“Please, Madam Wagner, try to regard what is happening from my perspective. I’m confronted with not one but two challenges. One deals with the threat made to the Maestro. In my opinion, it is not a hoax. Despite your allegiance — ”
“My allegiance? You call my feelings for Richard ‘allegiance’? Richard Wagner, Inspector, is not some object of patriotism. He is the man I love.”
“Very well, then. Despite your love for Maestro Wagner, you must be aware that he has many enemies. For example, your own father, Madam, has turned against him because of this ménage you and Wagner have established … not to mention political enemies, enemies in the artistic community, and, yes, a host of unpaid creditors. Were it not for the enthusiastic support of King Ludwig, this elegant tea set might well be in the custody of the bailiff.”
Cosima Wagner put down her cup. “Inspector Preiss, it is one thing to be frank, quite another to be brutal.”
“I make no apology, Madam. I do not earn my pay for being gentle. In a perfect world, truth would always be beautiful. Alas, we humans do not live in a perfect world, do we? I repeat, Madam: in my opinion there is every reason to believe that the threatening note the Maestro received must be taken seriously. That said, my second challenge must be given priority at the moment. I refer, of course, to the murders of Sandor Lantos and Wolfgang Grilling. No, I do not believe Maestro Wagner is implicated, not even remotely. But someone is engaged in a plot to undermine him and the new production, someone who is prepared to stop at nothing to achieve his goal, not even murder.”
I kept to myself the third challenge, namely the orders handed me by Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig under which I was commanded to excavate, as it were, the very earth under Wagner’s feet and, like a worker in a gold mine, rise to the surface with some solid nugget of information that would warrant Wagner’s exile from Munich.
“And you have no idea at the moment who such a person might be?” Madam Wagner wanted to know.
“Absolutely none,” I replied. “My worst fear, of course, is that the killer may have a list. Lantos and Grilling may be only two, the first two. There may be others.”
“Meaning Richard himself may be on the murderer’s agenda?”
“Again I must be brutally frank. Even you, Madam, may be vulnerable.”
“Better me, then. After all, Richard has so much to offer. But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it, Inspector? A man invents fire and gives it to the people as a gift, and they use it to burn him alive.” She said this not with bitterness but with sadness and, I thought, resignation, as though Richard Wagner was doomed, like Christ, to die for the sins of mankind.
I thought about this last remark of hers for a moment, then said, “If you will pardon my frankness again, Madam Wagner, I find it amazing … indeed nothing less than amazing … that any woman would place any man on such a pedestal.”
“Then you do not know Richard Wagner, Inspector. There is as much angel in him as devil, despite what you may have heard.” Her eyes were clear again and a kind of tranquility returned to her expression. “One can fall in love with another’s imperfections, you know. Take for instance your cellist friend … I believe her name is Helena Becker? … the beautiful young woman from Düsseldorf, and very talented too. Just performed here in Munich, did she not?” This last question she asked with another wise smile, as though she had managed to peek behind the veil I like to think I’ve erected between my public and private lives.
“I fail to see the relevance — ” I began to say.
“Oh, but there’s a great deal of relevance,” she cut in. “You, too, Inspector Preiss, are not above being the object of gossip not only here in Munich but in other places as well. It’s said that Fräulein Becker is in love with you despite your imperfections.”
“My imperfections?” I pretended to be taken aback while, at the same time, dealing with my growing unease. “I wasn’t aware that I had any.”
“Dare I mention your past career in Düsseldorf?” Her manner was teasing now. “Your involvement with the Schumanns, Robert and Clara?” Her voice fell to a whisper as she added, “Especially with Clara. I mustn’t speak her name too loudly. The very mention of her name brings out the worst in Richard. Word has it that one of the Schumanns, or possibly both of them, got away with murder literally, thanks to your infatuation with that woman. We all live lives of lights and shadows, don’t we, Inspector?”
Carefully I put down my teacup. “Thank you so much for the refreshments,” I said quietly but firmly, “and for refreshing memories I’ve chosen to tuck away for some years now.” I glanced at my watch. “If you would be kind enough to fetch Maestro Wagner I would be most grateful. I do have some urgent business to attend to.”
She gave me a steady look. “Then we understand one another, Inspector, I trust.”
“Understand one another — ?”
“I mean about Richard. What has happened to Lantos and Grilling is regrettable, to be sure, but the threat to Richard is what concerns me most and should concern you most.”
“With all due respect, Madam Wagner,” I replied, “my concerns are to a great extent determined by orders from my superiors, and to some extent by the degree of latitude which normally goes with my office.” I rose from my chair to signal that, as far as I was concerned, this part of my visit was at an end. Then, speaking in as casual a tone as I could, I said, “By the way, Madam Wagner, does the name Judith Mendès have any special significance to you? Or Augusta Holmès? What about Cornelia Vanderhoute?”
I watched Cosima Wagner turn instantly into an ice sculpture. “You’re absolutely right, Inspector. I should not delay for another moment your appointment with Richard.”
With that, she rose, strode to the door of the sitting room and called out, “Richard, you are keeping Inspector Preiss waiting!”
Chapter Sixteen
Not surprisingly, Maestro Wagner did not bother to rise from where he was seated when I entered his study, nor did he apologize for keeping me waiting a half-hour. “Come look at this, Preiss,” he said, his cerulean gaze fixed on an object the likes of which I’d never before seen. “It’s a gift from the King, King Ludwig himself! A belated birthday present he calls it.”
“Does it work, Maestro? I mean, to me it looks like a toy,” I said.
“Does it work! Listen to this.” Resolutely, almost fiercely, Wagner played what I took to be a fanfare, perhaps four or five bars of music. “The prelude to Act Three of my new opera,” he said with evident satisfaction.
The king’s birthday present to Wagner was a Bechstein piano with a full keyboard, but designed to sit on top of a desk. I guessed that two people could easily move the instrument from place to place. “The world’s first portable piano,” Wagner said, “and it is mine, Preiss, mine alone.” He said this quietly, as though King Ludwig and he were the inhabitants of some deeply secret and exclusive society of gods.