“On Sunday? Wouldn't that be unusual?”
“Yes, of course. But I made it sound like a matter of life and death. Also, I made a point of mentioning that his latest bill would be paid at the same time, together with any additional charges, just to sweeten his Sabbath.”
“And your excuse for sending for him?”
“I did just what you saw me do, Inspector. I delivered a blow to his newly-installed A string that could be heard from one end of Düsseldorf to the other.”
“And the string snapped?”
“Like a dry twig. Well, it turned out that Willi was able to re-attach the string, which I suppose is a tribute to his skill, because a factory-made string might not have survived the experience. Then, out comes Willi's tuning fork, because the string must be re-tuned, following which he deposits the fork in his tool satchel. I insist that he stay for a slice of warm strudel, his favourite. While he's distracted in the dining room, I suddenly remember something I've left behind in the parlour. His satchel lies open next to the Klems. I locate the tuning fork, pocket it, and close the satchel. After Hupfer's departure, I test the tuning fork and the new string. Need I say more, Inspector?”
“You left the tuning fork concealed under Adelmann's body hoping that it would be traced to Hupfer. In other words, you acted with all the forethought and craftiness of a hardened criminal…or so you would have me believe.”
“You needn't sound so skeptical, Inspector,” Clara said. “You happen to be perfectly correct.”
“And your reason for going to Adelmann's apartment in the first place?”
“Why, I should think my reason was obvious. I wanted him to delete from his monograph that filth about Robert. At first, I asked him very politely to do so. That was met by a refusal, some lame excuse about not wanting to compromise his precious integrity as a journalist. I tried reasoning with him. When reasoning failed, I tried pleading. Pleading too failed. I humbled myself and resorted to begging. He laughed in my face, then made some lewd remark about my relationship with Johannes Brahms and accused me of being hypocritical, attempting to shield Robert's reputation with one hand while cheating on him with the other. Finally, I demanded that he not publish the offensive parts of the monograph. Again he laughed in my face. That was Georg Adelmann's last laugh.”
I sat back in my chair staring at the woman, shaking my head from side to side, at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “I did not come here expecting to listen to what I can only call an incredible confession.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To warn you.”
“Warn me? About what?”
“About the fact that Adelmann's monograph is missing and may well have gotten into the wrong hands. You may have to prepare yourself for-”
“For a scandal?”
I said, “You seem strangely resigned about all this, almost indifferent. Have I not made myself clear? I mean, if these events become public knowledge-”
Without replying, Clara rose from her chair, took several steps across the drawing-room and stopped before a massive mahogany armoire that occupied the better part of one wall and stood at least a half-metre taller than she. From a pocket of her frock she removed a large brass key, which she used to unlock the armoire, its two heavy doors falling open like the doors of a tabernacle, revealing shelves crammed with what appeared to be music manuscripts, notebooks, thick orchestral scores and some ancient-looking textbooks. Pointing to the uppermost shelf whose contents were barely visible, she called to me, “I need your assistance, Inspector.”
At her request I reached up and brought down a package wrapped in a carefully folded linen cloth and securely tied with a black silk ribbon.
“Voilà!” she quietly said, presenting me with the package. “You see, Inspector Preiss, I told you the truth. It was I who went to Adelmann's rooms, I who killed him, I who found and removed the monograph you now see before you. I trust you no longer find my account incredible.”
“Despite what you say,” I protested, “it could have been your husband. After all, he was capable of doing exactly what you insist you did.”
“Physically capable, yes. But mentally? Never! Robert floated from Eusebius to Florestan to Eusebius to Florestan, on and on in that fashion, the way the tides in the Rhine ebb and flow endlessly. He was like Hamlet; full of determination one minute, completely irresolute the next. It was amazing that he managed to accomplish as much as he did. So, I suppose there is nothing more to say, is there?”
“I'm not certain I agree with you,” I said.
“Now, now, we mustn't be stubborn about this. You have all the evidence you need-the tuning fork, Adelmann's manuscript, my own confession. If you will pardon the pun, there is no need to soft-pedal whatever it is your duty requires you to do now. I'm not Beethoven; the poor man couldn't bring himself to end a piece of music in fewer than twenty bars. I know a finale when I see it. I am ready to face justice. I've made suitable arrangements for the care of our children. As for poor Robert, it's best that he remain distanced from the real world, at least for the time being.”
Once again, I found myself speechless. She had handed over the papers in what was intended to be a gesture of surrender, and I had taken them from her mechanically, my mind still frozen in disbelief. Even my body seemed incapable of reacting to this turn of events, my shoes feeling as though the soles had been nailed to the floor. Was she telling me the truth? Or was she a devilishly clever liar? And then again, given what I myself had done at the bridge, did it really matter?
“Well, Inspector?” she said, again with that remarkable calmness.
Slowly, I found my tongue. “There is one problem, Madam Schumann…from my standpoint, that is: The tuning fork? Well, it is no longer in my possession. It lies at the bottom of the Rhine-”
Clara Schumann's eyes grew suddenly large. Her mouth was agape.
“I put it there,” I said.
“You did what?”
“I disposed of the tuning fork.”
You mean…by accident?”
“On the contrary. I deliberately threw it into the river.”
“I–I don't understand, Inspector.” Her expression now was one of disbelief. “Surely what you did flies in the face of what you are duty-bound to do, I mean, to solve mysteries.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but then again, some mysteries are not meant to be solved. At least, that is what I'm beginning to believe.”
I moved away from the armoire and returned to the fireplace on the other side of the drawing-room. “That's a fine blaze,” I said, “and very heartwarming on a day like this.”
She remained near the armoire watching me.
Almost in a whisper, I said, “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” Then I knelt down and laid Adelmann's papers carefully atop the burning logs, staying in that kneeling position until I was certain that the flames had licked their way well into the bundle, the sheets browning and curling and disintegrating and rising up into the chimney in bright orange flecks.
I stood up, pulled my coat securely around me (by now the warmth of the fire had made it dry and comfortable) and said, “And now, goodbye, Madam Schumann. I hope we may meet again one day…under clearer circumstances.”
She came toward me and offered her hand which, without daring to look up at her, I kissed. I left her standing there, in the middle of the drawing-room, and let myself out. It would be-I felt certain-the last time I would ever find myself in that house.
* * *
That evening, again warmed before a blazing fire-this time in the peace and quiet of Helena Becker's sitting room-I indulged in a confession of my own. I related in precise detail each and every sin I had committed on this cold, wet, miserable day in Düsseldorf.