Fifteen minutes past ten and no Wolfgang Grilling. I helped myself to a second cup. Half past ten. Still no Grilling. Coffee no longer steaming, lukewarm, barely drinkable. Eleven o’clock. No sign of Grilling. Coffee cold. My temperature beginning to rise.
I sent for Constable Gruber. “Gruber, I want you to go round to Grilling’s rooms,” I said, “and I don’t give a damn if he’s still in his nightshirt or in his bath, I want the bastard here! And no excuses, do you understand? I don’t care if he’s dying, Gruber!”
One hour later, at the stroke of noon, Constable Emil Gruber stood before me removing his helmet and wiping his sweaty brow. “Sorry, Inspector,” Gruber said, his voice hoarse with excitement, “but this fellow Grilling — ”
Impatiently I said, “Well, what about him, damn it — ”
“He won’t be keeping his appointment.”
“And why the hell not?”
“He appears to be dead, sir.”
“Appears? You mean he’s playing dead?”
“Oh no, Inspector, in my opinion he is genuinely dead,” the young constable said with such earnestness that for a fleeting second I regretted my sarcasm. “I have to report,” he went on, “that upon arriving at the subject’s premises I proceeded to make my presence known by knocking several times, each time with increased vigour, on the door of his apartment, whereupon, failing to achieve a response I sought the assistance of the concierge and immediately upon gaining entry with the master key I discovered the body of a scantily attired male person lying in a position consistent with — ”
At this point I’m afraid I exploded in the face of the well-meaning constable. “For God’s sake, Gruber, please! Enough police terminology! Tell me in plain language!”
“The subject … sorry … Herr Grilling … was lying on the floor. I immediately checked his pulse and determined that he was deceased.”
“Other than feeling for his pulse, you touched nothing?”
“Nothing, sir, absolutely nothing.”
“And you instructed the concierge to touch nothing?”
“I not only instructed her — ” Here Gruber produced a key. “I made certain by relieving her of the master key.” Gruber seemed about to add something but stopped himself.
“Well, Gruber, speak up. What is it?”
“I have to warn you, sir,” Gruber said, “it’s not a pretty sight. I mean the body, and the place itself. The concierge, poor woman, nearly fainted. As for me — ”
“Gruber,” I said, “I was investigating crime scenes and mutilated bodies when your mother and father were still wondering what they had to do to conceive you. Now be so good as to order a cab at once.”
Chapter Thirteen
I should not have dismissed Constable Gruber’s warning so curtly. The sitting room where Wolfgang Grilling’s lifeless body lay looked as though it had been invaded not by a single intruder but by an army of intruders, so violently was everything strewn about. Underfoot lay a veritable stew of broken glass and crockery intermingled with crumpled bits of newspaper obviously swept from a large table used to hold books and periodicals which occupied a prominent spot near the fireplace. Someone, either the victim or his assailant, had desperately grasped the curtains covering the set of windows in the room, bringing down not only the thick green velvet draperies but the brass rod on which they hung as well as the wall fittings. Streaks of blood crisscrossed the curtains, stained the light grey upholstery of the armchairs on either side of the fireplace, and defaced in a particularly grotesque way a pen sketch of Grilling lying within reach of his body, its frame and mat bent out of shape. Every lamp in the room had been knocked over, every chair upended, every rug left askew.
Central to this disorder was the corpse of Wolfgang Grilling, lying face up, the head close to the fireplace, arms outstretched and wide apart as though held down by a superior force, legs similarly positioned. His throat, just below the Adam’s apple, had been deeply pierced. Left carelessly across Grilling’s chest was a sharply pointed iron poker, part of the fireside implements that stood in the overturned stand nearby, its shaft wet with Grilling’s blood.
I removed my greatcoat and hat and handed them to Gruber. “Find a place to hang these. And better do the same with yours, Gruber. Looks like we’re going to be here for quite a while.”
Opening my notebook to a fresh page, I prepared to make a rough sketch of the position of Grilling’s body when the door to the apartment opened and in strode my colleague Franz Brunner.
“I came as soon as I heard the news, Preiss — ” Brunner stopped short. “My God,” he said, looking about, “it looks like the Battle of Waterloo!” Then his eyes fell on Grilling’s body. “Well, Preiss,” Brunner said, shaking his head as though some extraordinary wisdom was about to be imparted, “one thing is for sure: this man will never sing again.”
“Thank you for that insight, Brunner,” I said. “Now then, right off I need you to interview the concierge. Did she see anybody arrive or leaving? Did she hear anything? There’s a suite of rooms directly below this one. Did the occupants see or hear anything?” I turned to Constable Gruber. “It appears I won’t require you after all, Gruber. Detective Brunner is on hand to assist. What I want you to do is this: find Maestro Richard Wagner.”
Wide-eyed, Gruber said, “The Richard Wagner?”
“Yes, Gruber, the Richard Wagner. You have some acquaintance with the man?”
“My older brother sings in the chorus at the Opera House.”
“So much the better, then. Find Wagner. You may inform him that Wolfgang Grilling has been killed, but he’s not to be told any other details. Understand? Tell him I must meet with him, preferably at his residence no later than four o’clock.”
“What if — ”
“No ‘what ifs,’ Gruber. Four o’clock. At his house.”
Fervently Brunner asked, “You think Wagner may have done this, Preiss? The Commissioner will be thrilled!”
“Not so fast, Brunner,” I said. “All I know at the moment is that Grilling was extremely unhappy about his role in Wagner’s new opera and made no secret of it. He certainly made Sandor Lantos aware of it, and I believe Grilling’s manager Friedrich Otto brought the situation to Wagner’s attention.”
“What could possibly make Grilling unhappy? I’m no opera lover, but one would assume that a singer would sell his soul to the devil for an opportunity to work with a famous composer, even one with Wagner’s reputation.”
“This is what I’ve managed to learn thus far, Brunner: At the audition for the leading tenor role in Wagner’s new opera, Grilling lost to a virtually unknown singer by the name of Henryk Schramm and dared to express his displeasure to the Maestro very openly in front of a number of people who were present. The role he was forced to accept is that of a despicable secondary character, the foil for the hero. To make matters worse, Grilling loathed the costume Lantos designed, based of course on Wagner’s instructions. And, heaping discontent on top of discontent, Grilling complained bitterly that his facial makeup would make him look like a Jew. Grilling went so far as to threaten to burn down the Opera House. He said so in no uncertain terms to Lantos.”
“You knew about Grilling’s threat, Preiss?”
“Yes. The information came from Lantos himself.”
“And yet you did nothing about it?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Brunner, the next time I had occasion to see Sandor Lantos, which was the day after my visit to his studio, he was as dead as your memory appears to be.”