Then, in a sudden change of mood which I had come to know as typical of the man, Schumann sank into total surrender. He became lifeless, his face a blank canvas devoid of any visible emotion. Clara and the housekeeper could now resume with some success their attempts to warm him, for he had begun to shake and shiver, yet somehow he did not seem to be at all aware of his condition. It was as though his mind and body were disconnected.
I turned to one of the fishermen, who had now released his grip on Schumann. Without waiting for my question, without knowing who I was, he said, “We saw him…the other two were in their boat…I was on shore…and we saw him…well, actually, I saw him first. You know the toll bridge near here? Well, he started to cross, got part way, he was running at that point…then he stopped for maybe a second or two…and then, I swear to God, he just threw himself into the water. The others, the ones in the boat, went after him. God knows how they managed to pull him out; he was giving them such a hard time. They didn't know who he was, but I work at the toll bridge, and I was the one who recognized him, because he often takes walks along the riverbank.”
Subdued and incredibly calm now, Schumann allowed himself to be led upstairs, saying only that he needed to sleep, repeating it over and over, paying no attention to Clara, who held his hand and urged him to hush, assuring him that Dr. Heller would come soon.
I introduced myself to the fishermen, praised them for their efforts, and made a note of their names and addresses explaining that I would be calling upon them to furnish their accounts of the incident in writing for a police record.
The wind had grown cruel as I started back to the Constabulary; however, I denied myself the luxury of a cab, feeling instead an urgent need of a long solitary walk and time to stitch into some logical pattern the events of the past hour. Schumann, the intended victim, had himself become a murderer. Of this I was now certain beyond a split second of doubt. My duty, therefore, was clear; it was not to be misted over by counterfeit sentimentality and misplaced sympathies.
Within sight of my headquarters, I touched the inside of my coat to make certain that the fateful tuning fork was securely stored. And over and over again, I repeated, as though bracing myself, “My duty is clear.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following day, I waited until mid-morning before presenting myself once again at the house on Bilkerstrasse, hoping that by the time I arrived, the bustling Schumann household would be sufficiently settled to allow me an uninterrupted interval with Madam Schumann. There were too many hanging threads now-especially after the events of the previous day-for me to put off my investigation even for twenty-four hours. The housekeeper, admitting me this time after only a single knock on the door, shook her head in a sign of utter hopelessness. “I do not know what they are going to do with him,” she lamented, her eyes travelling up the staircase. “Quiet one minute, terrible the next, and it goes on and on like this.” She shook her head again.
“Who are ‘they’?” I said.
“The doctors. Four of them now.”
“Hellman, and who else?”
“Dr. Möbius. Dr. Gruhle. They've been here before. Then there's a new doctor, Dr. Hasenclever-”
Ah yes, Richard Hasenclever. I knew of this fellow. Physician, would-be poet, would-be conductor, dilettante. A man who basked at every opportunity in the Schumanns’ fame, he boasted that he had collaborated with Schumann on the composition of a choral ballade. He was also a prominent member of the Music Society of Düsseldorf. But when it came to the practice of medicine, the man had as much claim to expertise as my chimneysweep.
“You said there are four doctors up there,” I said to the housekeeper.
“Yes. The fourth is also someone I haven't seen here before. A Dr. Böger.”
I was familiar with this physician as well. His qualifications consisted solely of experience in military hospitals, where he purported to treat soldiers suffering from an affliction which had only recently come to be known as shell-shock (and which the Commissioner, who had once been a battlefront officer, preferred to call cowardice). I imagined that Dr. Böger's advice to Schumann would be along the lines of You must pull yourself together,” or something equally simplistic.
“I suppose you wish to see Madam Schumann?” the housekeeper said.
“It may be a bad time to tear her away,” I said, expecting that, along with the four doctors upstairs in their bedroom, she was attempting to calm her husband and somehow stabilize him.
“I will let her know you are here,” the housekeeper said. To my surprise, instead of climbing the stairs, the woman stepped across the hall and knocked gently on the door of Dr. Schumann's study. I heard Clara Schumann instruct her to usher me in.
I found her standing before a well-laid fire. A heavy shawl was draped about her shoulders, its dark strands defining the mood in the room. Her expression was cautious and hinted of resistance. This would not be an easy conversation.
“Madam Schumann,” I said, “I'll try not to detain you too long. I'm sure you feel a need to be with Dr. Schumann.”
“If I thought I could be of use, I would be there instead of here,” she replied in a voice that conveyed almost palpable defeat.
“I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this,” I said, “but the law requires that attempted suicides be reported and investigated where there are questionable circumstances, as there are here. Yesterday you mentioned fleetingly that you and your husband had had a disagreement over some issue, and that he chose to dash off rather than come to grips with it. But there must be more to this…certain details you left out. After all, domestic spats don't ordinarily drive a man to attempt to drown himself.”
“Robert has been drowning himself for a long time,” Clara said. “Drowning himself in rages that have no sense, not to me, not to anyone.”
“We need to be specific here. What drove your husband to attempt suicide?”
“It is a private matter. It is none of your business, really.”
“I take it you would prefer, then, to submit to questioning by a panel of magistrates,” I said. “I can have you summoned before them. Believe me, their patience does not stretch nearly as far as mine. Please understand, madam, I am not insensitive to what you are suffering, but I have a duty to perform. You could make it easier for both of us.”
She stood motionless, studying me as though attempting to satisfy herself that I truly meant what I said.
“Inspector Preiss,” she said at last, “kindly be seated. You say you need details? Very well, then. I have something to tell you, and I warn you: I am going to tell it to you fully, unconditionally, and without shame.”
She offered me a chair, then looked away for several moments as though composing herself. Finally she spoke, her voice steady, her expression unflinching. “The disagreement Robert and I had…it was more a quarrel, an almost violent quarrel at that…really a continuation of what took place between him and me on the night you were first summoned to this house…”
They had gone to bed later than usual, Clara Schumann said, both of them exhausted.
It had been a typical day for her: children to get off to school; the day's meals to plan and a shopping list to compile for the housekeeper's trip to the grocer's; four hours of rigorous practice (two before lunch, two after lunch, in preparation for a cycle of nine Beethoven sonatas to be performed over three nights in Vienna the following month). She'd had household bills to examine and pay, a letter to write to her father, dutifully wishing him a happy birthday and adding Robert's best wishes (a lie if ever there was one). Before the children's bedtime, there were little tales of their joys and woes to listen to, bed-time stories to tell, and last-minute promises to make that there were absolutely no ghosts lurking in the seldom-visited attic directly above their heads.