“I’m certain she killed him.”
“But why?” Wagner asked. “He was a strange man in many ways, certainly not the easiest musician I ever worked with. In fact, he was annoying much of the time. But the woods aren’t full of great French horn players, so I put up with him. If anyone wanted to kill Rotfogel, it was I who had good reason, believe me. But Vanderhoute — ?”
“She may have had several motives,” I said, “robbery being one. We both know she wanted money, don’t we, Maestro?” As I expected, Wagner made no comment. I continued: “Rotfogel’s jewellery was missing and we have evidence she pawned some of it. But for the moment, Maestro, I’m more interested in another murder I’m certain she committed. I’m referring to the death of Karla Steilmann. Why would Cornelia Vanderhoute want to kill Karla Steilmann? And the answer that keeps flashing before my eyes is … jealousy. Now, why would Vanderhoute be jealous of Steilmann? Because Steilmann was a better singer, indeed your star soprano? From my conversation with your chorus master, she was aware of her limitations and quite content to be a member of the chorus. So what reason would she have to be jealous? Perhaps you have some idea, Maestro?”
Again Wagner remained silent, and looked away.
“Perhaps you have some idea?” I repeated, not pressing him, but not letting him stray from my question. “Well, Maestro?”
At last Wagner spoke up. “I need to walk a bit more, Preiss. The air and the exercise are good for these old bones of mine.”
We began to walk at the same measured pace as before, which gave Wagner an opportunity to avoid my gaze. Staring straight ahead of him, he said, speaking in such a matter-of-fact way one would have thought he was reading from a police report, “September, the year before last … Dresden … the opera house there … we were performing Tannhäuser. One of the leading female roles, that of the Venus, was to have been sung by my favourite dramatic singer, Wilhelmine Schroeder-Devrient. Alas, being somewhat past her prime, she was not up to the task either vocally and physically. Venus must be youthful, sensuous, and have a voice to match. Steilmann auditioned for the role. Long story short: audience fell in love with Karla Steilmann in Dresden.”
We walked on several more paces before Wagner added, in the same detached way, “I too fell in love with Karla Steilmann. The two of us spent a night together at our hotel in Dresden … one night only. Somehow — God knows how — Vanderhoute found out. When she — Vanderhoute, that is — tried to extract money from me, besides claiming to be carrying my child, she threatened to inform Cosima about Dresden.”
“And has Madam Wagner any knowledge of this?” I asked.
“God forbid!” Wagner said. “Listen to me, Inspector. I love Cosima, love her so deeply I cannot express it enough in words. For her next birthday, I am going to surprise her with a piece of music composed especially for her. Her birthday is on Christmas day, you know. The piece is titled Siegfried Idyll and I’m arranging — very secretly, of course — to have a small chamber group play it on the landing outside our bedroom. She will wake up to the sound of it, and the music will say to her what mere words cannot say, Preiss. So, am I a rogue who misbehaves now and then? Yes. But when I speak of true love, I speak only of Cosima!”
Coming to a sudden halt, Wagner, sounding remorseful now, said, “So it seems, Preiss, that Karla, and not I, has paid the price for what was really nothing more than one night in a hotel room in Dresden. You must find Cornelia Vanderhoute, Preiss. I trust the entire police force of Munich, including the commissioner no less, is on a mission to put her behind bars.”
How could I possibly inform Wagner that the very opposite was now true? “I assure you, Maestro,” I said, “that this matter is receiving the fullest concern at all levels of authority.”
“I take it, then,” Wagner said, “that the note I received when all of this began … the one threatening my ruination on June twenty-first … this must have been written by Vanderhoute.”
“We are still looking into that,” I replied.
Stunned, Wagner blurted out, “But that’s ridiculous, Preiss! What is there to look into? Who else on God’s earth would have written such a note?”
“We … that is, I … have a suspect, someone other than Fräulein Vanderhoute. Police policy, however, prohibits me from revealing names of suspects for fear that, if word gets out, they will flee.”
“But surely you can disclose this information to me, Preiss. I give you my word it will stay with me and no one else.”
The word of Richard Wagner? Now there was a phenomenon worthy of hours and hours of scrutiny! The man had already left a trail of broken promises from one end of Europe to the other: promises to lovers, to creditors, to fellow artists, to publishers, politicians, and yes, even to his own wife, Cosima, whom he professed to love with a passion that defied description.
The word of Richard Wagner? I think not, I said to myself.
“I’m sorry, Maestro Wagner,” I said, “but I cannot violate departmental policy. I can say only that I have ruled out Vanderhoute as the author of the note.”
“Then what has been the point of this conversation?” Wagner angrily demanded.
“The point,” I replied, “is to advise you, and Madam Wagner, too, of course, to be extra cautious.”
“Well, Inspector Preiss, thank you,” Wagner sneered, “thank you for nothing.”
Despite the scarring tone of his sarcasm, Wagner stood before me a figure of abject despair, wilted with self-pity. I knew exactly what was going through his mind. How dared fate deal so callously with a man of such immense genius?
“If you don’t mind, Preiss,” Wagner said, “I prefer to finish my walk alone.”
“I understand perfectly, Maestro. Bear in mind, however, that for the time being — ”
Wagner shot me one of his steely eyed looks. “If anything happens to Cosima, Preiss, I will never forgive you. Never! As for me — ” He waved his walking stick in the direction of the nearby river. “As for me, Inspector, don’t take me for an idiot. I have no intention whatsoever of throwing myself into the Isar the way your friend Schumann threw himself into the Rhine. I’m like my music … inextinguishable!”
“Good. Then, if you will excuse me — ”
I turned and started to leave, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, Maestro Wagner,” I said, “purely as a matter of interest, I’m curious to know if the problem you had with Thilo Rotfogel … the ‘upheaval’ as you called it … does that sort of thing occur often in the musical world?”
“Preiss, discipline is every bit as important in my profession as it is in yours. Want to see a complete autocrat with a baton? Watch Hans von Bülow during a rehearsal when I’m not present! As for me, I’ve had my differences with musicians from time to time. French orchestras are havens for revolutionaries. British are worse; they are too moribund to have any thoughts about anything. My worst encounter, however, was with a Russian orchestra. St. Petersburg of all places. An unruly bunch of Cossacks with a Jew for a concertmaster! Can you imagine! Fired the Jew, whipped the Cossacks into shape. Napoleon didn’t succeed in Russia. But Richard Wagner did. This satisfies your curiosity, Preiss?”
“You have satisfied more than my curiosity, Maestro,” I said.
Without another word, Wagner turned away and resumed his stroll, each step accompanied by the tapping of his elegant cane on the stone walkway, each tap reminding me of a firm and steady downbeat as he receded.
“June 21 will be the day of your ruination …”
The message kept repeating over and over again as I left the English Garden. How did Hershel Socransky, alias Henryk Schramm, plan to carry out his threat? And how soon could I prevent him from accomplishing whatever he’d planned?