“Perfectly, sir.”
“Well then, enough time wasted, eh? Back to work!”
For the record, Baron von Hoffman had not in fact approached me with a proposal to protect him and his wife and their precious possessions. But he was instantly enthusiastic when I approached him with the idea (which, in fact, I made a point of doing not more than an hour after my latest encounter with the Commissioner).
“I do admire a man like you, Preiss,” the Baron said, beaming and clapping a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Imagination, that's what gives a man a place in the sun, eh?”
I was keenly aware that the Baron had inherited his place in the sun, but why split hairs? “Thank you, Your Excellency,” I said. “I look forward to being of service to you for many years to come.”
“Indeed you will!” said the Baron. “One of these days we'll be considering a successor to Commissioner Schilling. Face it, the man deserves a good long rest, don't you agree?”
Hoping I sounded generous, I said, “The Commissioner deserves more than that, sir.”
His hand still pressing my shoulder, the Baron said, “You're a good man, Preiss. You must dine one evening soon with the Baroness and me. Oh, and be sure to bring along that charming friend of yours, the cellist-”
“Fräulein Becker-”
“Yes, by all means. Fine musician, that young woman. And not hard to look at, eh? Made quite an impression on me that evening at the Schumanns. By the way, I hear Schumann had to be carted off to some hospital near Bonn. Endenich or some such place. From all accounts, it sounds like the poor fellow has gone mad. Pity about these creative people, isn't it? All sorts of wild rumours floating about, too. Mostly about his wife and this young musician Brahms.” The Baron regarded me with a cagey smile. ‘You happen to know anything about all this, Preiss?”
“Very little,” I said. “Domestic matters of that sort are really no concern of my department.”
“Of course,” the Baron said, nodding in an understanding way. “Just a bit of idle curiosity on my part. Anyway, composers come and go, don't they. We lose one, we gain another. I'm old enough, Preiss, to remember when Beethoven died. Everyone moaned and groaned about the musical world coming to an end. But it didn't come to an end, did it? Which reminds me: anything new about the murder of Georg Adelmann? You know, the last time I saw the poor fellow was at the Schumanns’ musicale. I happened to wander into the Maestro's study, and there was Adelmann, all alone, standing transfixed before a cabinet, gazing at an original Beethoven manuscript. I left the room, but Adelmann couldn't seem to tear himself away from it. Odd how one thought leads to another, eh?”
You have no idea, sir, how odd,” I said and left it at that.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Escorting me to the massive oak doors at the front entrance of his mansion, where his valet stood holding my coat, Baron von Hoffman abruptly brought me to a halt. “I hope you'll not take offense, Preiss,” he said, “but I cannot help observing that you look exhausted. I insist you take one of my carriages back to the Constabulary.” I began to protest that his offer was much too generous. “Nonsense! Not another word!”
The carriage turned out to be one of those fine English-built four-wheel coaches with oversize shackles and luxuriously padded seats that cushioned the passenger against the winter-ravaged cobbles. I sat back, silently congratulating myself on my good fortune. I had managed to learn-albeit by accident-that at one point during the evening of the Schumanns’ musicale, Georg Adelmann had been observed by the Baron in Robert Schumann's study standing alone; he would have been entirely free to steal the precious Beethoven manuscript which so obviously entranced him. There was now not the slightest doubt in my mind: Adelmann had lied to me about the manuscript having come into his possession as a gift-a bribe, really-from Schumann.
But the Baron was right. I was exhausted, and it did not take long for the steady clip-clopping of the horses and the gentle swaying from side to side of the driver perched up front to mesmerize me. My eyelids were growing heavy and beginning to close. I was aware that I was falling asleep there, in the comfort of that splendid vehicle, when suddenly-as though the coachman's whip had flicked across my face-my eyes snapped open, I sat up, and heard myself sharply call out, “Stop! Please stop!”
Obeying instantly, the driver turned about in his seat, a worried look on his weather-beaten face. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “I did not mean to drive so fast. Please excuse-”
“No, no,” I said, “that's not it at all. I need to walk.”
“But, sir, the Constabulary is at least three kilometres-”
Paying no heed to the fellow, I abruptly dismounted. “Kindly convey my thanks to the Baron.”
“But, sir,” the driver said, rolling his eyes skyward, “any moment now those clouds are going to open up and-”
I dug into my coat pocket and found several coins, which I pressed into the driver's palm. “Rain does not dare to fall on police inspectors, but I thank you for your concern.”
I watched him turn about, shaking his head as though I were mad to make him abandon me under a threatening sky. I began to walk, at first with a slow, measured pace; then, gradually, the pace accelerated until, a half-kilometre from the Constabulary, I had launched into a full march. So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed that my hat and coat were soaked and the insides of my shoes wet from sheets of water being flung across my path by winds off the Rhine.
Reaching the Constabulary, I ignored the perfunctory greetings from the guards posted at the entrance and bounded up the four flights of stairs to my office in record time. To an orderly stationed in the corridor outside my office I called out that I was not to be disturbed for the next hour under any circumstances.
“Does that include the Commissioner?” the startled orderly inquired.
“It includes God!” I shouted back, slamming my office door behind me. Then, on second thought, and to make certain I was left alone, I locked my door, something I rarely if ever did.
I removed my soaked hat and coat and tossed them carelessly over the nearest chair. Who cared that, once dry, they would look slept in? I could feel my stockinged feet swimming inside my shoes but this, too, did not matter.
I sat myself down at my desk and found a large sheet of stationery, which I laid flat before me. I reached for a pen, dipped the nib deeply into the well for an ample supply of ink, and printed out in large block letters:
ROBERT SCHUMANN MURDERED GEORG ADELMANN
I sat back staring at what I had just written, the pen still in my hand. I pondered the words, holding the paper now at arm's length, feeling for a moment as though I were a child who had just learned to write and was staring in wonderment at my first-ever sentence.
I placed the paper flat in front of me again, replenished the ink on the nib, and ran a heavy line through the sentence. Underneath it, I then printed, again in large block letters:
ROBERT SCHUMANN KILLED GEORG ADELMANN
It was all beginning to make sense to me now.
I recalled that Schumann had agreed with Liszt about the piano having been mis-tuned. To prove it to himself, Schumann somehow must have got his hands on Hupfer's tuning fork, probably lifting it from the unsuspecting technician's tool bag. Satisfied that the fork had been deliberately tampered with, Schumann must have fallen into one of his rages, the fires within him ignited beyond extinguishing when he next discovered that his Beethoven treasure was missing. Clara would have stoked the fires further by pointing to Adelmann as the culprit, based on the information I had passed on to her about the journalist's penchant for stealing. The sequence of events led to one conclusion and one conclusion only.