My father, on the other hand, adhered unswervingly to a set of self-made rules that governed his reaction to people’s physical characteristics. “Remember, Hermann,” he would say, in tones as solemn as my mother’s, but grimacing as though he had just swallowed vinegar, “small eyes are a sign of a sneaky personality; warts are a sign of an evil mind; and beware of men who are underweight because they will cut your throat for a crust of bread!”
I will swear on the Bible that I made an earnest attempt to look at Thilo Rotfogel through my mother’s charitable eyes. But it was no use. Rotfogel’s features met my father’s criteria one by one and to perfection. To regard this fellow as a creature of God would have taxed even the most willing believer. Two things were beyond imagination: that Rotfogel could manufacture sufficient wind to bring alive the most fickle musical instrument ever invented; and that Rotfogel could manufacture sufficient charm that Cornelia Vanderhoute would agree to share a bed with him not just once, apparently, but several times. Like Shakespeare’s Cassius, Rotfogel had a lean and hungry look made more pitiable by ill-fitting clothes. Indeed, had he extended a hat, or perhaps a tin cup, I would have made a donation without a second thought. Instead, he extended a bony hand, and as I shook it I realized what Cornelia Vanderhoute saw in Thilo Rotfogel. Two gold rings adorned the fingers of his right hand, mounted on one of them a diamond which I estimated to be at least two carats. My attention was then drawn to his left hand, similarly graced with two gold rings, each bearing a precious stone, one a ruby, the other a sapphire. His jacket was open, revealing across his vest an expanse of gold chain anchored at one end by a gold pocket watch. His neckwear, though a simple unstylish black silk cravat, was nevertheless fixed into place by a diamond stickpin.
What could be more obvious? What Fräulein Cornelia Vanderhoute saw in French hornist Thilo Rotfogel was money!
Shunning perfunctory words of welcome, I came swiftly to the point. “Allow me to compliment you, Herr Rotfogel, on your choice of accessories. I see that you are a connoisseur of fine jewelry.”
This brought an appreciative smile to Rotfogel’s face. “Look here, Inspector,” he said, proudly displaying a handsome set of cufflinks. “Genuine black opals no less!”
“Very impressive, sir,” I said. “In my next life I intend to take up the French horn. It’s clearly a much more lucrative career than mine.”
Rotfogel quickly demonstrated that he was no fool. “You don’t believe a word of what you’ve just said, Inspector. What you’re really wondering is how I, a humble musician, can possibly afford what you call my ‘choice of accessories.’ So let me clear the air at once. I have lived all my fifty years as a bachelor, and a content one at that. Fortunately, I have only myself upon whom to shower my largesse, you see. Until a recent lamentable experience with a certain bastard conductor, I was much in demand and earned a steady living because French horn players do not grow on trees. At the risk of boasting, I’m one of the few who can play the early version of the instrument, which is no simple trick. Playing Vivaldi concertos on an early instrument, for instance, takes a certain genius because one must master the art of handstopping.”
“I’m familiar with Vivaldi’s music,” I said, “most of which sounds to me as though it was composed on one very long sheet of paper, then cut into sections and sold by the metre. But what is ‘handstopping’?”
“Ah, Inspector, it involves inserting a hand in the bell of the French horn, by which means one can flatten the pitch to produce chromatic notes. Believe me, sir, not every Fritz, Heinz, and Jürgen can do this! And bear in mind, too, that even a tiny bit of condensation from a player’s breath can cause cracked notes. This does not happen with Thilo Rotfogel, sir. Not on a modern horn nor on an original horn. Never!”
“I’m beginning to understand something, Herr Rotfogel,” I said. “Despite your age, and your apparent contentment with bachelorhood, women must be drawn to you because of this unique power of yours. Do you give private performances on your French horn for them?”
“Of course you are jesting,” Rotfogel responded with a knowing grin. “No, I do not give private performances … at least, not on my French horn, if you take my meaning.”
“You mean your prowess is not restricted to what you call handstopping?”
“Don’t be misled by my physique, Inspector,” Rotfogel said. “Despite my age and bachelorhood, as you put it, I know how to give pleasure to a woman.”
“I’m pleased for your sake, sir,” I said, “but does giving pleasure involve showering them with your largesse … that is, when you’re not too busy showering yourself?”
“Ah, you are referring specifically to Fräulein Vanderhoute, are you not? Very well, yes, in her case it was more of a flood than a shower. And why not? It was she who opened my eyes, you might say.”
“Opened your eyes to what — ?”
“How can I put it delicately — ?”
“Please, Rotfogel, I’m as much a man of the world as you. Let’s dispense with delicacy. To what did Cornelia Vanderhoute open your eyes?
“Let me put it this way,” Rotfogel replied, after taking a moment to think about his answer. “We Germans can learn a few things from Hollanders about what goes on in our bedrooms. Our Dutch friends display a certain fervency, a certain inventiveness, which we lack in this regard. I think it’s because their country, lying so low and under constant threat from the sea, encourages in the inhabitants a sense of urgency, a sense of devil-may-care that frees them from puritan constraints.”
“And so there was an ideal reciprocal arrangement,” I said. “You were generous when it came to money. Fräulein was generous when it came to the boudoir.”
“Ideal? No not quite,” Rotfogel said. “Other men were attracted to her, which is not surprising. As for me, Inspector … well, look at me. Do I look like the kind of man who could have claims to exclusivity with a woman like Cornelia Vanderhoute? Of course not. But I’m enough of a man to be jealous of the attention others paid her.”
“Were you aware that ‘others’ included Richard Wagner?”
“No, I was not,” Rotfogel said, “not until your colleague Detective Brunner informed me.”
“Then you must feel especially betrayed … by her, I mean.”
“Believe it or not,” Rotfogel replied, “I feel nothing but pity for her. It’s Wagner who is the villain here, not Cornelia. You see, she confessed to me that she was pregnant. She declined, however, to say by whom. I knew it could not be by me. The kind of ‘relations’ we engaged in ruled out the possibility of pregnancy. More of this I need not mention in detail. You say you are a man of the world, Preiss, so you will no doubt understand. But when Brunner explained to me that you are amassing evidence of Wagner’s abuses against a number of women with whom he’s been involved, and knowing Cornelia could well be one of such women … after all, she had sung for several years in the opera chorus and even a totally blind man would have been keenly aware of her voluptuousness … well, sir, I feel a moral obligation to do whatever I can.”
“Splendid!” I said. “Then tell us where we may locate Fräulein Vanderhoute. Detective Brunner and I are eager to obtain a statement from her. There are rumours that she returned to Holland but we have reason to believe she is still here in Munich. Needless to say, she could be a very valuable witness.”
Rotfogel shook his head. “She realizes that she has been living — shall we say — a somewhat overactive life and prefers to remain in seclusion for the time being. I feel bound to honour her wishes. You understand, Inspector, that she has a right to privacy which we must respect.”