Murder in A-Major Read online

  Helena gave me a generous kiss on the cheek. “I love it when you play clever detective. Yes, Franz Liszt was at the Hoffmans’, and he played his piano transcription of one of Wagner's overtures. My God, Hermann, the passion…I can scarcely describe it…it is so—so arousing!”

  The minutes that followed were dizzying. I found myself occupying the space ordinarily occupied by Helena Becker's cello. I could feel her right arm sliding back and forth across the small of my back, as though she were wielding her bow. With her left hand, she fingered the notes, as it were, up and down my shoulder blades, digging deeply.

  But when I closed my eyes, it was not Helena Becker's face I was imagining.

  It was the face of Clara Schumann.

  Chapter Four

  The following morning, eager to be alone with my private thoughts, I made a point of avoiding the ritual daily briefing with Commissioner Schilling, my immediate superior, and climbed the three flights to my office at the Constabulary by an out-of-the-way rear set of stairs. My case load happened to be unusually light. For some reason, the crime rate for the City of Düsseldorf regularly fell this time of year, suggesting that a severe drop in temperature could always be relied upon to freeze evil impulses. This gave me time to ponder the problem of Robert Schumann.

  How best to deal with it?

  More to the point, should a senior police official even bother to become involved?

  In the hope of resolving these questions, I arranged to meet Helena for lunch at her favourite restaurant in Düsseldorfs central market area, Schimmel's Coffee House on Linkstrasse. I selected a table in a quiet corner where we could talk and not be overheard. “Helena,” I said, “I need a favour.” Leaning closer to her, I said, speaking quietly, “What I'm about to disclose must remain absolutely confidential. It concerns the possible commission of a crime. Strictly speaking, it is police business. But the challenge here is so extraordinary that I must look outside the police community for assistance. You see, Helena, the victim—if one can call him a victim at this stage—is none other than Robert Schumann.”

  I went on to describe in detail my initial conversation with Schumann as well as with his wife, Clara.

  Helena, at this point indifferent to the food that lay before her, listened attentively, paused to think about it for a few moments, then said, “I'm sorry, Hermann, but I am having difficulty taking this seriously.” I detected a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth, as though she were attempting to suppress a laugh. “Let me tell you something,” she said. She made a quick survey of her surroundings to make certain she was not being overheard. “In the musical world, and even beyond—though apparently the news has not yet reached the Düsseldorf Police Department—Robert Schumann has long been considered half mad. I find it astounding that you of all people—a man who knows what lies beneath every single cobblestone in Düsseldorf—don't know all the stories that have circulated for ages about the Maestro. I find it even more astounding that you care enough to give this craziness as much as an hour of your time.”

  I took a moment to compose a careful reply. “It's because, Helena, for the first time in my career, I am dealing with people…personalities…who do not fit into the underworld of shabby criminals and victims I'm accustomed to dealing with. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, I find myself in a sense rubbing shoulders with thieves, prostitutes, murderers, embezzlers…men and women I am reluctant to touch even when my hands are gloved! And along comes Robert Schumann, my one case in a hundred, so to speak, that doesn't involve some disgusting form of human garbage—”

  She interrupted me. “Not to mention Clara Schumann, of course?” She gave me a knowing smile, the kind of smile born of womanly intuition.

  I pretended not to comprehend. “Meaning what?”

  Helena heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. As though speaking to herself, she said, “Men are so terribly boring when they pretend to be stupid.” She looked at me again. “Meaning, Hermann, that men instantly become enchanted with Clara Schumann even before her fingers settle on the keyboard. Are you going to sit there and claim to be the exception?”

  “My interest in this case is purely professional,” I insisted. “So, can I count on you to help me?”

  “Help you how?”

  “First, say yes; then I'll explain.”

  Looking anxiously over her shoulder, she said: “Oh dear, my goulash must be ice-cold by now. Ask the waiter to take it back to the kitchen and heat it up, Hermann.”

  Knowing Helena, this was her way of saying yes.

  Chapter Five

  There was a firmness in my step as I walked to my office at the headquarters of the Düsseldorf Constabulary. I felt fueled by a new and different sense of purpose. And yet, in one of those rare moments of introspection that plague an otherwise single-minded sleuth, I asked myself: Was Helena right? Was there some ulterior motive driving me to pursue this case?

  Of course, I was genuinely moved by the plight of Robert Schumann. Who wouldn't be, witnessing the state he was in?

  But as for Clara Schumann? Well, yes, I was intrigued. More than intrigued. Captivated!

  Although my hours of work were long and erratic, what spare time was available to me I chose to spend in recital halls, art galleries and libraries. Among my colleagues in the Constabulary I was looked upon as a bit of an oddity, no doubt because I preferred a solitary hour in a bookshop to the after-hours camaraderie of a beer hall.

  These extra-curricular interests of mine put me in touch with a number of eminent people in the cultural life of Düsseldorf. One of the connections I'd made was Georg Adelmann, a journalist of note who wrote extensively about music and musicians for newspapers as well as for academic publications, and who I knew to be writing a monograph on the life and work of Schumann. Though he travelled widely gathering information for his articles and treatises, Adelmann returned to his apartment in Düsseldorf to write his pieces, and I was aware that he was in the city at this time. Before meeting again with Schumann, I was determined to gain as many details about his background as I could. What better source than Georg Adelmann?

  I immediately dispatched this note to Adelmann:

  Dear Dr. Adelmann:

  I understand you are working on a monograph on the life and works of Robert Schumann.

  My close friend, the cellist Helena Becker, is about to make her debut as a solo performer. The work she has chosen is the Maestro's Cello Concerto in A Minor. Helena feels that in order to do justice to so passionate a work, she must acquire the deepest possible understanding not only of the music itself but of the man who created it.

  Knowing that you and I are acquaintances, and being herself almost painfully shy about approaching you directly, Miss Becker has prevailed upon me to speak to you on her behalf. I would be enormously in your debt if you and I could chat—perhaps over lunch—so that I may in turn give Miss Becker the benefit of your insights concerning Schumann, the man as well as the composer.

  Most respectfully,

  Hermann Preiss

  Chapter Six

  It was billed in the local press as a gala event, the highlight of the new concert season in Düsseldorf. Robert and Clara Schumann would present an all-Schumann program, he conducting his Fourth Symphony, she performing his Piano Concerto. There would follow a reception sponsored by the Music Society, which meant that the cream of the city's upper class, brimming with Champagne and high-society gossip, would retire afterward to their mansions to speculate deliciously on how long a mis-matched couple like Robert and Clara Schumann could be expected to remain husband and wife. After all, he was nine years her senior, now forty-four but looked sixty-four thanks (as I was soon to learn) to heavy bouts of drinking, and the steady consumption of pills for a variety of aches and pains, most of which were rumoured to be imagined rather than real. She was a very different story. Now in her thirty-fifth year, Clara Schumann exhibited an effortless radiance.

  The concert was sold out, and I was unable at the last minute to purchase a ticket. Apart from the desire to hear the music, I was eager to watch the Schumanns “in action”, so to speak, before my next encounter with the composer himself. A long line of disgruntled people were being turned away outside the hall, told that there was no longer even standing room. One of the privileges of my office, however, was that I was able to gain entrance simply by presenting my credentials to the manager of the box office. Somehow, an aisle seat only six rows from the stage materialized. I took my seat and settled back, anticipating two thrilling hours of music.

  The overture, also composed by Schumann, went well, and he seemed pleased with the enthusiastic applause.

  The piano concerto went even better. But I thought the Maestro ought to have done the gallant thing and allowed his wife to take solo bows for a performance whose success was largely attributable to her playing. Instead, the two stood side-by-side to acknowledge a standing ovation that I felt was meant for her alone. When an usher emerged from the wings to present the pianist with an enormous bouquet of carnations, I detected a slight frown on Schumann's face, as though it was he who should have received the floral tribute.

  During the intermission, I mingled with that segment of the audience who, occupying the orchestra and box seats, were entitled to occupy the luxuriously appointed mezzanine lounge. The comforting aroma of hearty good living perfumed the air, thick and tangible, like the scoop of whipped cream that crowned my slice of Black Forest cake. And there were other things in the air, half-whispered remarks. “For a man who looks as though he's been to hell and back, he still knows how to deliver a good tune…” “Can you imagine that young woman having to go to bed every night with a man who looks old enough to be her father!”

  It was just as the ushers were beg
inning to announce the conclusion of the intermission that I happened to catch sight of Georg Adelmann hastily downing a demitasse of coffee at the refreshment table.

  “What great good luck, Preiss,” Adelmann said, giving me a cheerful pat on the shoulder. “This will save us exchanging notes. Are you free for lunch tomorrow, say, twelve noon at my club?”

  “Twelve noon sounds splendid,” I said, “but what club are you referring to?”

  “Why, the Düsseldorf Arts and Letters Club, of course.”

  “But Dr. Adelmann,” I said, “you are doing me a favour, and therefore it is I who should be hosting our luncheon.”

  An admission here: I was merely being polite. The truth was that I had never before set foot in the premises of Düsseldorf's exclusive and prestigious culture centre, a place reputed to serve some of the finest food and rarest wines in the country, all consumed by men of distinction and wealth. An opportunity to be a guest there was not lightly to be passed up.

  To my dismay, Adelmann said, grinning jovially, “Very well then, I agree to be your guest, since you insist.”

  I had hardly insisted, but now was faced with taking the famous journalist for what would surely be an expensive meal at one of the city's better cafés, one that would seriously strain my budget. My mother had warned me about this kind of thing. “Hermann,” she would say, “the rich get richer by saving, the poor get poorer by spending.” She cited my father as the perfect example of that adage.

  The remaining half of the concert would be taken up with a performance of Schumann's Fourth Symphony in D Minor. Before the Maestro took the podium, I had a minute or two to study the program notes which, at first glance, were somewhat confusing. It seemed that Schumann's Fourth was really his Second, according to the notes, having been composed as the second of his four symphonies in 1841. The composer, however, had been dissatisfied with the original version and revised it ten years later. As a result, the version we would hear this night was a musical rebirth occurring in 1851 after his Third Symphony, which was why it was now given the number “Four”.

  There was something so haphazard about the creative process, especially in the musical field. So much seemed to depend upon impulse, inspirational moments that suddenly flashed then went dark, like the passage of fireflies in the night. How different from my world. In my profession, one necessarily piled fact upon fact upon fact, like constructing a brick wall. My world was one of logical sequences: two was followed by three which was followed by four. Anything different was unthinkable.

  The D Minor opened with the strings of the orchestra sighing with a hint of yearning, suggesting autumn and the fading away of another year in the composer's life. The second movement, coming without a pause, began with a plaintive melody played by the oboe at a melancholy pace. Again without a break, the third movement, a boisterous scherzo, followed and promised to lift the dark mood left by the preceding two movements. For the first several bars, the musicians and conductor were as one, and the man on the podium waving his baton with such decisiveness seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

  But then, suddenly and for no apparent reason, Schumann let his baton drop to his side, where it remained for several bars. The Düsseldorf orchestra carried on bravely, the musicians no doubt expecting their leader to resume conducting as vigorously as before. Instead, when Schumann's arm rose once again, his beat was out of time to the music, and the baton moved back and forth in a desultory fashion. Moments later the Maestro seemed to recover; then his beat faltered again. By now the players were exchanging anxious glances. In the house, people were whispering. Even the most untrained ear could tell that the scherzo was disintegrating into a sorry jumble of sound. Somehow the orchestra, with no help from its conductor, managed to complete the third movement.

  Eventually, the scherzo folded directly into a fast and brilliant finale. How the musicians managed this transition on their own was beyond explanation but, as suddenly as Schumann's attention had slackened earlier, it had revived and was sustained for most of the final movement.

  Then it happened again. The unexpected fall of the baton, the lifeless dropping of his right arm. The remaining few minutes of Schumann's Fourth were played out in a state of disarray, the musicians ending their mission like troops caught up in a rout. What should have been an ovation instead became a moment of stunned silence. Without so much as a glance at the audience, Schumann fled the stage, leaving in his wake a smattering of polite applause and a sea of confused faces.

  Going against the tide of people making their way to the exits at the rear of the auditorium, I advanced to the stage and made my way to the private lounge backstage reserved for the orchestra's conductor. As I approached, I could hear a commotion and recognized several of the voices, the most prominent being the voices of Robert and Clara.

  “I am a ruined man…ruined!” Schumann was wailing.

  “Calm yourself, Robert…please, try to calm yourself…everything will be all right…Dr. Hellman is here…” That was the voice of Clara Schumann.

  Entering the conductor's rooms, I found Schumann sprawled on a sofa, his jacket removed, shirt collar unbuttoned, bow tie undone, legs and arms limp like those of an unstrung puppet. A bearded man in evening clothes hovered over the distraught composer, urging him to drink a milky liquid that he was offering in a small glass. I took the man to be Dr. Hellman, and the substance in the glass some form of sedative. “Please,” the bearded man pleaded, “just take this, Dr. Schumann, and I promise you—”

  But Schumann's lips tightened like a vise; he would have none of it.

  Close by the physician stood another person who was not at all familiar to me but who appeared to be as concerned as the others and spoke solicitously to Schumann, urging him to heed the doctor's advice and drink the potion. He was young, perhaps about twenty years of age, dressed in street clothes rather than formal eveningwear, and remarkably handsome. His full head of blond hair was brushed back off a high brow so that it almost touched his broad shoulders. His eyes were large and the shade of blue that reminded one of those clear clean lakes in Bavaria's mountain country. Had I spotted him on a sporting field, I would have judged him to be an athlete, given his slim but sturdy build and youthful voice. Though he and I exchanged quick glances, neither of us was inclined under the circumstances to engage in introductions, and I assumed that he was probably either a member of the concert hall staff or possibly a conservatory student who happened to be a family friend of the Schumanns, and left it at that.

  Looking beyond his wife, Dr. Hellman, and another whom I recognized as Julius Tausch, the orchestra's assistant conductor, Schumann caught sight of me. “Preiss, thank God you're here!” he said, weakly beckoning me to come nearer and stand at his side. Ignoring everyone else, he addressed me as though I were his sole source of refuge. “You see, Preiss, you see, don't you? The ‘A’ sound? Even on stage when I am conducting, it pours through me like molten metal. They are killing me, Preiss. You must help me, save me!”

  As he spoke these words, I happened to glance at Clara Schumann. She was staring at me coldly, as though defying me to respond to her husband's plea. I confess to a fleeting hesitation on my part. It was not easy to ignore the look of hostility on the woman's face. Nor was I eager to antagonize her. Indeed, I'd hoped that she and I would somehow join forces in rescuing her husband from whatever danger was threatening his life.

  To Schumann, I said, “You have my assurance, Maestro, that I will do everything in my power to help you. You have my word, sir.” And with that, I turned to leave.

  “Inspector…a moment, please—”

  It was Clara Schumann. She had followed me down the corridor that led to the exit.

  “Yes, Madam Schumann?”

  “You see what is happening, don't you?” she said. “Your presence serves only to reinforce and even inflame my poor husband's illusions. If you truly wish to be of assistance to us, remove yourself from this matter entirely. Tonight. This very minute. I implore you.”