I expected — or at least hoped — that this spewed recital of my troubles would elicit some decent show of sympathy on Helena’s part. What I received instead was an incredulous stare. “Why, Hermann,” Helena said, “in all the years we’ve known each other I have never seen you wallow in self-pity.”
At this I flew into a carefully manufactured rage. “Self-pity! Self-pity! Is that all you have to say to me? It’s not self-pity I’m wallowing in; it’s a sea of evil I’m drowning in! The one person I hoped would throw me a lifeline was you, Helena. Instead, what do I get? Sympathy? No. Support? No. Understanding? Not even a smidgen.” I paused, looked away, and added in a low voice, “Not even a measly offer of help.”
By now a dark cloud hung over our conversation but something told me a silver lining was about to show itself. And it did. Reaching out and taking my hand in hers, Helena said, “I apologize if I offended you, Hermann. How can I help?”
How quickly I managed to make it to shore from my “sea of evil”!
“Schramm,” I said. “A moment ago, I asked you what he was up to and you rushed to reply that he wasn’t up to anything. I believe otherwise, Helena. You see, I have a theory about Schramm. I suspect his real name is Socransky and that he’s related in some fashion to a family by that name that lives in Russia, in the city of Minsk to be exact. What is questionable is why on earth this man would go to great lengths — as he has obviously done — to win a role, not an ordinary role, but the major role, in a Wagner production. There is something undefinable about Henryk Schramm … a fog I’ve thus far failed to lift, a shell I’ve failed to pierce. At the moment facts are in short supply, so I have to rely on my instincts, and they tell me our friend Schramm is here in Munich on some mission, that he has an agenda which involves Richard Wagner, but not in a good way.”
“It sounds preposterous, Hermann,” Helena said. She gazed at me as though she were attempting to diagnose an illness. “Perhaps you’ve been overworking and need a rest and a change. I’m completely free this evening. Why don’t we — ”
“Thank you, Helena, but that’s not the sort of help I have in mind.”
Unaccustomed to this kind of rejection, Helena eyed me coldly. “Then what do you have in mind?” At the same time she removed her hand from mine. Suddenly it was as if the distance between us could be measured in kilometres. “You’re not suggesting — ”
“Believe me, Helena, nothing is more painful for me than the thought of you and Schramm …”
“You can’t even bring yourself to finish, can you?”
“You did offer to help — ”
“I have my limits, Hermann, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I need you to do what I cannot do, Helena. I need this!”
Helena looked away, as though she couldn’t bear the sight of me. There was a long minute of silence.
Finally she spoke. “Damn you, Hermann Preiss!” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
If there is one skill my years of training and experience did not impart it was the skill — or to give it its due — the art of diplomacy. Whether dealing with authorities or dealing with the underworld, I have always found it difficult to substitute euphemisms for blunt truths, or to circle around a potentially dangerous problem in hopes of overcoming it by attacking it from the rear. Not that I am above a little obfuscation now and then, mind you, whenever it suits me. How then, I asked myself, was I going to deal with Richard Wagner and the matter of reinstating Thilo Rotfogel as principal French hornist in the opera orchestra?
I thought of various approaches:
“Maestro, remember Cornelia Vanderhoute? Well, I have reason to suspect that she is out to ruin you … no, to kill you … and the only person who can lead me to wherever she is in hiding is — ”
“Maestro, there’s this French horn player with whom you’ve had some differences, but it seems there is one thing you and he have in common — ”
“Maestro Wagner, I must tell you that allowing Thilo Rotfogel to return to his post in the orchestra could possibly save several lives, including your own — ”
Any one of these, or similar, openings would leave Wagner staring at me as though I were delusional. Of that I had no doubt. But having neither the time nor the temperament nor the talent for subtlety, I made an urgent appointment to meet with Wagner and determined that I would come directly to the point: like it or not, Thilo Rotfogel would have to be given back his position. My job was to find Cornelia Vanderhoute and find her without delay, and if the great man was forced to swallow his pride, well, to hell with him. There would be the usual thunder and lightning. But I was fully prepared.
I was not prepared, however, for the scene that greeted me when I arrived at the Wagner residence. Ushered into the drawing room by the housekeeper, I found Wagner and Cosima huddled on a settee, he with his arms tightly around her shoulders, she appearing to have collapsed, her head resting against his, her eyes closed as though she were desperately attempting to erase some terrible sight. She was wearing a coat. A bonnet, gloves, and silk scarf lay carelessly at her feet.
Wagner looked up at me with watery eyes. His complexion was ashen. His lips were parted but something unseen behind them was preventing words from emerging. A man accustomed to making others tremble, Richard Wagner was himself trembling!
Not knowing what to say, I began with an apology. “I’m sorry … I seem to have intruded on a private family matter — ” I took a step back, intending to withdraw.
Wagner freed one of his arms and motioned vigorously for me to remain, which I did, standing awkwardly and hoping I hadn’t blundered into the midst of a Wagnerian domestic crisis. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have committed yet another act of infidelity, while she, having just found out, was now engaging in yet another act of forgiveness.
At last Wagner spoke up, his voice unsteady. “You couldn’t have come at a more fitting time, Preiss. My wife has suffered a horrible fright … horrible!” There was a pause, and the two of them seemed to cling to each other more closely, as though they were alone and abandoned in a hostile world. Gently, Wagner said to his wife, “Cosima, do you wish me to tell the Inspector, or would it be better if — ”
Cosima Wagner’s head was pressed still against Wagner’s and her answer was muffled. “Give me a moment, Richard. I need to compose myself — ”
A moment later she looked up. For the first time I saw her face. Tears had smudged her rouge, the hair over her brow was unruly, the corners of her mouth drooped. Her expression was one of utter exhaustion. “You’ll have to bear with me Inspector — ” was all she could say. A full minute went by, then she gathered herself up, sitting erect now. Once again she was the Cosima Wagner I’d met a few days earlier, fully in charge of herself, despite whatever had occurred that had so unnerved her prior to my arrival.