“You left out something, Brunner,” I said. “Namely, her ability to raise some ready cash. I was going to use the term ‘easy money’ but then you and I, being the seasoned policemen we are, well know that blackmail is not an idle pursuit. It requires planning, audacity, shrewdness, a perverse kind of courage I suppose. Throw in a pinch or two of greed. Put all of these into a stomach rumbling with a hunger for money. Then look for a collaborator … preferably one who is thoroughly acquainted with the ins and outs of crime in all its varieties.”
“You are actually accusing me of conspiring with that woman!” Brunner blurted out. “I cannot believe my ears!”
“Well, I could be euphemistic, I suppose, and designate your role ‘Technical Consultant’ to Cornelia Vanderhoute. Would that suit you better? Let’s cease this tedious circling around the topic and go directly to the epicenter. I need to know the woman’s whereabouts, and I need to know now. Not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, but now.”
Bluntly Brunner replied, “She returned to the Netherlands. Gone and forgotten.”
“No, Brunner, that’s not true. Every instinct in my being tells me she is here. Very much here, in Munich.”
Brunner brushed this aside. “But she had no reason to remain in Munich.”
“So you may think, Brunner. She shows up empty-handed after her failed effort to extract money from Wagner. As far as you are concerned, she is therefore of no further interest or use to you, so let her vanish to the ends of the earth. But vanish she did not. According to Wagner, Cornelia swore to get revenge for the way he treated her. In fairness, knowing the Maestro’s ways with women, she probably had good reason.”
“Even if your so-called instincts are correct,” Brunner said, “what could a young woman like her possibly do in a case like this? Throw sticks and stones? Call him nasty names? Slip sinister notes under his door? You know how women act, Preiss. At most they bite and scratch.”
“Wrong, Brunner. At most they go completely out of control and sometimes they even commit murder. Perhaps several murders. You know as well as I, Brunner, that when it comes to murder suspects, nothing — nothing — can be ruled out.”
Brunner stared at me, a half smile on his face, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Quietly he said, “This is insane, Preiss.”
I came around my desk and stood close to Brunner. “Detective, I could have you cashiered within the hour based on your little escapade with Cornelia Vanderhoute. But I’m going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. Find this woman and bring her in for questioning. I don’t give a damn where you have to go or what you have to do. I want her in this office within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours! You can’t be serious, Preiss. Munich is not a village. There are at least a hundred and one — ”
Before Brunner could finish his protest there was a loud knock on my office door, and one of my junior constables opened it without waiting for permission.
“I beg your pardon, Inspector,” the young officer said, “but there’s a gentleman here — ”
I recognized Henryk Schramm.
“Thank God you’re here, Inspector,” Schramm called out, rushing in. “You must come at once!” His chest was heaving and he was gasping for breath.
“Come where, Schramm? Calm down, man. Come where?”
“It’s Karla Steilmann — ”
“What about her?”
“She’s dead. My God, Preiss — ” Schramm burst into tears and seemed on the verge of collapsing. “Someone murdered her.”
Chapter Eighteen
"Outrageous! Intolerable! Unacceptable!”
Commissioner von Mannstein was reacting to the news of Karla Steilmann’s murder, sputtering adjectives of anger in my direction as though it was I, Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss, who had done the terrible deed. I knew my superior to be a man of limited vocabulary and assumed that “outrageous, intolerable, and unacceptable” would pretty much exhaust his ability to express official displeasure. I was wrong. Out of his trembling lips poured “dastardly” followed by “despicable,” then “deplorable,” (indicating a modest gift for alliteration). I made as if to agree with him but his upraised hand silenced me. “I regret to say this, Preiss,” von Mannstein said, his high tenor descending to a gravelly baritone, “but both the mayor and I are deeply deeply disappointed in you. Three murders in a row! All of them connected with Richard Wagner one way or another. It seems that wherever Wagner’s shadow falls, evil lurks — ”
“Nicely put, sir,” I interjected.
“Never mind that,” von Mannstein snapped. “I’m not looking for compliments from you, Preiss; I’m looking for results. Your report is as empty as … as empty as — ”
“A whore’s conscience — ?”
“Do me the honour, sir, of not interrupting! The plain fact, Preiss, is that our fair city of Munich, which should be known as Germany’s centre of culture, is fast becoming known as Germany’s centre of homicide! Tell me, Inspector: you have some knowledge of the ways of people in the arts; it has always been my impression that they die in more dramatic circumstances … you know … pistols at ten paces at dawn in some pasture, swordfights, maybe poisonings with strange potions concocted by hags and witches. But what have we here, eh? Two men and one woman, all slain with a piercing instrument aimed at the throat. Damned unfashionable, don’t you think?”
“With all due respect, Commissioner,” I replied, striving to be appropriately grave, “I have never come across a fashionable murder. As for people in the arts perishing dramatically, I’m afraid that is confined to people in the literary arts: novelists, poets, historians of questionable honesty, biographers who wallow in the sludge of scandal.”
“You mean musicians are above that kind of thing, Preiss?”
“Above murder? No, not at all, sir. But their means are usually more subtle. They kill one another with sound. One man’s music is another man’s poison, so to speak.”
“Then there’s hope, after all,” the commissioner said. “I’ve only heard one piece of music written by Wagner — thank God! — but surely there exists another composer who will come along and, as you say, Preiss, rid Germany of this villain. In the meantime, back to your report. It’s rather sketchy.”
“Fräulein Steilmann’s murder was only brought to my attention late yesterday. I have not had time to complete even a cursory investigation. But I assure you that her apartment has been sealed and is guarded, and I expect to return there within the hour to conduct a thorough examination of everything in the place.”
“Who discovered her?”
“A fellow artist. A tenor by the name of Henryk Schramm. She and Schramm were scheduled to attend a rehearsal session at Wagner’s residence last evening. They are … perhaps I should say were … preparing for their leading roles in Maestro Wagner’s new opera due to open in June. Schramm showed up for the session, but Fräulein Steilmann failed to appear. Singers are often rather fragile and unpredictable … you know, sir, so much depends upon their physical state — ”
This brought an unexpected chuckle from Commissioner von Mannstein. “So there’s truth after all to the old wives’ tale, eh, Preiss?”
“Which old wives’ tale?”
“That opera singers never engage in sexual activity on the night before a performance. Supposed to be bad for their voices, makes them coarse, or some such nonsense.”
For the first time since I’d joined the Munich Constabulary, I heard the commissioner giggle. Quickly he excused himself. “Sorry, Preiss, but I do have trouble taking these people as seriously as they take themselves. Please carry on.”
“The rehearsal, much to Wagner’s annoyance, had to be cancelled, and Schramm immediately went round to Fräulein Steilmann’s lodgings.”