Setting down my glass, I withdrew from an inner pocket of my jacket my notebook, its black leather covers faded into a shade resembling gunmetal, reflecting months of hard use and very soon needing to be replaced. Schramm did not fail to notice the notebook’s condition. Still maintaining that look of amusement, he said, “Ah, the little black book! I’ve heard about that phenomenon in the work of policing but I’ve actually never seen one. So it does exist after all! Oh, if only the pages could speak, eh!”
“The pages needn’t speak, Schramm,” I said smiling back. “I speak for them.” Then, from the centre of the notebook I extracted two fragments of an envelope and laid them on the table before Schramm with great care, as though they were precious jewels being offered for sale. “Do you recognize these, Schramm?” I asked.
Schramm responded slowly, his smile gone now. “No … no, not at all.”
“Would you care to examine them more closely then?” I nodded, encouraging him to pick up the two items, which he did, taking his time, turning the pieces this way and that, bringing them close to his eyes, holding them at a distance, examining the reverse sides.
“I have a magnifying glass — ” I offered.
“Thank you, no. I’m gifted with keen sight.”
“Splendid. Then you must indeed recognize that these are two parts of an envelope that contained a letter mailed to you from Russia … from the City of Minsk to be precise. Am I correct, Schramm?”
I held my breath, waiting for … waiting for what? A blunt denial? A startling admission? Or something in between, say, some form of obfuscation?
Schramm’s smile returned, filled every bit with self-assurance as before. With almost a lilt in his voice he asked, “Is this your roundabout way of accusing me of some crime or other, Inspector Preiss?”
“I’m going to copy your custom, Schramm,” I said, “by answering your question with a question.”
“Ask away, by all means, Inspector.”
“What is your connection with the City of Minsk? Have you lived there? Or are you related to people who live there? Perhaps you’ve performed there? Or is it possible that some part of your vocal training took place in that city?”
Schramm laughed good-naturedly. “Now hold on, Inspector! Those were five questions; I counted them. That’s hardly fair.”
“Schramm, my friend, one does not achieve the office of Chief Inspector because of a reputation for fairness. Please believe me, there’s not so much as a milligram of fairness in all the blood that courses though my veins.” I made this revelation about myself not with sharpness but rather in a tone of geniality, wanting to keep the atmosphere between us free of hostility. I followed this quickly with “You can also believe, Schramm, that I am not accusing you of any crime — ”
“At least, not yet? Is that what you mean?”
“Let us return to the matter of the envelope, shall we?”
“Now that was not a question, was it? Very well, Inspector, back to the envelope. Yes, putting the two portions together, it is clearly addressed to me, and it is clearly from Minsk. Fairness or no fairness, I’m entitled to know how you came to be in possession of these. But first, another drop or two?”
I took up my wine glass, and extended it to my host. “In vino veritas, eh?”
Chapter Twenty
Late that evening, following what Schramm jokingly referred to as “our petite picnic,” I returned to my apartment thoroughly disgusted with myself. In part I blamed the menu my host served. I have long associated wine and cheese with the decline and fall of the French empire, the sort of dainty cuisine effete noblemen and their powdered courtesans thought of longingly en route to the guillotine. My own appetite demanded heartier fare … well-garlicked sausage, potatoes, pickled cabbage, washed down with a reliable Munich lager, sustenance that fortifies warm-blooded Germans to defend hearth and home with sword and shield. Not wanting to insult Schramm, I bravely sampled the food, but only a nibble of this, a nibble of that, leaving my stomach largely hollow.
In part I blamed myself. I had every intention, when I presented the envelope fragments for Schramm’s inspection, and after he acknowledged that the envelope was indeed addressed to him, to pursue burning questions concerning his identity and background. I hoped, of course, that faced with the evidence I’d laid before him, he would voluntarily open the vault in which, I was certain, he had locked away his true self … Very well Inspector, the truth about myself is … Instead, Schramm, very deftly I must say, turned the tables, and before I could drain what I vaguely recall as my third glass of wine, I found myself in the uncomfortable role of a suspect, Schramm playing the role of persistent grand inquisitor, pressing me to explain how and where I came upon the pieces of the envelope, while I, cursing myself inwardly for having over-imbibed on an empty stomach, managed to remain just sober enough to insist that this was highly classified police information.
The result was a stand-off. Schramm told me virtually nothing. I told Schramm virtually nothing. In the end, the truth — or rather a number of truths — lay hidden still, to be probed some other time.
Depressed over what I saw as failure largely of my own making, I was about to seek comfort in a bottle of brandy when my eyes caught an envelope the concierge must have slipped under my door and which I’d overlooked when entering. And a welcome sight it was, for the handwriting was that of Helena Becker. Even more welcome was the familiar scent that greeted my nostrils when I held the paper to my nose, a perfumed reminder of the times our faces touched, Helena’s hair loosened and spread across my eyes like a blindfold, our fingers exploring each other’s lips as though, sightless, we were discovering them for the first time.
More welcome still was the news her letter contained.
Hermann dearest:
As luck would have it, I shall be returning to Munich this coming Friday. The Bavarian Quartet has scheduled a performance of Schubert’s “Two Cellos” Quintet as part of its Sunday afternoon program and it turns out that the cellist engaged to play the second cello part has had to cancel due to problems with her pregnancy. (I cannot imagine how one could possibly play such an instrument on a full stomach, Hermann. Can you?)
Knowing that I’m familiar with this music, they have summoned me to fill in. It’s a magnificent piece, Hermann, one of Schubert’s finest! I don’t care, my dear, if you are investigating the mass murder of thousands of Munich’s good citizens, I’ve reserved a front-row seat for you and expect you to lead the cheering.
And after the concert, Hermann, if you play your cards right, well, you may find yourself holding a winning hand … mine! (Perhaps there’ll be an encore or two as well!)
I do love you, Hermann … as always without having the slightest idea why.
Helena
P.S. On hearing that I’m to play once again in Munich, Madam Vronsky, to my delight, and I hope yours, insists upon travelling with me. Her excuse is that Munich is so much more fascinating these days than Düsseldorf. What do I think? I think that despite her age (a secret she guards these days with less and less success) her loins throb with thoughts of you, Inspector Preiss! Again I wonder why.