Helena broke into a smile. “Why Hermann, how sweet of you to go out of your way just to say goodbye to us!” Smiling still, but with a shrewd look in her eyes, she said, “All right, Hermann, what really brings you here?”
The conductor in charge of Helena’s and Madam Vronsky’s coach interrupted. “Sorry, ladies, but the train leaves in a few minutes.” He gestured toward the entrance. “Please.”
I removed my police identity card and flashed it in the conductor’s face. “I’m here on urgent police business,” I said. “This train does not budge until I’m finished, is that understood?”
Looking shocked, the conductor sputtered, “But if they are under arrest — ”
“They are not under arrest. I only need a minute or two.”
“My God, Hermann,” Helena said, “what are you up to?”
From my notebook I extracted the fragment of envelope I had found at Grilling’s lodgings and handed it to Madam Vronsky. “Please look carefully at this,” I said to her. “The return address on the back, can you read it?”
Madam Vronsky brought the fragment almost to the tip of her nose, then drew it away almost to arm’s length. “I’m sorry, Inspector, my eyes are beginning to play tricks with me — ”
“Here, Madam Vronsky,” I said, and gave her my magnifying glass. “Try this, please. Take your time, it may be important.”
Again the conductor interrupted. “Sir, I’m getting a signal from the engineer. We have a schedule which must be kept. These ladies must board without delay.”
Ignoring him, I pressed Madam Vronsky. “Look closely … can you read whatever’s there?”
“The handwriting is Russian. But I can only make out the word ‘Minsk,’ you see, on the back where the return address would be.” Turning to the other side, she added, “The name of the person to whom the letter was addressed is incomplete, of course. I can only make out the letters ‘amm.’ Oh, and look here. Srohchnoy pohchtoy, which means special delivery. I’m sorry, Inspector, if that’s not much help to you.”
“It’s an excellent start. Thank you, Madam Vronsky. I won’t detain you further. Thank you again.” I gave her a respectful kiss on the cheek.
Several cars back another conductor, apparently the senior one of the crew, pierced the air with a shrill blast of his whistle followed by a shouted warning that the train would leave in exactly one minute.
Helena gave me a wistful smile. “Both cheeks for me, Hermann.”
Warmly I obeyed.
She touched my face with her gloved hands. “When will we see each other again?”
“This case I’m working on … when it’s over … I know a spot near Lucerne. It’s particularly beautiful in June.”
“June of what year, Hermann?”
It was my turn to produce a wistful smile. “Be patient with me, Helena. I’ll do my best.”
“That seems to be my role in life,” Helena said, “playing the cello and being patient with Hermann Preiss.”
“Look at it this way, Helena: how many women can carry on two careers at the same time? Lucerne in June; that’s a promise.”
I waited for the two women to hustle aboard their coach. Then, with the station clock showing a quarter of four, I made a quick exit, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of Richard Wagner’s residence.
Chapter Fifteen
I arrived at the Wagner residence precisely at four o’clock to be greeted, not by the Maestro himself, but by a woman whom I had never before met or even seen from a distance but whom I recognized in an instant. And why would I not recognize her? Probably no woman in Germany was the object of as much gossip as the woman now offering — with unexpected cordiality — to take my hat and coat. “You are Inspector Preiss, of course,” she said. This led to an awkward moment or two for me. What to call her? As though reading my mind, she said, smiling wisely, “I’m sure you’re well aware of our circumstances, Inspector Preiss … I mean Richard’s and mine. Despite the fact that we’re — how should I say? — betwixt and between? — I refer to myself now as Cosima Wagner.”
“Madam Wagner it is, then, thank you. The Maestro? We have an appointment — ”
“Ah yes, Inspector. Richard is terribly occupied at the moment in his study. The pressures of his new opera, you understand. It is like giving birth not to a single child but to triplets. He begs your forgiveness and promises he will be along shortly.”
The pressures of his new opera? Not a word about the murder of his set designer and one of his leading singers? But why bother this woman about such questions.
It was said that Cosima’s love for Richard Wagner bordered on outright hero worship, that she had fallen under his spell when, as the sixteen-year-old daughter of Franz Liszt, she was present during Wagner’s visit to her family home and heard him read selections of his poetry that would, years later, become part of his Ring Cycle. Recently she had left her husband, the eminent conductor Hans von Bülow, after thirteen years of marriage in order to devote her life to Wagner. In fact, the two had already had a child together, a daughter Eva, and there were rumours that she was pregnant by the composer once again. The flow of adoration was mutual, according to people close to them. Wagner’s wife Minna had done him the favour of dying two years earlier thus bringing to a convenient end an unhappy marriage and leaving him free to live openly with his beloved Cosima.
Given the kind of blind faith Cosima was said to have in her hero, would she be expected to show concern for the two men associated with him who had suffered violent deaths? “The pressures of his new opera” … that was all that seemed to matter.
As for the “betwixt and between”? Well, living under the same roof as man and wife but without the supposed benefit of a marriage certificate gave cause for much scorn in German society. But who was I to scorn? The union of my own parents — a history of mismatching, poverty, frustration, and recrimination — was proof that a marriage certificate was no guarantee of wedded bliss.
“Please join me for tea,” Cosima Wagner said, motioning me to follow her into the sitting room. “You know, Richard and I spent some time in England, and while he has mixed emotions about the British — not everyone in London loved his music — he did admire their daily ritual of four o’clock tea and those silly little sandwiches they like to nibble.” Holding an almost paper-thin sandwich daintily, she laughed. “See, this is how the English eat them, as though they’re eating flower petals. And this … this Inspector … is how these people manage to accumulate an empire! Can you believe it?”
She was tall and slim, plainly dressed but immaculately groomed. Her facial features and complexion resembled those of her father — a strong but attractive Roman nose, skin fair and flawless. Even in serious conversation she spoke with a half-smile which, in this starched and formal sitting room, contributed a much-needed touch of warmth.
“I hope and pray,” she said, beginning to pour tea into two of the three fine china cups arranged on a silver tray before me, “that you’re here to assure Richard that the threatening note he received is a mere hoax. I’ve done my best to allay his fears but he needs to hear it from someone in an official capacity, such as yourself, Inspector.”
“I hate to disappoint,” I said, “but an honest question deserves an honest answer, Madam Wagner. I am here because two men closely connected to Maestro Wagner, and indeed to his new opera, have been murdered.”
Abruptly she ceased pouring tea. Her grey-green eyes were staring at me. “Surely you’re not suggesting … I can’t bring myself to say it — ”
“That your — ”
“Husband. Richard is my husband. Surely you’re not suggesting that he’s a suspect in those murders. If anything, Richard is as much a victim of events as are Herr Lantos and Herr Grilling. One of his greatest and most important works is about to be given to the world and poor Richard is being torn apart!” As she uttered these last words, those grey-green eyes grew moist. “I cannot bear to see him like this, forgive me, Inspector.” Tears were now forming and she dabbed her eyes with one of the carefully folded linen napkins that lay beside the tray. Experiencing now the depth of this woman’s devotion to Wagner, I began to understand that even the most generous appraisals of that devotion offered by local gossips were grossly understated. However, I was not here to worship at Richard Wagner’s shrine.