“Examples are legion,” he went on. “Take Mozart. Died at thirty-five. Schubert? Dead at thirty-one. Mendelssohn barely made it to thirty-eight. By the age of only thirty-three, poor Beethoven had become stone deaf. Moreover, he suffered from fits of rage. Degeneration, that's the reason. Everything breaks down…the body, the mind. Inner forces push and pull these so-called creative people apart, don't you see? Creativity and disease are blood brothers among people in the arts. Painters, composers, writers…they flirt with illnesses of every description. Had I the authority, I would confiscate every easel and palette in Europe…every musical instrument, writing stand, pen, ink pot…and I would retain these instruments of disaster under lock and key until Medicine has found a way to cure men and women of their addictions. Believe me, sir, creativity is a form of incurable addiction, plain and simple!”
“But what about Haydn and Handel?” I said. “They lived to ripe old ages. Bach, too, lived a full life, not only musically, but domestically and spiritually.”
Möbius's hand waved dismissively. “Rare and unimportant exceptions.”
“I take it, then, that you place little stock in Dr. Schumann's complaint concerning the ‘A sound’.”
Möbius gave me a cold look. “I have already made it clear, have I not, that I am not at liberty to discuss a patient's condition?”
Straining to remain civil, I said, “Very well, then, let us continue to speak in theoretical terms. Can one legitimately claim to be hearing a particular musical sound even when that sound is not in fact being produced anywhere within earshot?”
“People who engage in the auditory arts,” said Möbius, “are inclined to suffer from auditory hallucinations. They hear music when no one else can possibly do so. There are studies, incidentally, that indicate people in the visual arts suffer a similar fate, except that they are constantly confronted by forms and colours not visible to others. It's a maddening process, to be sure, and one would do well to avoid such so-called creative activities because of the often frightening consequences and the terrible price they exact.”
“Surely you're not suggesting that people turn their backs on music, painting, even literature, and devote themselves solely to running banks and shops and factories!”
Möbius poked his thick cigar into the air, indifferent to the length of ash that tumbled to the carpet. “Stability, my dear Inspector…stability of character, that's what society rests upon. Engineers, doctors, scientists, they are the meat and potatoes of the nation. All the rest is mere desserts, items on the public's menu that are frivolous and therefore entirely dispensable.”
“Is it possible, Doctor, that what you call auditory hallucinations can be stimulated by some outside means? Could someone other than the creative artist himself trigger a hallucination?”
Behind the small oval-shaped spectacles set in delicate silver frames, Möbius's eyes seemed to fade into blank patches of grey. “I have no idea what you're referring to, Inspector, not the slightest,” he said with a shrug.
“Very well then. Let me re-state the question. Maestro Schumann maintains that someone is, or some persons are, deliberately attempting to drive him insane by producing, perhaps by some direct mechanical means, the sound of middle A on the musical scale, which sound occurs regardless of what piece of music is being played at any given moment. Indeed, even if no music is being played, that middle A sound may suddenly find its way into Schumann's ears. Is this possible?”
Again a blank stare from the doctor. “Is what possible?”
I put my question to him again. “Is it possible that the ‘auditory hallucination’ in this case is being created or produced from some source outside his own mind, and is therefore not, strictly speaking, an auditory hallucination?”
Dr. Möbius was silent for a few moments. He seemed more interested in examining his cigar, which had gone cold. Without looking up at me, he said, “I deal in matters of science, Inspector, not idle speculations.”
“Is this your way of informing me, sir, that there is no legitimacy to Robert Schumann's suspicions?”
Still looking away, Möbius said, “You may draw any conclusion you wish, Inspector. I can say nothing more on the subject.” From his vest pocket he withdrew a heavy gold watch. “And now, sir, if you will excuse me-”
I rose, collected my outerwear, and made my exit without another word.
On my way out the side door of the house, I began to throw over my shoulders my greatcoat and muffler, and failed to notice a man mounting the steps as I was descending. We collided midway. I swung round. “I do beg your pardon,” I said.
Ignoring my apology, the man dashed up the remaining steps, and I was able only to catch a quick look at him. In the split second of this encounter, I recognized him.
The man being let into Dr. Möbius's house was Wilhelm Hupfer.
Chapter Fourteen
I returned to my office at the constabulary headquarters on foot rather than by carriage. I wanted time to gather my thoughts after what was, at best, an hour of pure frustration spent-wasted is perhaps a better word-in the company of Germany's reputed leader in the new field of Psychiatry, Dr. Paul Möbius. A feeling of defeat weighed heavily on my shoulders, and my mood was not at all lightened by a typical February sky that pressed down from the clouds, a vast ominous quilt of grey stretching from one end of the city to the other. Nor was my mood improved when, approaching my desk, I spotted a note carefully propped up, so it could not possibly be missed. The gold seal representing the Düsseldorf Police District at the top of the note meant only one thing: a summons to appear before the Commissioner.
“Close the door, Preiss,” was the Commissioner's curt greeting as I entered his office. Behind his handsome desk, my superior was pretending to peruse the detectives’ assignment ledger. His thick eyebrows hung over his spectacles like nightshades, always a sign that a storm was brewing. “Schumann…Schumann…I see no reference to a Schumann matter here. There's no official complaint on file. No criminal report of any sort. I have no record of having appointed you to investigate anything pertaining to this fellow.”
“Indeed, sir, you did not.”
“Then by what authority are you engaged in this wild goose chase?”
I nodded in the direction of a nearby chair. “It's a bit complicated, sir. May I sit?”
“No, Preiss, you may not sit. I ask you again, who authorized this waste of police resources and taxpayers’ money?”
My mind began to race. How had this scowling bundle of facial hair learned that I had become involved in the Schumann affair? I thought my movements in and out of the affair had been discreet these past few days. I'd forgotten that any reasonably trained detective on our staff could have snooped in my daily calendar and put two and two together. God knows, there were enough junior inspectors who were jealous of my rank in the police force and considered me stand-offish.
His jowls shaking with indignation and impatience, the Commissioner repeated his question. “Well, Preiss, for the third time, who authorized you?”
I was forced to think quickly. Then, keeping my voice low, as though disclosing a sacred confidence, I said, “I take it, sir, that Baron and Baroness von Hoffman have confided in you about this Schumann matter?”
The simple mention of these two local aristocrats suddenly drew the Commissioner to attention, even though he was seated. “Confided in me? About what, precisely?”
I replied, “About their extreme distress concerning threats upon the life of their dear friend Dr. Schumann. Surely, they must have brought it to your attention, sir. Perhaps, in your own desire to be circumspect…after all, this is a potentially embarrassing situation for many distinguished people who are suspects. Perhaps the matter was not recorded and a formal file opened-”