Commissioner von Mannstein looked gravely at me. “Well, Preiss, it seems Brunner here has done you a favour. I see no point in agonizing over this. Brunner’s absolutely correct, you know; Richard Wagner is a genius at disappearing when it suits him. I want the two of you to bring him in without delay. I’m dispatching both of you in case the man makes a fuss. As a matter of fact, better take an extra couple of constables to make sure we do the job right. Last thing in the world I need at the moment is to have to inform the mayor that we had Richard Wagner where we wanted him and bungled. Off you go then, and Godspeed.”
I made no move and, seeing this, the commissioner frowned. “Well, Preiss, I thought I made myself perfectly clear — ”
“You did, sir. There’s only one problem — ”
“Problem? Brunner’s done his homework very efficiently I would say. I see no problem.”
“The problem is this, sir: Richard Wagner did not murder Sandor Lantos. Richard Wagner could not possibly have murdered Sandor Lantos.”
“And what makes you so sure?” von Mannstein demanded, obviously displeased.
“It’s true that Wagner was furious with Lantos and made straight for Lantos’s studio to vent his rage,” I replied, “but he was at that point in the company of his manager, the impresario Mecklenberg, and it was the two of them who, upon arrival at the studio, discovered that Lantos had already been murdered. No, Commissioner, Richard Wagner is not our man.”
Chewing his lower lip, a habit whenever he was unhappy, the commissioner glared at me, then at Brunner. To Brunner he said, “You failed to mention that Wagner was accompanied by this fellow Mecklenberg when he fled the opera house, Brunner.” Without waiting for Brunner’s explanation von Mannstein returned to me, still glaring. “Then who the devil is our man, Preiss? Do we at least have a suspect?”
At moments like these I rely upon an unfailing rule of conduct: When in doubt, lie. Looking my superior straight in the eye, I answered, “I have no idea, sir.” The commissioner’s face turned into a hairy mask of disappointment, the bushy eyebrows seeming to merge with the oversized moustache, which in turn became one with his generous sideburns and beard. Seeing this sorry expression on his face, I was overcome with pity, if only for a second or two, and quickly added, “However, I did engage in a careful survey of the murder scene and am confident that before this day is out significant clues will emerge.”
Hardly had these words escaped my lips than I knew I’d made a serious mistake. Von Mannstein’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Clues? Such as?”
“Well, to be frank, Commissioner — ” I paused, desperately trying to think up an answer that would satisfy the man. The news he most wanted to hear — that Wagner was somehow implicated in Lantos’s murder — was something I could not bring myself to fabricate, yes, even I who am not above shaping and reshaping truth now and then depending on circumstances. “To be frank, we find ourselves in a milieu far different from what one might call run-of-the-mill people, you know, citizens of a lower social order. We are dealing here with, shall we say, subtler forces.”
This brought another smirk to Brunner’s face. “With all due respect,” he said, directing his remark to the commissioner, his tone sarcastic, “that is nonsense. Criminals are criminals. I, for one, am not dazzled by these ‘subtler forces.’ There’s nothing subtle about murder.”
Ignoring Brunner’s comment, the commissioner said, “See here, Preiss, you seem to have had more than a little involvement over the years in Düsseldorf as well as in Munich with people of that ilk … I’m referring of course to these peculiar musical types with their temperaments and their idiosyncrasies. Of course, I myself have little or nothing to do with them; in fact, it’s a point of pride with me that I avoid their company as I avoid what you so aptly call citizens of a lower social order — ”
I wanted to interject, “Except prostitutes,” but held my tongue.
“So here is my decision,” the commissioner continued. “I want a full report by tomorrow morning, first thing, concerning your findings at Lantos’s studio, following which you have until the first of next week … that gives you five full days from today … to put two and two together and arrest the perpetrator of this crime. I hope you’re a good navigator, Preiss, one who knows his way among the shoals and shallows of these so-called artists. It certainly sounds to me as though somebody in that strange crowd has to be the guilty one.”
“But, sir,” I began to protest, “five days — ”
Von Mannstein’s hand directed me to halt. “Five days, Preiss. Not a minute longer. And remember, if there is anything — anything — even a mere grain of sand, which connects Richard Wagner to this ugly affair then I want him brought in as well. I’ll see to it that Brunner is free to work with you, of course.”
Franz Brunner gave me a dry smile. “Of course,” he chimed in. “I look forward to the experience, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sure you do, Brunner,” I said, returning an even drier smile. “After all, it’s not often that you get to come in contact with people who speak in words of more than one syllable.”
Observing that both Detective Franz Brunner and I were smiling at one another, Commissioner von Mannstein chuckled. “Nothing like a bit of humour between comrades, eh? Well, splendid! Now let us to our work.”
Chapter Ten
The supper party I had arranged to follow Helena Becker’s recital was meant to be a quiet intimate affair, and I thought I had made this perfectly clear to Ziggy Bolliger, the proprietor of Maison Espãna. I suppose I ought to have known better, given Bolliger’s fondness for ceremony. Meeting us as our carriages pulled up, Bolliger paraded us into the restaurant as though we were courtiers showing up for a grand ball. With measured steps he ushered us along a deliberately circuitous path to a table reserved at the very centre of the place, all the while smilingly acknowledging the attention of his patrons as if he himself were the arriving celebrity. At surrounding tables, diners who had attended the recital broke into genteel applause (the men more enthusiastic than the women in appreciation of Helena’s somewhat revealing gown) while I, as shameless now as Bolliger, basked in her limelight. Besides Helena, my party comprised Henryk Schramm, Karla Steilmann, and a fourth guest, the pianist Madam Olga Vronsky, whom Helena had brought from Düsseldorf as her accompanist, the same endlessly patient and suffering Madam Vronsky who some years earlier had valiantly struggled to teach me to play the piano and who, in her sweet-natured way, taught me that nothing cures vain ambition as effectively as a healthy dose of truth. (Nowadays I play for a critical audience of one — myself.) Earlier that evening both women had performed two Beethoven sonatas for cello and piano followed by Franz Schubert’s Arpeggiona, and the adoration that flowed upward from the audience to the stage when they took the last of many bows was almost palpable, not the least my own for, despite my aversion to public displays of affection, I found myself throwing kisses to both cellist and pianist as though I were some starry-eyed Romeo.