“You’re not here to announce that I’m a suspect, or something equally preposterous, Preiss?” Wagner asked this with a smirk, as though he were toying with me.
“I’m aware,” I replied, “that you were furious with Lantos, and openly contemptuous of Grilling, but no, Maestro, in my eyes you are not a suspect.”
“In your eyes?” Wagner looked at me suspiciously. “Are you saying that in somebody else’s eyes I am?”
I lied without hesitation. “Not at all, Maestro. In police work we learn to rule nothing out, of course, but I like to think that I avoid the preposterous. I do need to encroach upon your valuable time to ask some questions concerning the threatening note you received.”
With some enthusiasm now, Wagner nodded in agreement. “By all means, Preiss.”
Sitting back in my chair, my fingers forming a loose tent over my chest, I said, “Augusta Holmès, Judith Mendès … those names seem to crop up in certain social circles in the same breath as your own name.”
“For shame, Preiss! I thought you were a detective, not some idle snoop,” Wagner regarded me stiffly, aiming that sharp nose, those steely eyes, at me.
Maintaining my relaxed composure, I went on. “Fortunately, Maestro, philandering has not made its way into our criminal code, at least not yet; otherwise many of us might be occupying prison cells.”
The Maestro’s lips formed a tight clamp.
I leaned forward. “The cliché about the wrath of a scorned woman … you’ve had enough experience in your time to become thoroughly acquainted with that particular phenomenon, haven’t you?”
“Minor dalliances, that’s all they were, Preiss. Here today, gone tomorrow,” Wagner said. “Yesterday’s laundry. Nothing more.”
“And Madam Cosima, was she content with that explanation?”
“Our love, Preiss, is unshakeable.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” I said, and added, “I assume your response would be the same in connection with another woman — ”
“What other woman? There is no other woman, Preiss.”
“I’m referring to one Cornelia Vanderhoute,” I said quietly, studying Wagner’s face for the slightest sign of recognition. None appeared. His expression became blank, and he shrugged as though the woman’s name meant nothing to him. Softly I asked, not taking my eyes from him, “Are you quite sure, Maestro?” Slowly I repeated the name: Cor-ne-lia Van der — ”
Before I could finish Wagner snapped: “I’m not an idiot, Preiss. I heard you the first time. Come to think of it, yes, the name’s vaguely familiar. From Amsterdam or Rotterdam, some place like that in Holland. Soprano. Not solo material, but good enough to sing in the chorus. Last worked here in a production of The Flying Dutchman. I believe she chose to return to her homeland for some reason or other.” Wagner paused, and I had the feeling now that he was studying my face to determine whether or not his off-hand reply satisfied my curiosity. “In any event, Preiss,” he said, with another devil-may-care shrug, “I’ve lost track of her.”
“Well, Maestro,” I said, “it seems the lady has not lost track of you.”
A blank look returned to Wagner’s face. “Oh? That’s strange. I don’t recall receiving any communication from her. I must ask Mecklenberg. Perhaps she wishes to become engaged here in Munich again and has been in touch with him.”
“I doubt that is the case,” I said. “You see, the reason this young woman ‘chose’ — as you put it — to return to Holland was that she was pregnant.”
“Really? Well now, Preiss, that’s not unusual is it?” Wagner said. “Women have been known to become pregnant, you know.”
“Indeed they have,” I agreed, “but not all of them claim that you, sir, are the father, do they?”
Another surprise: Wagner leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and smiled. “My dear Inspector,” he said with remarkable serenity, “if I had a thaler for every woman who has made such a claim against me, I would at this moment be ensconced in a proverbial castle in Spain surrounded by Moorish slaves feeding me grapes and pomegranates, instead of sitting here in Munich being a slave myself … a slave to music, that is.”
I said, “Fräulein Vanderhoute, with all due respect Maestro, is not your run-of-the-mill claimant. She alleges that she confronted you and that you cruelly rebuffed her, although you did, according to her, offer to put her in touch with an abortionist … which, of course, is against the law.”
Maintaining coolness under fire, Wagner calmly said, “Utter rubbish, Preiss. Wherever did you stumble across such a trash pile?”
“It may not surprise you that a rather thick dossier exists at the Constabulary containing records of your activities which extend far back, in fact long before I arrived to take a post here in Munich. The item concerning your relationship with this Vanderhoute woman found its way into that dossier. She had consulted an officer in our department with a view to bringing charges against you. I assume, however, that the resulting scandal would have tarnished her own reputation and she decided — or was persuaded — not to proceed. The matter was duly recorded, but the record itself was buried deep in the official file as though someone in the department for some peculiar reason hoped it would be overlooked.”
With a touch of sarcasm Wagner said, “But you, naturally, went out of your way to unearth it, I suppose.”
“Let’s just say I was meandering through the dossier on a dull evening when I had nothing better to do. Tell me, Maestro, would you by some miracle possess a sketch, or better still a photograph, of this woman?”
Wagner thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe — ” he said slowly, “but why do you ask? Do you seriously think the threatening note … no, Preiss, Cornelia would never be capable of such an act. The only thing is — ”
Wagner abruptly silenced himself.
“Yes, the only thing? Please Maestro Wagner, I need you to be absolutely open about this.”
“The only thing she did … later, after the initial confrontation … she met with me and demanded money. ‘Pay up,’ she said, or she would inform everyone in Europe that she and I … well, I needn’t go into details. Without admitting anything, simply to be rid of her, I offered her a sum of money. No trifling amount, I tell you, Preiss. She said it was not enough. I offered a bit more. Still insufficient. I refused a further increase, told her to go to hell. She cursed me and swore vengeance. But I’d been through this kind of experience before, and when she stormed out of that second meeting I put the whole ugly business out of my mind. As far as I was concerned Cornelia Vanderhoute was nothing but a blackmailer … and not a very good one at that.”
“And these confrontations took place where?”
“At an out-of-the-way tavern, the kind of establishment people like you and me seldom if ever frequent, Preiss.”
“The picture … may I see it?”
With a weary sigh, Wagner rose and bade me follow him across the room to a wall covered almost from floor to ceiling with framed drawings and photographs of himself, some alone, others in company with persons I took to be associated with him in his musical enterprises and productions. “Look here, Preiss,” he said, directing my attention to a large photograph of what appeared to be the entire cast of an opera, all in costume. “This was taken the closing night of The Flying Dutchman. The young woman in the front row — ” Wagner pointed her out with his finger “- is Cornelia Vanderhoute.”
I peered closely at the subject, so closely in fact that my nose almost touched the glass. Wagner said, as though he were appraising a prize farm animal at an auction, “She’s certainly well-endowed, isn’t she?”