Mannstein, rocking back and forth on the heels of his polished boots (a habit whenever he was agitated), “Germany expects that you will restore the reputation of our nation …”
Restore it I did. But less than a year before the Friedensplatz affair I had been imported from Düsseldorf to take up the post of chief inspector in Munich, a post Franz Brunner, then a fifteen-year veteran of the city’s police force, had expected to be awarded. In a hundred different ways, Brunner has ever since demonstrated his deep resentment at having been passed over by an out-of-towner. My having caught and arrested the real villain of Friedensplatz, I was certain, would stoke the fire of Brunner’s animosity toward me into white-hot flames. It had been difficult enough all these months living and working side-by-side with Detective Franz Brunner. Now it would be impossible.
By the time I reached my apartment I was too exhausted to feel the elation that normally follows a successful arrest, and too exhausted to worry about my relationship with Brunner. Without bothering to remove my clothes I threw myself down onto a divan and swore that even if God were to come knocking at my door I would not answer.
Of course that is precisely the kind of resolution I should have known better than to make. If my experience as a policeman has taught me anything it is that, as my Jewish friends say, Man plans and God laughs. Sure enough, just as my eyes, heavy with fatigue, were beginning to close there came a knock at my door.
It was gentle at first and I heard myself groan and call out in a weak voice, thinking it was the concierge delivering a message, “Please leave it under the door.” But the knocking continued, firmer and louder this time. “I said please leave it under the door,” I called out again, angry and ready to strangle the fellow. The next series of raps sounded as though the person were using brass knuckles. Flinging myself up from the divan I marched to the door intending to take years off the caller’s life.
Opening the door I began to shout “Why the devil can’t you — ” and then I saw that it was not the concierge after all.
“Detective Preiss?” the caller cautiously said.
“Chief Inspector Preiss,” I replied. So what if I was rude; if the man had the gall to seek me out at my lodgings, and at this hour of the night, the least he could do was address me by my proper title.
The caller glanced at a small card in his hand. “It says here Detective Hermann Preiss.”
“It says what?”
“Here, see for yourself — ” He handed me the card.
“Who gave you this?” I demanded.
“A detective by the name of Brunner … at the Constabulary.”
Brunner! That bastard! Trust Brunner not only to pawn this fellow off on me but to understate my position in the department.
“Did Brunner not take the trouble to mention that I’m off duty at the moment?”
“He said nothing about that,” the caller said. “He simply assured me that you are best equipped to deal with this kind of case. In fact, he went so far as to say there wasn’t a detective in the whole of Europe who is better equipped. It must be exceedingly gratifying to hear that you are held in such high esteem by your colleague.”
Making no secret of my impatience, I asked, “What sort of case are we talking about? Somebody make off with your prized Dachshund?” I wouldn’t have put it past Brunner.
“Please, Chief Inspector,” the man said, “I would not dream of disturbing you were it not that a serious threat has been made and I desperately need your help.”
A serious threat? It was difficult to imagine a serious threat being made against this fellow. He was at least a head shorter than I. So short was he, in fact, that had I passed him in the street for the first time I would have turned swiftly about in disbelief for a second look. The climb to the second storey where my rooms are located had left him breathing heavily, but it was only after he removed his tall hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat that I realized how old he was. His hair — what there was of it — was pure white and matted with perspiration. Drooping jowls and patches of loose skin under his eyes gave him the look of a worried bloodhound.
“I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water, Inspector?” he said, his lungs now issuing a wheezing sound.
I had no choice. “I suppose you’d better come in,” I said.
Watching him down the glass of water under the stronger light in my sitting room, I could see now that he was clean-shaven and that his clothes, which because of his small stature would have had to be custom-made, were well cut and carefully put together. He had removed his gloves to accept the glass of water, revealing a diamond ring on the index finger of his left hand (the hand holding the glass), the stone a good two carats if not more. Only after he had finished off a second glass of water did he introduce himself. “My name is Otto Mecklenberg. Your colleague Brunner did not seem to be familiar with my name but — ”
I said, “The Otto Mecklenberg … the impresario?”
The old man’s face suddenly lit up. “You flatter me, sir. I wasn’t certain if — ”
“Of course I’m familiar with the name. Whenever music is spoken of in Munich your name is spoken in the same breath, especially when the subject is opera.”
“Then Brunner was right,” Mecklenberg said. “He told me you’re the one policeman in the whole of Europe who takes an interest in opera. I have to add, Inspector, that Brunner pronounced ‘opera’ as if it were an incurable disease.”