“Detective Brunner is an incurable disease,” I said. “Now, please tell me … why would anyone want to threaten you of all people?”
“No no,” Mecklenberg said quickly, “I am not the one threatened, it is my client who’s the potential victim.”
“And your client is — ?”
“Richard Wagner.”
“Someone is threatening to kill Wagner?”
“Worse, Inspector.”
“What can be worse than a death threat?”
“You have to know Richard Wagner as I do in order to answer that question,” Mecklenberg replied. Reaching into an inside pocket of his coat the old man extracted an envelope. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “open this please and read the note.”
The envelope was addressed in crude block letters to Richard Wagner. It turned out to contain a single sheet of inexpensive stationery upon which in the same crude hand a one-line message appeared:
JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION
I read the message aloud several times. Something about it made no sense to me. “If someone were truly out to do serious harm why would he give advance notice of his intention? I mean, since when does a criminal announce his schedule for the commission of the crime?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Herr Mecklenberg, but this has all the marks of a prank … granted a nasty prank, but nevertheless a prank and no more. Besides, the note speaks of ruination rather than death, which sounds to me like some kind of petty revenge is what the writer has in mind.”
I started to hand back the envelope and note but Mecklenberg raised his hands in a gesture of refusal. “If you’re as knowledgeable about opera as your reputation suggests, then you must know all there is to know about Wagner. The man’s notorious. Let us be honest about it. There is no other way to describe him. Anyone who reads the newspapers surely is aware that Richard Wagner engages simultaneously in two professions: the first is music, the second is getting into all sorts of trouble.”
“You’re referring to his political activities?”
“You call it political activities,” Mecklenberg said with a cynical smile. “Unfortunately, our government calls it treason. And Wagner’s denunciation of the church has the Archbishop of Munich labelling him a blasphemer. And that’s not all, Inspector. I would not be the least surprised if somewhere at your headquarters there is a file as thick as your fist filled with charges brought against the man by his creditors. Fraud, cheating, issuing bad cheques … Wagner’s done ’em all. You know, of course, that he was only recently permitted to return from Switzerland where he was in exile.”
“But Herr Mecklenberg,” I said, “governments don’t deliver threats hand printed on cheap slips of paper, nor do princes of the church. As for victims of petty crimes, and even creditors facing significant losses, hints of revenge are not their typical modus operandi; prompt acts of brutality are more popular forms of retribution. Take my word for it.”
“With all due respect, sir, this is not what you would call a typical situation. June twenty-first is the date for the premiere of Wagner’s new opera, you see.”
“New opera? I must have missed the announcement in the newspapers.”
“Ah, Inspector Preiss, that’s the point. There was no announcement in the newspapers. The date for the premiere is known at the moment by a mere handful of people … people who are directly involved in the production. In fact, the June twenty-first date was disclosed by Maestro Wagner only yesterday following auditions for the principal male role.”
“And the new opera is — ?”
“Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg,” Mecklenberg replied in a hushed voice, as though he was afraid that the very mention of the opera’s title might invite some sudden calamity.
“Well, sir, if indeed the date is known by a relatively few people at this point, then it stands to reason that the number of possible suspects is very limited. If I am correct in this assumption, then my job should be quite simple. No need to cast a broad net here; the fish, so to speak, are all close to the boat. At any rate, June twenty-first is some two months off which gives me plenty of time to — ”
“On the contrary, Inspector, whoever wrote this note must be sought out and brought to justice immediately! There’s no time to waste!” The old man’s small bony fingers, gripping the brim of his hat, began to tremble.
“Please, Herr Mecklenberg, this is not a life-and-death matter,” I said. “Trust me, sir. I’ve had years of experience — ”
“But you have never been exposed to the likes of Richard Wagner, have you?”
“Of course I will need to interview him. Perhaps in a day or two. You might bring him round to my office at the Constabulary, Herr Mecklenberg. Say, uh, the day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning?”
“I don’t think you understand, Inspector,” Mecklenberg said. “He must see you now … tonight. The note was slipped under the front door of his house late this afternoon and the man is beside himself. Please, Inspector Preiss, I have a carriage waiting — ”
Chapter Two
A man was striking the keyboard of a piano with his fists as though it were an anvil, sending clusters of notes flying discordantly into the air, while crying aloud in a high-pitched grating voice over and over, “No no no!” the cries of a man at his wit’s end, yet plaintive at the same time, a man desperately wanting something beyond his reach.
Mecklenberg and I had just taken our first steps into the entrance hall of Richard Wagner’s house, admitted by his housekeeper, her hands protectively pressed against her ears and shaking her head as if to let us know she’d been through these upheavals many times in the past. The clamor came at us even louder now, penetrating the closed doors of the drawing room beyond. Again “No no no!” followed this time with “That is not what I want! You are not singing a national anthem, for God’s sake! You are supposed to be lovers!”
“I’m afraid we’ve caught your man at an inconvenient time,” I whispered to Mecklenberg. I had begun to unbutton my coat but stopped short. “Perhaps we should put this off until tomorrow.”
The old man seized my arm. “Please, Inspector, it’s only a private rehearsal. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. He prefers these intimate sessions; it’s just that he becomes a little irascible at times.” He shrugged and gave a weak smile. “You know how geniuses carry on, I’m sure.”
I expressed surprise that Wagner would be in a mood to rehearse with singers given the threatening note left earlier in the evening. “He’s under extraordinary pressure,” Mecklenberg explained. “The new opera opening soon, auditions, rehearsals, revisions and more revisions, financial arrangements, and so on.” Clearly Wagner’s long-time impresario was accustomed to making excuses for his client’s conduct.
“But how does anyone survive these tantrums of his?” I asked. “Come to think of it, how does he survive his tantrums?”
“Believe me, Preiss,” Mecklenberg said, smiling as much as his aged jowls would permit, “in the end it’s worth all the fuss and bother.”
“Fuss and bother? You call what we’ve just heard ‘fuss and bother’?”
Before Mecklenberg could respond, the doors of the drawing room were thrust open. “Mecklenberg, where the hell have you been? Why are you standing there like a piece of furniture?”
Then Wagner’s eyes landed on me like grapeshot. Lowering his voice he said to Mecklenberg, “Is this the policeman we sent for?”
Nervously Mecklenberg replied, “Maestro, allow me to — ”
“Can’t the man speak for himself?” Still eyeing me, Wagner said, “And you are who?”
“Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss, Maestro.” I took a firm step in his direction and offered my hand.