“And if, as you predict, Otto fails, what will Grilling do?” I asked.
“He said … and these are his exact words, Inspector … he said ‘The world will never hear a single note of Die Meistersinger. I’d rather burn down the Opera House than walk onto that stage looking like this!’”
“But Lantos,” I said, “you of all people must be familiar with artists’ temperaments. All fuss and bother. How did Shakespeare put it: ‘Full of sound and fury — ’”
“Signifying nothing,” Lantos cut in. “Ah, but that’s not the case here. I heard the anger in Grilling’s voice and saw it in his eyes. There was enough fire there to burn down Munich, I tell you!”
Lantos paused and I could tell there was something else on his mind. I said, “Is there another point you wish to make, Lantos? If it’s a matter of strict confidence, you can trust me.”
Suddenly Lantos took a step forward and gripped my arm. It was the kind of physical gesture that normally would have caused me to shrink back (I dislike being a captive audience). And yet there was a look of such desperation in Lantos’s face that I resisted the impulse to remove his hand. “You must help me, Inspector Preiss. This is a terrible situation for me.”
“For you? How so?”
“I have invested all of my time and energy for months now to create designs for the new opera. I’m speaking literally of dozens of costume designs because Die Meistersinger calls for a huge cast and chorus. Sets too, I’ve completed several thus far and several others are nearly complete. And to date I’ve not been paid one pfennig. Not one pfennig! I have a wife and five children. If this production fails to go on, well, Maestro Wagner is not famous for recognizing financial obligations nor is charity a compelling part of his life. That is why I need your help, Inspector.”
“My help? I told you before, my dear man; I’m not a philosopher, I’m not an art critic, and I’m not a bill collector. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you, but — ”
“But you are in a position to do more than sympathize, don’t you see?” Lantos said, releasing his grip on my arm, much to my relief. “You are Chief Inspector of Munich. Your reputation is well-known. Go to Wolfgang Grilling. Go to Friedrich Otto too. All you have to do is warn them — warn Grilling in particular — that nothing must be done that would interfere with the premiere of Die Meistersinger. Warn him that you are aware of his threat — ”
I shook my head. “Lantos, listen to me. My business is crime. If I had to arrest every foul-mouthed hothead who uttered a threat, there wouldn’t be a prison in Germany large enough to hold the crowd.”
“And if Grilling carries out his threat, how will you feel, Inspector? What will be your answer then?” Lantos cast his glance upward to the second storey, where his wife and five children presumably were staring at an empty larder as we spoke. “When was the last time you sat down at a supper table that had no bread, Inspector?”
I wanted to tell Sandor Lantos that a breadless table was a routine occurrence throughout my childhood. Instead, I said, “Very well, I will go to Grilling and to his manager.”
At these words, Lantos did it again; gripping my arm, and looking intently into my eyes, he said in a quiet voice, “If Wolfgang Grilling does anything to stop this opera, I will kill him with these hands.”
Chapter Seven
Munich's hotels that cater to the upper class, like Munich’s better restaurants, go to desperate lengths to distance themselves from their stolid German roots, but in a different manner. Where local restaurateurs take liberties with French and Spanish names for their places of business, local hoteliers, with a kind of presumptuousness that knows no shame, christen their edifices with the names of foreign royalty — kings, queens, emperors and empresses, as well as lesser ranks — stopping short only when it comes to popes, cardinals, and archbishops (although why the nobility of the church are excluded from such honours is beyond my comprehension).
The Eugénie Palace is no exception to this tradition. If anything, it has elevated the tradition to heights other hostelries in the city cannot hope to attain. Its public areas are paved with more Italian marble than Caesar’s eyes ever beheld; its French crystal chandeliers and mirror-backed wall sconces fill each room with sunshine even on the dullest days. Rumours abound, of course. It’s said that the crimson carpets were dyed in the blood of a thousand slaves a century ago in Constantinople. A printer is said to have been shot dead for negligently omitting the accent in “Eugénie” on the hotel stationery. True or not, such rumours have lent an aura of grandeur to the Eugénie Palace which its guests acknowledge with proper respect when paying extravagant bills at the end of their stay. I swear that I do not have a socialist bone in my body and yet, whenever for some reason or other I find myself a visitor, I cannot resist being repelled by the unabashed hedonism that oozes from every pore of the place.
I was in the midst of expressing these deep-seated feelings to Helena Becker when, giving me a look that told me she’d had enough of my self-righteousness, she pressed a finger to my lips and said, “Hermann, darling, do shut up!” Following which she rather forcefully removed my hat and coat and pushed me in the direction of a generously pillowed four-poster complete with satin canopy. In a while, after we had finished testing the limits of that fine piece of furniture and lay catching our breaths, Helena whispered into my ear, “There now, Hermann, the Eugénie Palace isn’t all bad, is it?”
“I know it’s none of my business,” I replied, “but how can a cellist — even a successful cellist like you — afford the rates here? You must have a patron back in Düsseldorf. Come clean, Helena; who is subsidizing this lavish lifestyle of yours?”
Her voice low and resonant like the low notes of her instrument, Helena said, “I have a lover in Düsseldorf, Hermann. I perform for him privately. He lies back in his bed and sighs with satisfaction every time I embrace my cello, and when I begin to play, no matter what the piece, he closes his eyes and lies there with the sweetest smile on his sweet face. Alas, Hermann, you will never know what it is to be adored, but I must tell you it is a sublime experience.”
“And does this sweet man know about you and me?” I removed Helena’s arms from around my neck. “Or are you playing a cello with eight strings, so to speak?”
I thought the coldness in my voice would take Helena aback, but instead she threw her arms around my neck again. “He is eighty-three years old, Hermann, bedridden, probably dying — ”
“But rich, eh? And who is this angel of yours, may I ask?”
“An old friend of yours, Hermann. In fact, more than a friend; a man who did much to advance your career when you were a member of the Düsseldorf Police.”
“You don’t mean — ?”
Helena sat up in bed, a hint of triumph in her smile. “The Baron himself. Baron von Hoffman.” She fingered a slender gold chain that encircled her neck, smiling even more broadly at me, awaiting my next question, knowing what it would be.
“From him? From your eighty-three-year-old lover?”