“Why? Were the three of them romantically involved?” The commissioner cocked one eye, a familiar expression of his whenever he was suspicious. “This fellow Schramm, what about him? Were he and Wagner in some sort of tangle over this woman, is that it? Not tangle; triangle is more like it.”
“No, sir, nothing that simple.”
“Damn, Preiss! I was hoping it was that simple. Go on, then.”
“According to Schramm, he arrived at Steilmann’s apartment, which is on the ground floor of a building not far from the opera house. He knocked. There was no answer. He tried the door, found it was unlocked, entered, and found the young woman lying in a pool of blood, much of which seemed to have come from the area of her throat. A long hatpin had been left beside her body.”
“A hatpin? A hatpin? What kind of man uses a hatpin as a murder weapon?”
“A man posing as a woman,” I replied. “Or a woman, for that matter. More likely the latter, sir.”
“I don’t agree, Preiss,” von Mannstein said, full of self-confidence. “Women are biters and scratchers, not murderers. You’re a bachelor, of course, so I’m not surprised that you’re unaware of that fact.”
Where had I heard this insight expressed before? Ah yes, from Detective Franz Brunner no less. The wisdom of idiots, I told myself. But this was not the moment to challenge a higher authority. “I will certainly bear in mind your thoughts on the matter,” I said.
“Not thoughts, Preiss,” the commissioner corrected. “Accept the advice of someone who’s had years of experience not only in the field of crime per se but in a more general field of crime known as women. Whoever wrote the story of the Garden of Eden got his facts wrong. It was Eve who was the serpent, Preiss. Still, women are not killers by nature, only tormentors. Carry on.”
“The fact that Steilmann’s door was unlocked and her rooms appeared undisturbed suggests that her assailant was invited to enter rather than making a forced entry. Perhaps the assailant was even known to the victim, but this remains to be seen.”
“But what about this fellow Schramm? Isn’t he a possible suspect? Come to think of it, Preiss, what about Wagner himself?”
The expression on the commissioner’s face was so hopeful I hated to dampen it. “I never rule anyone out, Commissioner, when it comes to murder. So I will certainly pursue every possibility and probability. But I have to say that on any list of suspects, Schramm and Wagner — at least for the time being — would be at the very bottom.”
Impatiently von Mannstein demanded, “Then who the devil is at the very top?”
I paused. Tell the truth, Preiss, commit yourself, and then if it turns out you’re wrong, your career will never recover. Better to lie, be vague, suffer the commissioner’s wrath, but at least leave a door open for yourself.
“To be honest about it, sir,” I said slowly, “I have not yet come to any conclusion about a prime suspect.”
“Not even a hint?”
“No sir, not even a hint.”
“Outrageous! Intolerable! Unacceptable!” von Mannstein repeated.
I held my tongue, expecting “dastardly, despicable, deplorable” to follow in quick succession. Instead, Commissioner von Mannstein called out to me as though he were God speaking to Noah moments before The Flood: “Preiss, our very civilization here in Munich is threatened. I want the perpetrator of these crimes in our hands before a fourth victim turns up. Until this ugly business is done, I expect that you will neither sleep nor slumber. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
The only thing perfectly clear — much to my amazement — was that Commissioner von Mannstein apparently had once read something by William Shakespeare!
Stifling an urge to congratulate him, I replied, “Perfectly clear, sir,” amazed at how obedient I sounded.
Chapter Nineteen
In the immediate aftermath of Karla Steilmann’s gruesome demise, a lighthearted evening spent as Henryk Schramm’s guest over dinner at Ziggy Bolliger’s was understandably out of the question. Instead, Schramm proposed a simple repast at his lodgings where we would share a fresh baguette, a wedge of Roquefort, fruit, and a red wine bottled at some château in France I’d never heard of, all of which Schramm had picked up at the only French pâtisserie in Munich, located conveniently steps from his living quarters.
Perceiving that I partook of only modest amounts of the food and wine, Schramm said, “Forgive me, Inspector. I see that you are not an enthusiast when it comes to the products of France.”
“No need to apologize, Schramm,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I happen to be a product of France … or so I’ve been led to believe.” Schramm looked puzzled. “You see,” I said, “some years ago when Napoleon’s army invaded our part of the country, a number of French soldiers went on a rampage in my home town, Zwicken, raping and pillaging. My mother was one of their victims, and my father was convinced that I was the result … the ‘outcome’ as he called me. I bear not the slightest resemblance to my father, which made him all the more certain that his seed was preoccupied elsewhere at the moment of my conception.”
“That must have been quite a burden throughout your childhood.”
“On the contrary, Schramm. The only burden throughout my childhood was my father.”
“Still, he was the head of the household?” Schramm said.
“We — that is, my mother, sister, and I — preferred to think of him as the tail of the household. The happiest day of my life was the day I said goodbye to him. That was the day I left Zwicken to attend the police academy in Hamburg. Never saw the old man again. With a little luck, perhaps I’ll manage to avoid him some day in heaven or hell.”
“Well, at least now I don’t feel guilty about your lack of appetite. Besides, with three murders — ”
I did not wait for Schramm to finish his thought. “It’s not the three murders that are weighing heavily at this precise moment, Schramm.”
Topping up my wine glass, then his own, Schramm asked, “Oh? And what is, then? I would have thought that, as Chief Inspector, you would find yourself under enormous pressure to solve these cases, especially with all the criticism in today’s press about police efficiency.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “Press criticism? Schramm, the one good thing about being a policeman is that after a hard night’s work you don’t have to wake up to next morning’s reviews in the newspapers.”
“Is that the reason you didn’t become a singer, Inspector?”
“It’s the second reason. The first is that I didn’t have a voice to speak of. No, Schramm what’s troubling me chiefly at the moment is — of all people — you.”
Carefully, Schramm put down his wine glass. His mouth and eyes collaborated to form a quizzical but cautious smile. For a second or two he remained silent, like someone deciding whether to advance into or retreat from the topic. Then, that smile still present, he said, “Me? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Ah, Schramm, that makes two of us. I’m afraid I don’t understand either, and there’s nothing I detest more than finding myself in a state of uncertainty like this. But since you’re my host, and a gracious one at that, I feel that I owe you the courtesy of frankness, even though what I’m about to disclose is not unlike venturing into an uncharted swamp.”
Schramm’s eyebrows shot up but he still appeared amused. “An uncharted swamp! My goodness, Inspector, even in moments when I was being an incorrigible child my mother never referred to me as an uncharted swamp!”
I sat back, twirling the ruby contents of my wine glass with seeming idleness, but not taking my eyes from Schramm’s. If he had any inkling of what I was about to dredge up — and I was now sure he did — then the young man meeting my gaze with a look of such complete self-assurance, even a flicker of mirth, without a shred of doubt had to be someone very much other than “Henryk Schramm.” For a second or two I was tempted to come right out and tell him this. Then I thought: No, a frontal assault may not work with this fellow Schramm, or whoever he is. Better to attack from what may turn out to be a vulnerable flank and reduce the odds of a blunt denial or counter-attack.