“Hermann, in case you haven't noticed, I'm still here-”
“And then…and then there's his visit to Dr. Möbius-”
“All right,” Helena said, sounding like a martyr, “we'll overlook the fact that I'm famished. What exactly have Dr. Möbius and Hupfer got to do with anything?”
My eyes drifted back to Helena. “Helena, dearest, I don't know the answer to your question, but here's what I want you to do.”
Chapter Sixteen
I hailed a cab and delivered Helena to the front door of her residence, where the two of us parted with dutiful pecks on the cheeks. The past hour or so had exhausted me, not to mention leaving my appetite for food unsatisfied. I wanted nothing so much as to retire within the four walls of my sitting room, throw on a comfortable robe, and sit before a fire, my mind set free by a liberating snifter of brandy.
Letting myself into the tiny foyer of my apartment block, I was confronted by the concierge, an elderly army veteran with a face scarred by war wounds and hands tortured by a merciless case of arthritis. “There's a man-” With a misshapen index finger, he pointed over his shoulder in the direction of a small anteroom off the foyer. “Been waiting ever so long.” His voice suddenly faded to a whisper. “Over an hour! Seems terribly upset about something. I was tempted to offer him tea, but something about him frightened me half to death.”
“Thank you, Henckel,” I said and stepped across the foyer and into the anteroom.
“Preiss! Thank God! I was beginning to think you'd never arrive.”
“Good evening, sir.” I tried to sound cordial despite the fact that-like all surprises-this one, on this night of all nights, and at this hour, was especially unwelcome. “To what do I owe the honour?”
“Forgive me for imposing like this, Inspector,” Robert Schumann said. “I must speak with you privately…a matter of extreme urgency.”
Schumann trailed behind me up the three flights of stairs to my rooms, taking each step as though he were climbing a mountain. Arriving at the landing outside my door, he was out of breath and gasping for air.
“Brandy, Dr. Schumann?”
He raised a hand to decline. “I wish to be entirely clear-headed.”
“Do you mind if I indulge?” Without waiting for Schumann's reply, I poured myself a healthy portion and quickly downed half of it, thinking, I owe at least this to myself, since obviously I'm to have no peace tonight.
A closer examination of my guest's appearance explained Henckel's fear of remaining in his presence a moment longer than was necessary. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. His complexion was blotchy, the skin of his cheeks and chin raw in places from being poorly shaved. Beads of sweat surrounding his purplish lips had given his mouth an uncertain formation, like the opening of some unexplored cave. His clothing smelled strongly of cigar smoke and his breath strongly of liquor, though he seemed perfectly sober. I motioned for him to be seated.
“Thank you, I prefer to stand,” Schumann said. “Please allow me to come directly to the point of this intrusion. One of my most valuable possessions is missing and presumably stolen, a first draft of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Opus Two Number Two, the one he dedicated to Joseph Haydn. It was left to me by my dear friend Felix Mendelssohn in his last will and testament. Needless to say, it is a priceless document.”
“When did you notice it was missing?” I asked.
“The morning after the musicale at our house,” Schumann said. “I had gone to the cabinet in my study where it was kept. I wanted to re-examine Beethoven's handling of the opening theme. One visits and re-visits the music of Bach and Beethoven, just as one attends church from time to time…to find God. And it was gone. The manuscript was gone!”
I wanted to know if the manuscript was on display or locked away. This question brought a pained look to Schumann's face. “Stupid vain fool that I am! I was so proud that Felix-God rest his soul-had seen fit to bequeath it to me that I kept it on display in a glass cabinet for all the world to see. And now-” Schumann's voice broke.
“You're quite certain it wasn't simply mislaid, Maestro?”
“Would one simply mislay a treasure chest filled with diamonds? No, Inspector, it was stolen.”
“If you are so positive, then you must have a suspect in mind.”
I waited for Schumann to go on, but suddenly he seemed hesitant. As gently as I could, I said, “I cannot help you, Maestro, if you withhold information. Whom do you suspect?”
There was a strained moment of silence. Then Schumann blurted out, “Adelmann…Georg Adelmann…it has to be him. Can you imagine? A man I trusted…a man to whom I opened my house and my heart…who is supposed to be my friend, my biographer!”
“What makes you so sure it was Adelmann?”
“Because he is a thief. Clara told me he's a thief, ‘a petty thief’ she said, but apparently he has graduated from petty pilfering to grand theft. I asked my wife how she knew about Adelmann. She said you yourself warned her about him the very night of the musicale.” Suddenly seizing my arm, he said, “You must confront him, Inspector, I beg you. He cannot be allowed to get away with this.”
Uncomfortable as I was under the grip of my anguished visitor, I replied in a calm, quiet tone, “Maestro, please try to understand. It is not always the most prudent course to confront, to use your word. To accuse someone of so grave a crime on the basis of suspicion alone-”
Schumann cut me off. Angrily, he said, “In other words, Preiss, like everyone else around me, you're already convinced that I'm out of my mind. Well, never mind, then. I'll go to the Commissioner of Police himself, if I must.”
Quickly I said, “I would not rush to involve the Commissioner if I were you, Dr. Schumann.”
“And why the devil not?”
“Because, sir, frankly, the Commissioner is not keen about people in the arts in general, nor does he have much patience for your case in particular. In fact, I have only a few days now to get to the bottom of your original complaint; otherwise, I face some unpleasant disciplinary measures for having neglected more pressing duties. My career could be in jeopardy, do you see?”
Every part of Schumann seemed to sag. “Then I am to end up like the statue in the fairy tale…with my jewels plucked out and taken away, one by one, only not by an innocent sparrow but by a pack of crows and vultures…conspirators, robbers. I give to the world glorious music. And what does the world give me in return? Spite. Envy. Treachery.”
“But Maestro,” I said, “you have much to be thankful for. Beautiful children. A beautiful and talented wife. The admiration of countless lovers of your music, the respect of a host of your peers-”
“I hate my life, Preiss! I hate it!” he shouted, taking me aback. His voice trembling, he went on. “I can no longer bear the sight of myself. Death hangs over every bar of music I compose now, like a storm cloud.”
Without waiting to be asked, Schumann moved unsteadily to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, sobbing bitterly, his hands covering his eyes in a gesture of shame.
“Very well, Dr. Schumann,” I said, “I will go to Adelmann as early as possible tomorrow. And I promise to report back to you with all due speed.”
It was a promise I would very soon come to regret.
Chapter Seventeen
Like Dr. Möbius (whose premises I had visited a few days earlier), Georg Adelmann obviously felt a compulsion to surround himself with tokens of his eminence: framed honourary degrees, row upon row of them, hung with exquisite care on the walls of his study, evidence not only of the high esteem in which others held him, but the high esteem in which he held himself. Where Adelmann's quarters differed from those of Möbius was in the luxury of the appointments. Though the two residences stood in the same affluent neighbourhood of Düsseldorf, the one occupied by the journalist offered evidence in abundance of a man in love with fashionable furnishings, fine art and Persian carpets that would have done a sultan proud.