A perfect summer evening, the air filled with excited chatter of people of influence in Munich, a pleasurable sense of occasion and anticipation. What more could Richard Wagner ask of his gods?
The flurry of activity, the hearty commotion, the hustle-bustle which patricians feel privileged to indulge in … everything came to a sudden standstill. A hush fell over the assembly as they caught sight of the approaching carriage bearing King Ludwig, a midnight-blue jewel, its rooftop royal crest glowing gold as if Ludwig owned the sun. And suddenly, there to greet his monarch and benefactor, appeared Richard Wagner, Cosima at his side. It was no surprise to me, as I watched close by, that Wagner made no effort to rein in his taste for effusive utterances and movements when it came to the king. Such conduct, of course, is natural and expected in the grandiose territory of opera, but with King Ludwig himself on the scene Richard Wagner’s celebratory gestures were on show in their fullest flower, even bordering on vulgarity. As the trio — Ludwig, Wagner, and Cosima — moved toward the bronze doors, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to grant them a clear path.
A second wave, well turned-out though less patrician, soon followed; then a third, the last-mentioned representing the “infantry” of opera, that is, those hardy folk who, lacking gold and glitter, made it to the National Theatre on foot, then faced a climb of five long flights to their seats in the uppermost tier.
It was now a quarter of seven. The ushers, under Maestro Wagner’s standing orders to show no mercy to latecomers, slammed shut the heavy doors, at the same time foreclosing any hope I held of catching “Henryk Schramm” mingling with the surging patrons. Not one man gave me reason to think he was here under false pretenses, although several times I was compelled, as the crowd filed past me, to steal an extra glance at someone’s face to satisfy myself that a beard or mustache was genuine, or at someone’s paunch to be certain that the fellow was truly overweight and not concealing a pillow under his tunic.
Hoping that Gruber had better luck, I made for the stage door only to find him shaking his head and shrugging.
“No sign of him here either?”
“None,” Gruber said. “Not so much as a hair out of place on anybody. Not a nervous twitch, not a stammer, nothing.”
“Did you ask the guard to let you inspect his roster?”
“His roster?”
“Part of his duty is to check everyone as they enter … he has a list of the company staff, chorus, principal singers, orchestra, stagehands, everybody connected with the production.”
Gruber’s face reddened. “Sorry, Inspector, I had no idea — ”
The guard, recognizing me, was not pleased when I commanded him to hand over the list. “It’s all in perfect order,” he said, his tone belligerent. “Only thing missing are the mice that live in the basement. You’ll have to get their names yourself.”
As I expected, the roll was long, taking up three pages and containing some two hundred names all carefully sorted according to their departments and specific occupations. Members of the orchestra were grouped according to their instrumental sections. I ran a finger down the list page by page. It seemed the guard was right after all. Everything appeared in perfect order.
Until my finger landed on the section of the orchestra headed “Double Bass.”
I turned to the guard. “Since when are there nine double basses in the orchestra?”
“What do you mean nine? There are only eight.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve been here often enough to know there are always eight. Your list shows nine.”
The guard thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. There was an extra double bass player … showed up almost at the last minute. Name’s there … Horst Schmidt. Said the Maestro hired him because the music called for more sound from the double basses. Showed me a note signed by Maestro Wagner himself.”
“So you admitted him?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“He carried a case for his double bass?”
The guard gave me a look of disgust. “Well what else would he use to carry a double bass, a snuff box?”
“You inspected the contents of the case?”
The guard took a deep breath. “Now why would I do a thing like that? I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into people’s instrument cases. God in heaven! I suppose next thing you’ll want to know is whether I make sure their instruments are tuned.”
“What did he look like?”
“About your height only in better shape, I’d say. You know, you have to be strong to handle a double bass. Wore one of those French-type berets. Spectacles too, the kind with silver rims. Evening clothes like all the others, white bow tie and so on. Oh yes, he had a flaming red beard and mustache. If I hadn’t known better I would’ve said he painted them, that’s how red they were.”
“Did you happen to see where he went from here?”
“Where everyone else in the orchestra would go, naturally. There is a large chamber down below … I mean just under the pit … where they get ready, tune up, whatever they do. When it’s time, they go up a set of steps into the pit and wait for the conductor. I expect you’ll find who you’re looking for there.”
I reached the players’ chamber just as they were beginning to file up the narrow set of stairs leading to the pit. Not one among them even came close to fitting the guard’s description. I spotted, propped against one wall, a row of double bass cases. I counted eight. My eyes fell on the rearguard inching their way toward the steps, the bass players, their bulky instruments and thick bows in hand. There were eight.
Gruber said, “He must be in the dressing room putting on his costume.”
“No, Gruber, that is one place he won’t be. I guarantee you he carried the first of his costumes in the instrument case, sword and all. His other costume, the one he wears in the very final scene, must be set aside in the dressing room. He’s probably deposited the case in one of the dark corridors in the basement with his suit of evening clothes.”
“Then he must be in the wings by now, waiting to go on,” Gruber guessed. “Maybe there’s still time — ”
From the pit rose the familiar sound of the oboist’s piercing “A,” the various sections of the orchestra tuning one by one … violins, violas, cellos, clarinets, horns, a pair of tubas gruffly clearing their throats … a swelling mélange of tones and half-tones … the players swooping up and down scales to warm up or fleetingly rehearsing yet again a handful of bars here and there that were especially tricky. Next a shower of applause from the audience, which meant the conductor von Bülow was threading his way through the first violin section en route to the podium. Any second now he would give two or three sharp raps of his baton on the music stand before him, extend his arms wide as though embracing his players, nod solemnly, and the opening strain of the overture would settle majestically across the silenced house.
“Maybe there’s still time, Inspector,” Gruber urged.
“No, Gruber, it’s too late,” I repeated. “Our man appears in the very opening scene. As we speak he’s already in his place on the stage, ready the minute the curtain goes up. Get yourself up to the wings, tell whoever is in charge there that you’re on police business but say no more, just stay put and don’t let Socransky out of your sight, especially whenever he’s off stage. I’m off to the first tier. Word has it that Wagner and his wife are seated with King Ludwig in the royal box. I’ll stay as close to the Maestro as possible, even during intermissions when he’ll be mingling with the high and mighty in the lounge.”