“Now hold on, Preiss!” Brunner said, taking a step toward me, his hands tightening into clenched fists. “You may be my superior but that doesn’t entitle you — ”
“Shut up, Brunner. I know exactly what’s on your mind. My God, you are so terribly obvious, aren’t you? You’d like nothing more than to run back to the Commissioner and have him cite me for dereliction of duty. I can hear you now, Brunner: ‘Yes, Commissioner, Inspector Preiss knew all about the bad blood among Lantos, Grilling, and Wagner, did nothing about it, and now two of them are dead while that devil Wagner remains free!’”
Turning petulant, Brunner protested that I was being grossly unfair, that all he was attempting to do was assess the facts, that he hadn’t the slightest intention of impugning my reputation behind my back. For a split second I was almost convinced Brunner meant what he was saying. But then he added, almost throwing the sentence away, “Of course, Preiss, you do seem to have lost the primary focus — ”
“What primary focus — ?”
“Well,” Brunner began cautiously, “the Lantoses and the Grillings of this world come and go, and while it’s unfortunate that their lives ended the way they did, life still goes on without too many ripples in the water, doesn’t it?”
“Get to the point, Brunner.”
“The point, yes, Preiss. The point is that we … you and I, that is … are charged with a serious responsibility — ”
“You mean, to deliver up Richard Wagner to von Mannstein and the mayor on a silver platter, preferably bound and gagged and ready for summary trial, execution, and burial at sea.”
Returning to petulance, but this time in a voice so quiet I wanted to throttle him, Brunner said, “You misconstrue everything I say, Preiss. I am absolutely committed to seeing that justice is done, as I’m sure you are — ”
“Don’t patronize me, Brunner. And understand this: so long as I am in charge, our primary focus, as you put it, will be as much to find and arrest whoever is threatening Richard Wagner as it is to satisfy the commissioner’s and mayor’s agenda.”
“In other words,” Brunner said, “you seriously insist upon viewing Wagner as a victim in all this?”
“I continue to view him as a genius.”
“A corrupt genius — ”
“A genius nevertheless — ”
“- who believes that, being an exceptional man, he is permitted to do exceptional things even if he breaks laws that ordinary men are bound to obey. Come now, Preiss, aren’t you too forgiving? You do have a reputation for being overly attracted to so-called creative types, even dazzled, one might say. Look here, Preiss: you say Wagner was furious with Lantos, and that he treated Grilling badly. A moment ago you gave instructions for Wagner to be available for interrogation at four o’clock and at his own residence. If it were up to me — ”
“Which it isn’t — ”
“- Wagner would be arrested within the hour and the interrogation would take place where it ought to take place, at the Constabulary. What you are doing is tactically wrong, Preiss!”
“Brunner, this is not a debating society. I consider your remarks impertinent. If you’re interested in rescuing your career you would do well to get below and interrogate the concierge without further delay.”
“I fully intend to make a note of this conversation, Preiss, I warn you.”
“Brunner, please feel free to write a complete memoir and publish it in tomorrow’s edition of the Munich Times!”
With both Constable Gruber and Detective Brunner out of my way, I was at last free to complete my sketch of the room, its furnishings, Grilling’s death position, and the general disorder surrounding his body. I tried not to think about Brunner’s criticism of me although, in truth, he was not entirely wrong, and I had to admit to myself that if one can be blinded by sound, then I had probably had my vision (not to mention my good sense) clouded by the music of Richard Wagner the night I witnessed, albeit it briefly, the rehearsal in his house with Schramm and Steilmann of an aria from Die Meistersinger. Years earlier, in Düsseldorf, I had made the mistake of allowing my enchantment with the famous Schumanns, and particularly with Clara Schumann, to taint my investigation into a murder in which they were suspect. Was I about to make a similar mistake here in Munich? Enough introspection, Preiss, I lectured myself, bearing in mind the parting advice of one of my mentors at the Police Academy. “Remember, Preiss,” he said, “examine the lives of others, but live your own life unexamined.”
My rough sketch completed, I surveyed the room one more time to make certain I’d included the important details. And then one thing struck me: If whoever killed Grilling had accomplished his purpose, why then were dozens of papers, mostly letters and envelopes, deliberately torn, many to shreds, and scattered about in a frenzied manner? I randomly inspected a number of these. Bills, a few personal letters apparently received from Grilling’s parents and a sister, several invitations to forthcoming social events, a wedding announcement. Nothing worthy of special attention. If anything, it seemed that Wolfgang Grilling, despite what some would regard as his exotic profession, lived a rather unexciting life.
I was about to give up on this aspect when my eye caught a portion of an envelope lying not more than an arm’s length from Grilling’s body. It consisted of the upper right-hand corner and bore a cancelled stamp that was unfamiliar to me. With the aid of a magnifying glass, I recognized the crowned head of Catherine the Great beneath which appeared words that I could not read, printed in the Russian alphabet. Of the address only the letters “amm” were visible but the placement of these suggested they were part of the name of a person to whom the letter was sent rather than part of his or her street address. On the reverse side again Russian words, these handwritten, presumably part of a return address.
Why would Wolfgang Grilling be in possession of a letter from Russia seemingly addressed to someone other than him? I began to scour the room hoping to find a match for the portion of envelope but none was found. Nor could I find a letter written in the Russian language that might have been delivered in the envelope.
And then I thought of my Russian friend Madam Vronsky. She and Helena Becker were scheduled to return on the three o’clock train to Düsseldorf and it was now half past two. Carefully I tucked the envelope portion into an inside pocket of my jacket, seized my coat and hat, rushed to the street, and hailed a cab. “To the railway station,” I ordered, adding, “and there’s double the fare if you can get me there in ten minutes.”
Chapter Fourteen
With only minutes to spare before the train for Düsseldorf was due to depart, I arrived at the railway station to find a jumble of humanity filling the platform: travellers dressed in their finest attire as though bound for Sunday church, powerful baggage men nimbly wheeling heavily laden luggage carts through the crowd; the air thick with the excitement of travel and the acrid smells of overheated oil and iron from the cars. Clouds of steam worked back along the platform from the engine that stood puffing and heaving like some gargantuan beast impatient to be let loose.
I began to panic. Where, in all this chaos, could I possibly find Helena and Madam Vronsky? And if they had already boarded, in which of the dozen coaches would they have settled?
As luck would have it, one person on that overstuffed platform stood out from the others. She was carrying a canvas and leather cello case. Of course it had to be Helena. Though she was far ahead of me I called out and miraculously both she and Madam Vronsky turned, having recognized my voice despite the din. Pushing my way through the crowd (and ignoring the odd “How rude!” and “Who does that man think he is!”) I reached the two women quite out of breath. “Thank God for your cello,” I blurted out, “otherwise I might never have found you.”