“Is that so, Preiss? Well, then, perhaps that explains the stories about your involvement with the Schumann case a few years back in Düsseldorf.”
“Stories?”
“Yes. About how you were apparently so blinded by Schumann and that wife of his that — ”
“You needn’t repeat it, Maestro. What was mere gossip has unfortunately grown into a legend.”
“Ah, so Franz isn’t telling tales out of school after all.”
“Franz? You mean Franz Brunner?”
“Brunner? Who the devil is Franz Brunner? I’m talking about Franz Liszt of course.”
“Ah yes, the father of the woman with whom you are having an affair … a rather notorious affair.”
“That is none of your business, Inspector,” Wagner shot back.
“Everything is my business, Maestro Wagner,” I said. “Your lady friend — ” I began to say.
“I have many lady friends, Preiss.”
“Your lover, then … Cosima von Bülow, wife of the conductor. I, too, have ears that pick up tales out of school, tales to the effect that your former friend Franz Liszt is appalled that his daughter has left her husband and become your mistress. Maestro von Bülow can hardly be thrilled by these events.”
“These are personal matters, Preiss,” Wagner shouted. “I repeat: they are none of your business.”
“The threatening note you received … could it not have been written by Liszt, or von Bülow, or some government official, for that matter? Any one of these persons, it seems to me, might have a powerful desire to bring about your downfall.”
Wagner fell silent and stood studying me for a few moments. Quietly he said, “I see that you are indeed not a conventional policeman. You seem to know a great deal about what goes on in the musical world, at least here in Munich.”
“And elsewhere,” I said. “But, to be frank, your activities, Maestro, extend far beyond the boundaries of the musical world. Politics, revolution, creditors and the avoidance of creditors … the very name ‘Richard Wagner’ conjures up as much discord as harmony throughout Europe. I have just mentioned three people who would have ample cause to write that note, but there could be thirty, or three hundred, or even three thousand!”
And with that, I reached for my coat and hat. “It is late, sir. You must excuse me. If you want me, Mecklenberg knows where to find me.”
Without another word, I turned and made a brisk exit, leaving one of the most vocal men in Germany speechless.
Chapter Three
The Munich Constabulary is located at the east side of Karlsplatz, facing the Palace of Justice on the opposite side of the square. With good reason, the Constabulary is looked upon as the ugly cousin of the Palace. While the Palace shines as a tribute to the noblest of Renaissance style, in sharp contrast the Constabulary is an angry-looking edifice, its grey stone façade frozen into a permanent scowl that menaces passersby and forces them to avert their eyes. Even citizens who are entirely innocent pass through its guarded portals feeling they must be guilty of something.
If the Constabulary’s exterior is forbidding, the interior is even more so. A century of hard use has left its woodwork scarred and blackened. Coats of dark green paint applied slapdash every few years to the corridors have made the place as inviting as a shelter for the insane. Every surface — floors, walls, ceilings — is as unyielding as stone, so that people’s voices and the staccato clacking of officers’ boots on the bare marble floors resound as in a huge hollow cavern.
My own office, alas, offers nothing exceptional to its stern surroundings: in size and furnishings it suggests that my daily occupation is that of a monk (an irony considering that for the life of me I cannot recall the last time I visited any room or building that has anything at all to do with faith). My “cell” has only one attribute — privacy. Thanks to my seniority, I need share it with no one. In the midst of all this architectural ugliness I at least have the comfort of my own company.
How odd, then, that whoever a hundred years ago concocted this four-storey pile made certain to provide space on the uppermost floor for a common room (or “lounge” as Commissioner von Mannstein prefers to call it) for senior police personnel. Not that it is elegant, this so-called lounge: a scattering of chairs with straight unforgiving backs and undernourished upholstery; a half-dozen small simple wooden tables whose tops bear numerous hieroglyphics carved by irreverent off-duty policemen. (One such carving is a rudimentary depiction of two dogs copulating, an obscenity that would earn any ordinary civilian a year behind bars but which here, in the common room, is a source of constant amusement, even pride!) A collection of oversized oil portraits of past commissioners decorates the walls, each stern face staring down at us with an expression of extreme contempt. One can peer out at a restricted landscape of Munich through three narrow windows that serve unfailingly to restrict light and air and to keep the city at a safe distance. All in all the room brings to mind the ancient Greek motto: Nothing in excess.
It was here, in the common room, that I encountered Franz Brunner the morning after my initial exposure to Richard Wagner. Slouched in his chair, feet resting on another chair he’d drawn up, he held half a sandwich in one hand while munching the other half. “Well well, good morning, Preiss,” he called out, his voice thickened by a mixture of bread, cheese, and some garlicky variety of sausage. “Or should I say good afternoon? Isn’t this what they call ‘bankers’ hours’ … in by noon, out by four?”
I responded with what had become in recent weeks my standard greeting to the man, “Go to hell, Brunner.” The fact that I was still feeling the effects of the last few grinding days and had therefore arrived for work three hours later than usual was none of his damned business.
Brunner pretended to be hurt. “And here I was certain,” he said, “that you’d show up this morning with — what? — a magnum of Champagne? A flask of Napoleon brandy? Or at least a handful of decent Dutch cigars, Preiss.” The petulance in his tone made him sound like a rejected ingénue instead of a forty-five-year-old detective whose girth stretched the buttons of his waistcoat to their limit.
“And why would I want to shower you with gifts, Brunner?” I knew the answer, of course, but was nevertheless curious to hear it from his mouth in order to fuel my loathing for the fellow.
Brunner didn’t disappoint me. “I thought you’d want to show your gratitude, Preiss.”
“Gratitude for what?”
“For putting that little man … what’s his name — ?”
“Mecklenberg — ”
“Yes, Mecklenberg … for putting him on to you. I mean, it’s common knowledge that Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss is the darling of artists of all stripes.”
I knew what was coming next. Detective Franz Brunner never passed up an opportunity to remind me of the city where my career had its beginnings and where one case in particular in which I was deeply involved ended in an unsolved murder that has haunted me ever since. “Wasn’t it Düsseldorf? There was that madman, uh, Schumann, some sort of crazy musical genius. Murder, attempted suicide; you must have had your hands full. None of that nonsense ever got solved, did it, Preiss?”
In a calm unruffled way that I knew was bound to irritate him I replied, “Allow me to congratulate you, Brunner. If nothing else, you are blessed with the gift of consistency.” I paused for a moment to let the insult sink in, then said, “Look here, Brunner, whether or not you choose to believe me, I am sorry about what happened, I mean that business at Friedensplatz. I give you my word; I had nothing whatever to do with the commissioner’s decision to remove you from the case.”