I looked closely again. “I didn’t know you were given to understatement,” I said. “Speaking of blessings, I would say she’s doubly blessed.”
“Well, Inspector, there have been no repercussions since she departed for Holland. If I were you, sir, I would waste no further time and effort in this regard. And now, Inspector Preiss, you must excuse me. I have Schramm and Fräulein Steilmann due here any moment for what will doubtless be an intense session.”
As though on cue, the door to Wagner’s study opened and Cosima announced, “Richard, Herr Schramm — ”
“Ah, Schramm, right on time,” Wagner responded, his approving manner reminding me of a stern schoolmaster. “But where is Steilmann? I thought you would be coming together as usual.”
“Maestro, she apparently preferred to come on her own today,” Schramm said. I thought he looked a bit embarrassed, but then I remembered that Schramm’s instant rapport with Helena Becker at our dinner party the other night had not sat well with Karla Steilmann. Possibly a lovers’ tiff had ensued as a result of Schramm’s attentions to Helena. No matter, I thought. As far as I was concerned, Helena had done her work well on that occasion. Besides, my beloved cellist was now safely out of range, having returned to Düsseldorf, thus avoiding further entanglement with Schramm and, I was certain, staunching the flow of Steilmann’s resentment.
Frowning, Wagner said, “Ach, these sopranos are all alike. Temperamental, arrogant, conceited. I should have written the part for a contralto. Next time I’ll know better.”
Turning to me, Schramm said, “Inspector Preiss, how nice to see you! Thank you once again for a splendid evening. Your friend Bolliger … I must say I’ve never seen a restaurateur strive so hard to please a patron. What did you do, Inspector, to merit such service? Save him from the hangman’s noose or a firing squad?”
“Nothing quite so dramatic,” I replied. “I simply saved him from his own base instincts.”
“How so?”
“When I first encountered Ziggy Bolliger some years ago he was an excellent chef. Alas, he also had a penchant for stealing expensive ingredients … you know, items like rare truffles, Beluga caviar, and such. One of his victims, an importer of such foodstuffs, came after him with a pistol. I happened to come on the scene, persuaded the would-be assailant to put down his gun, convinced Ziggy to mend his ways, and the rest is culinary history, Schramm.”
“Well, sir,” Schramm said, ignoring Wagner’s increasingly impatient look, “you must allow me to reciprocate. May I suggest dinner tomorrow evening, if you are free, of course?”
I answered with an exaggerated bow.
Wagner cleared his throat noisily. “And now, Inspector — ”
“Of course, Maestro. Sorry to hold you up,” I said. “However, before I go, might I have one more quick look at that photograph — ”
I returned to the Constabulary by carriage, instructing the driver to cover the distance slowly. I wanted the time to think. The picture of Cornelia Vanderhoute … I had seen her before. Of this I was certain. But where? When? And with whom?
And then it came to me. Came to me just as the cab pulled up before the main entrance to the Constabulary. Oktoberfest … last Oktoberfest … the woman dancing with Brunner, she with the impressively full bosom and a complexion as pure and fresh as farmer’s cream.
Cornelia Vanderhoute. Who else?
Chapter Seventeen
I wasted no time summoning Detective Franz Brunner to my office. Entering, he had a wide-eyed look of expectation, as though he were anticipating good news. “So, Preiss, I assume your little tête-à-tête with The Great Man himself yielded some real results. What have we got that will make the Commissioner a happy man?”
“What have we got? Well now, Brunner, I’m not certain what we’ve got, but I have come across something of more than passing interest. Does the name Cornelia Vanderhoute resonate with you?”
“Resonate? What do you mean ‘resonate’?”
“Let me put it more plainly, then. Do the words ‘Cornelia Vanderhoute’ sound familiar?”
Brunner’s brow furrowed, his eyes closed tightly, he pursed his lips, signs of a man searching earnestly, deeply, into a distant dark past. Finally he shook his head. “The name means nothing to me, Preiss. Why do you want to know?” As he asked this, his eyes, open again, fell on a sheet of paper which I had deliberately positioned on my desk exactly midway between us. The paper contained the report of Cornelia Vanderhoute’s complaint against Wagner. I slid the report closer to Brunner’s side so that it was now easily readable. He nodded. “Cornelia Vanderhoute … ah yes, I see the woman’s name,” he said. “There’s her signature, there at the bottom of the page.” Brunner looked up at me. “What about her? What has she got to do with anything at the moment?”
“I have the distinct feeling,” I said, “that you can answer that question better than I. For some reason, Brunner, your name doesn’t appear as the complaints officer, but I recognize the handwriting. I’m sure you recognize it, too. The report is dated August 11, 1867. You happened to be on duty on that date.” I paused, figuring Brunner was at least entitled to a sporting chance to offer some acknowledgement. When none was forthcoming, I asked, “Now, Brunner, is any of this beginning to ‘resonate’ with you?” Brunner shook his head and I thought I heard “No.”
“Then I will continue. Bear with me, Brunner. When you recorded her complaint it was in August and she alleged that she was pregnant and spoke of the prospect of abortion. It’s right here, in black and white. So is the name of Richard Wagner. I repeat: that was in August. Several months later, in October, at an Oktoberfest outdoor event, there you were, Brunner, dancing with the same lady, a woman of exquisite roundness in many parts but with a belly as flat as a veal cutlet. And energy? I confess I’ve not made a career studying the ways of pregnant women, but I have yet to witness a woman ‘with child,’ as they say, kick up her heels with such spirit!”
Brunner’s face turned to stone. “What are you getting at, Preiss?”
“Whether or not Fräulein Vanderhoute was telling the truth about Wagner being the father of the child she was bearing I cannot say. Nor, I suppose, can you. But one thing seems clear: between the time you took her story and the time the two of you were dancing at Oktoberfest, her pregnancy must have been aborted.”
“But she was close to Wagner,” Brunner protested, though not as defensively as I expected. “Not just close, Preiss; intimate is more like it. But how — ?”
I knew what Brunner’s next question would be and proceeded to answer before he could speak it. “At Wagner’s house I was shown a cast picture taken at the final performance of one of his operas. And there, in the front row, was a young female singer. And I knew I’d seen her somewhere before. And then it dawned on me. The woman Wagner identified as Cornelia Vanderhoute in the photograph is the same woman I saw dancing with you.”
Brunner, who’d been sitting up to this point on the edge of his chair, leaned back, crossed his legs, and looked at me with hooded eyes, as though bored and indifferent to what he had just been told. “And your point is — ?”
“My point is this,” I said. “There are three possibilities here: one is that Fräulein Vanderhoute wanted directions to the nearest abortionist, and who better than a senior detective would possess that kind of information?”
“Oh come now, Preiss,” Brunner huffed, “you know as well as I that abortions are against the law. What policeman would sacrifice his career — ”
“Let me finish, Brunner. The second possibility is that the lady was lying, that, in fact, she was pregnant by someone other than Wagner but did some fine calculating and concluded that implicating the Maestro would not only give a boost to her singing career … you know, innocent ambitious little Dutch girl succumbs to celebrated but notorious German lecher … but might line her pockets with a thaler or two.”