“Well, you may put aside your suspicions. This little dinner tonight is merely one more step in the rise of Hermann Preiss from peasant to poet, and nothing more. So let us have another round of Armagnac and drink to innocent pleasure.” Bolliger had left the bottle of Armagnac at our table, a gesture not customarily extended to other patrons of Maison Espãna and not lost on my appreciative guests.
Schramm raised his glass. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
Steilmann and I joined him. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
We sat for a moment or two in contented silence. Then, in an offhand manner, I said to Schramm, “By the way, Schramm, you didn’t mention what you performed in when you made your first major appearance. Was it in an opera?”
“Yes, Nabucco. Are you familiar with it?”
“Giuseppe Verdi, right? I’ve never heard the entire opera, but the chorus ‘Va pensiero’ I’ve heard several times. Very stirring, I must say. Has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves during some invasion or other of Judea in biblical times.”
“Very good, Inspector! Needless to say, Wagner despises it. Says it’s the kind of tune gondoliers sing in Venice. Besides, anything that has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves would never strike a favourable chord with the likes of Richard Wagner, as you’re no doubt aware.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked, directing my question at Schramm.
“You mean his views about race?” Schramm was looking me straight in the eye. “Not in the least. Singing is my life, Inspector. I live to sing. The only thing that bothers me is an off-key note.”
“And you, Fräulein Steilmann … I suppose your outlook is the same?”
“One does not lightly turn down an opportunity to work with a genius like Maestro Wagner,” she replied. “What you heard the other night was only a small sample of the music he’s composed for Die Meistersinger. Only an idealistic fool would refuse a part in this opera.”
I reached for the bottle of Armagnac. “Then let’s have a final toast,” I said, filling our glasses again. “To the future of opera, and may all your dreams come true and your plans succeed!”
Schramm raised a hand as if to halt the proceedings. “Dreams coming true, yes. But plans succeeding, no. You know what they say, Inspector: Man plans and God laughs. So I’ll drink to dreams only, if you don’t mind.”
It turned out that Schramm and Steilmann had lodgings within a short distance of one another and were able conveniently to share a carriage. I on the other hand preferred to return to my apartment on foot despite the late hour. I was counting on the bracing night air to clear my mind of all the wine and brandy I’d consumed, and indeed the long stroll through the dark quiet streets left me feeling fully awake by the time I reached my residence. Settling myself at my desk, I took a small notebook and pen and jotted down the following:
Henryk Schramm does not eat pork (claims to be allergic)
His first operatic role is in Nabucco, about Hebrew slaves
Father was — is? — a violinist
Has a habit of always answering a question with a question
Says Man plans and God laughs
I sat for a long while reading and rereading what I’d written. At last, I picked up the pen and added a final note:
Henryk Schramm … or whatever his real name is … is a Jew.
Chapter Five
The first object that caught my eye when I entered my office early on the morning following dinner at Bolliger’s was a note propped up at the centre of my desk, as though daring me to ignore it. The handwriting, as always, suggested the author was on the back of a runaway horse. The message, however, was clear and concise. “Preiss — I need to see you at once on a matter of urgency!” The signature, of course, was that of Commissioner von Mannstein. I let out a long loud groan (one of the privileges that comes with occupying a private office). Having spent yet another restless night (too much wine, too much rich food, too many lingering thoughts about Karla Steilmann), I regarded the prospect of beginning this day on a matter of urgency with the commissioner as less appealing than a march to the scaffold. Besides, I continued to be nagged by questions about this man Henryk Schramm. Detectives and cows have one thing in common: we are ruminants; we chew and chew again what has already been swallowed. The more I recalled fragments of our conversation over dinner, and turned over in my mind how at times he would look me squarely in the eye while at other times diverting his gaze when responding to a question, the more I doubted that Schramm was who he said he was.
Von Mannstein wasted no time getting to the point. “I have here a copy of an entry made in the daily log of Detective Brunner,” said the commissioner, waving a sheet of paper but not offering it to me to examine. “The entry records that Brunner was approached by one Otto Mecklenberg concerning a threat made against Richard Wagner. I gather, Preiss, this fellow Mecklenberg is what is known in musical circles as an impresario, one who manages the day-to-day business affairs of artists. Sounds like a nursemaid, if you ask me. At any rate, apparently this matter has fallen into your hands, Preiss. Correct?”
I hesitated, observing the deep scowl on the commissioner’s face. How to answer: yes? no? maybe? Perhaps all three? Rashly I chose the truth. “Yes, Herr Commissioner, that is correct.”
I was not prepared for what followed. Von Mannstein’s scowl vanished. “What a stroke of luck, Preiss! What perfect timing!” The commissioner was exultant. “It’s as though the gods had somehow intervened and ordained that you, Preiss, should come to the rescue of Munich!”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir — ”
“Don’t you see, Preiss? Thanks to your involvement with Wagner … I understand he counts on you to find and arrest whoever is threatening to ruin him … you are in an ideal position to keep an eye on what the man’s up to. I don’t mean musically; frankly I don’t give a damn if Wagner composes operas or lullabies. Come to think of it, far as I’m concerned both kinds of music put people to sleep.”
The commissioner took a moment to chortle at his own wit, then carried on: “It’s Wagner’s political activity the mayor and I are concerned with. Also certain aspects of his social and personal life which are infelicitous to say the least. Bear in mind, Preiss, it is imperative that we amass sufficient grounds to rid Munich of Richard Wagner once and for all.” Von Mannstein paused and gave me a quizzical look. “Tell me, Preiss, when von Braunschweig and I met with you, why did you not disclose that you’d already become engaged in this Wagner affair? Frankly, I was distressed at first to learn about it from Brunner. No doubt he brought it to my attention because he was concerned about a possible conflict of interest; you know, the kind of thing that might have proved embarrassing to us, eh?”
“I’m certain Brunner acted with the best of intentions, sir,” I said. (At the same time I made a vow to myself. Someday, preferably in the very near future, I would see to it that Munich saw the last of Detective Franz Brunner once and for all.)
Von Mannstein shook his head reassuringly. “Well, Preiss, have no fear in that respect,” he said. “I set Brunner straight, of course. I know you to be a man of exquisite discretion. In all likelihood you did not consider it prudent to reveal such confidential information in the presence of the mayor.”