In my own mind the name “Robert Schumann” had formed almost from the moment I had entered Adelmann's quarters, but I could not bring myself to say it aloud. Besides, having persuaded the Commissioner to let me pursue Schumann's tormentors, how could I possibly justify my efforts if Schumann himself were now perceived as a cold-blooded murderer?
Desperate to focus Schilling's attention on other possible suspects-anyone but Schumann, for God's sake-I said, “Let's examine the pages for the previous days, say, for the past week or so.”
Schilling laid the appointment book open and flipped the pages back about seven or eight days. “I must say, for a writer, this fellow Adelmann had terrible penmanship. I can hardly read what's written here. Unfortunately, I've left my spectacles back at my office.”
The Commissioner handed over the appointment book to me. “You have one advantage over me, Preiss,” he said grudgingly, “your eyes are younger. Here, perhaps you can make out the names-”
Most of the names, which I read aloud, meant nothing to the Commissioner or to me, which brought a chuckle from Schilling. “Probably the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, eh? Even a famous journalist has to deal with the humdrum of daily life, I suppose.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“Well, continue. Maybe we'll encounter some names that ring a bell.”
“May I suggest, Commissioner, that we take the appointment book back to the Constabulary,” I said.
“Why? Light's just as good here as there.”
“True, but-”
“But what?”
“I have a more powerful magnifying glass in my office. It would certainly help…1 mean, to make out some of the names and notes-”
“You mean to tell me your eyesight isn't keen enough, Preiss? I find it astonishing, to say the least…a man of your age.”
“I plan to consult an eye specialist very soon,” I said. “Meantime, shall we take the appointment book back to-?”
Yes, yes,” Schilling said impatiently. “If we must, we must.”
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. This would give me time to digest the names that appeared in Adelmann's appointment book for the three days immediately preceding the day of his death…names that were familiar to me: Friedrich Wieck, Willi Hupfer, Paul Mobius.
But one name that was also familiar to me-a name I suspected I'd find for certain in the appointment book-in fact was not there at all…Johannes Brahms.
“Well, Preiss, now you've got yourself a genuine crime, eh?”
Commissioner Schilling, gold-rimmed spectacles firmly fixed in place by his bulbous nose, stood peering over my shoulder, gloating.
“Genuine crime, sir?”
“As opposed to that frivolous business you've been involved with…much too involved, as you well know. I'm referring to the nonsense about that Schumann fellow, of course. Well, enough of that. Those names in Adelmann's appointment book…the ones that appear for the last two or three days…they mean anything to you? Read ’em again for me.”
“Friedrich Wieck-”
“Go on.”
“Wilhelm Hupfer-”
“Yes yes, go on. I see more there.”
“Paul Möbius-”
“Ah, there's a name I recognize. Some sort of ‘mind specialist’, I believe.”
“You mean a psychiatrist, sir?”
“Is that what they're called these days?” Schilling chuckled. “In my day they were called quacks and charlatans. I attended a lecture Möbius gave at the Police Academy several years ago. Never heard such idiocy in my entire life. Utter drivel dressed up in medical jargon. What do you suppose Adelmann was doing, mixed up with a…what did you call him?”
“A psychiatrist, sir. I have no idea why Adelmann and Möbius would be seeing one another.”
“What about…Wieck, is it? And Hupfer?”
I shrugged. “Their names mean nothing to me, either, Commissioner.”
“Well, Adelmann was a damned important figure. Better drop whatever's on your schedule and get busy on this investigation. Remember, Preiss, whenever the facts don't reveal themselves clearly, I always trust my instincts. Never wrong. In time, I hope you develop sufficient confidence to trust yours. I suppose you have some idea where to begin here?”
“I do indeed, Commissioner.”
I knew exactly where to begin, but my instincts told me to keep it to myself for the time being.
“Well, then, carry on. Time flies.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
So, Inspector Preiss, we meet again. Is this an official visit?” Brahms asked, “or have you come to discuss piano tuning? Don't look surprised, Inspector. I have my sources of information. By the way, how did you locate my lodging?”
“My sources of information,” I replied. “And yes, this is an official visit.”
I took a quick look around the room. My face must have betrayed disappointment, which my reluctant host did not fail to notice. “I must apologize for my humble abode. The realm has not yet seen fit to shower me with its coinage.”
“Speaking of living quarters, Herr Brahms, I understood that you occupied a guest room at Number 15 Bilkerstrasse, the Schumanns’ residence. Was I misinformed?”
“You were not misinformed,” Brahms said, “but your information is slightly outdated. I moved here several days ago.”
“Really? May I ask why?”
“You may ask,” Brahms said, eyeing me steadily with those incredibly blue eyes, “but what's the point of asking when you already know the answer?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Living under the same roof as Robert Schumann would be next to impossible, wouldn't it? I mean, the man's unpredictable moods, his tempers-”
“Don't play games with me, Inspector. You know perfectly well my move had nothing to do with Robert. The truth is, I found it next to impossible to live under the same roof as Clara Schumann, and I think you know the reason…or reasons,” he said. Brahms's tone was so quiet, so confident, that for a moment I felt off balance.
“Did you happen to visit Georg Adelmann the day he was murdered?” I asked, anxious to change the subject and regain my sense of control. “That's really why I'm here, Herr Brahms.”
“If you must know, I did go see the old bastard, because earlier that day Robert threatened to kill him. I persuaded the Maestro to let me deal with Adelmann. I didn't want Robert to get into trouble.”
“You actually heard Schumann threaten to kill Adelmann?”
“Not in so many words, but whenever the Maestro is in one of his ‘Florestan’ moods, there is no telling what he will do, how far he might go if left unchecked.”
“Did he tell you why he was ready to kill Adelmann?”
Brahms paused. “Well, you're not going to be pleased with the answer to that question, Inspector. Robert was bitterly disappointed over your failure to confront Adelmann and retrieve the stolen Beethoven manuscript.”
“That's as much as Schumann revealed to you, then? Nothing more?”
“What more was there to tell?”
“The Maestro gave as his only reason the fact that, in his eyes, I had fallen down on the job?” I said.
“Inspector, with all due respect, when the man who is supposedly the finest detective in Düsseldorf catches a thief red-handed, fails to apprehend him, then to make matters worse, fails to retrieve a priceless item of stolen property, wouldn't you expect a man like Robert Schumann to become almost insane with rage?”
“So, the plan was,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “that you would approach Adelmann yourself, hoping perhaps to accomplish what I allegedly failed to accomplish.”
“Precisely, Inspector.”
“And I take it that you were met with the same responses from Adelmann that I received?”
Brahms hesitated. I sensed for the first time since my arrival that he was unsure of himself. Looking steadily at me-which convinced me he was lying-he said, “Yes, I imagine he said the same things to me as he said to you.”