Chapter Thirty-Three
Evening brought relief from the troubling questions of that day. The Bavarian Quartet outdid itself, a fact I attribute to the presence of Helena, who augmented it for the performance of the Schubert quintet. Let any red-blooded man challenge me to define what is arousing about Helena’s way with a cello and I will challenge him to put into words what is arousing about a waft of a subtle French perfume, or a lock of silken dark hair that trespasses over a smooth brow, or the seductive line that curves its way magically from a woman’s shoulder to her waist and hip. There occurs, seemingly without effort, a fusion of body and instrument with player and cello as with no other musical instrument. In Helena’s case, that image remains long after the music ceases.
The audience surrounding me in the intimate hall reserved for chamber concerts burst into shouts of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Even Erich Krauthammer, second only to the notorious Eduard Hanslick as Europe’s most petrous music critic, allowed the granite slab of his face to crack into a narrow smile of satisfaction!
I made a dash for the reception lounge backstage hoping to be first to congratulate Helena, only to find more than two dozen eager members of the audience ahead of me, the men, as expected, lingering a bit longer than necessary when they came to Helena, gushing, kissing her outstretched hand; the women enthusiastic but far less demonstrative, probably out of envy, or so I imagined. Last in line, I leaned forward intending to exercise my special privilege — a kiss on the lips — only to find my lips buried somewhere deep in Helena’s coiffure. From previous experience, I knew immediately that this was not a good sign. Still, I was taken aback, unable to recall any recent transgression on my part that would warrant such a cold reception. I did not have to wait long for an explanation.
“I suppose you, too, are about to desert me,” Helena said, rejecting my embrace.
“Desert you?”
“Leave me to spend the rest of this night alone in Munich — ”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Fortunately we were now alone in the room, the well-wishers and members of the quartet having left, and I was able to speak freely. “All right, Helena, let’s have it. What have I done wrong now?”
“You are a man. That is what you have done wrong. And I am sick of men! You are all alike, each and every damn one of you!” Again, from previous experience, I knew enough not to interrupt or protest. (How does one stop a cloudburst?)
Helena went on, “A few minutes before the program began I received a note from Henryk Schramm — ”
“Alias Henryk Schramm — ”
“- informing me that he was in the audience and could we have supper afterward at your friend’s restaurant, Maison Something. So what happens? Before you arrived, Hermann, I see him waiting in line — ”
“That’s odd,” I said. “Schramm was here? In the audience? I didn’t see him.”
“Perhaps he arrived late. What does it matter? So there he is, in line, and some woman approaches him, and they engage in a very animated exchange, the woman looking very pleased … too pleased, if you ask me … and next thing I know, he’s gone … vanished, without so much as hello and goodbye!”
“Face it,” I said trying to make a joke of it, “perhaps she was younger, prettier, more talented — ”
“Younger maybe. But prettier? Only if you think a bosom the size of a cow’s udder, with a derrière to match, pretty. But then, that’s what really attracts men, isn’t it?”
I hung my head in pretended shame. “At last you’ve discovered our filthy little secret.”
The joke not only failed, it proved to be inflammatory. Turning her back to me, Helena said, through tears, “Go to hell, Hermann!”
I’ve never been good at remorse and my next comment did nothing to improve that reputation. “I’m sorry, Helena, I had no idea you’ve become so infatuated with this man. But with all due respect, if all it takes to distract him is a bosom the size of a cow’s udder — ”
While I was in mid-sentence I spotted Madam Vronsky entering the lounge. She looked flushed with excitement. “I just saw that handsome tenor,” she said, “in tow behind a very awesome specimen of womanhood, I must say.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Oh, to be young again!” Then, observing that Helena was standing with her back to me, a handkerchief at her eyes, she said softly, “Oh dear, I’m afraid my timing is bad.”
“Not at all,” Helena said, making an effort to recover her composure. “In fact, your timing is perfect. You can accompany me back to the hotel.”
Madam Vronsky looked crestfallen. “Oh? I thought we would … how do the British say it … paint the town red? You should be celebrating tonight, Helena.”
“I’m in no mood to celebrate. I simply want to return to the hotel.” Helena turned back to me. “You needn’t come with us, Hermann. We can manage, thank you very much.”
I stood by, speechless, feeling like a fifth leg on a sheep, while Helena, her cello case in one hand, her free arm linked with Madam Vronsky, prepared to take her leave.
They were halfway out of the lounge when a question bolted through my head. I called out, “Please … a moment. Did you notice anything else about the woman … the one that made off with Schramm?”
There was a pause.
Then Madam Vronsky called back, “Her hat. One of those enormous Paris creations. You know, wide brim, lots of floral stuff. God knows how they stay put on women’s heads.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alone on the curb in front of the concert hall, I watched a cab bearing Helena and Madam Vronsky pull away, yet I could think of one thing only: the woman who lured Hershel Socransky away … her figure and costume all flash and flamboyance … the hat, especially the hat … God knows how they stay put on women’s heads …
It had to be her. Cornelia Vanderhoute, of course!
If her plot consisted of the systematic assassination of people vital to Wagner beginning at the outer rim of his current circle and working her way, one by one, inexorably toward the centre point of that circle, namely the Maestro himself, then why not Hershel Socransky (or, as she would know him, Henryk Schramm)? Through her connection to Thilo Rotfogel, or through the normal buzz of gossip in Munich’s musical hive, she would no doubt have heard about the handsome young tenor, the sketchiness of his background, unanswered questions about his career, the magnificence of his voice, his pivotal role in Wagner’s new opera.
Henryk Schramm. What better target? Schramm … next on the list of Cornelia Vanderhoute.
I had to find them. But where? In typical police parlance I had designated her in my file as a person “of no fixed abode,” all attempts thus far to pin down her precise dwelling place having produced merely the assumption that she was quartered in close proximity to a certain pawnshop. But given the proliferation of rooming houses and cheap hotels in that section of Munich — an area much favoured by young and impecunious artists — it would have been pointless at this late hour to roam the streets in search of a likely spot where the two might be ensconced, or, more to the point, where Hershel Socransky might be ensnared. It was unlikely, too, that they would be found at a restaurant, coffeehouse, tavern, or other public place. Murder, like prayer, or the performance of bodily functions, is an act best done privately, a rule Fräulein Vanderhoute had faithfully adhered to up to this point. I could not envision her wasting time over food and drink when there was urgent business on her agenda.
There was nothing sensible to do now but return to my own apartment, hoping by some miracle that something would occur to thwart Vanderhoute’s mission, and hoping by another miracle to get a decent night’s sleep. (And hoping, by a third miracle, that Helena Becker’s heart would reopen to me in the morning.)