I leaned forward and pointed to a section of the report. “There’s the matter of the woman’s hatpin — ”
“You mean that ‘Fräulein Hatpin’ nonsense?”
“It was you, Commissioner, who coined that name. As I recall, you considered her skill with that rather unorthodox weapon not only entirely credible but conveniently useful … if you get my meaning.”
“Well, Preiss, that’s all beside the point now, isn’t it? That I hoped and prayed Richard Wagner would become her next victim, I will admit. God fulfills Himself in many ways; regrettably, this was destined not to be one of those ways. And now, to make matters worse you rub salt in my wounds by asking me to believe this fellow Schramm is innocent. Which, by the way, brings up another troubling matter: I’m given to understand that the man’s name is not Henryk Schramm, but Hershel Socransky. The man’s a Jew, Preiss … a Jew, of all things! Two questions spring to mind. Earlier this morning, as I was reviewing your report with your colleague Brunner — ”
“You reviewed my report with Brunner — ?” I felt as though I had just swallowed an icicle.
“Don’t look so astonished, Preiss. After all, Brunner is a senior man. I have to tell you, in all honesty, that Brunner on occasion is more assiduous when it comes to shedding light on the finer nuances of a case. It was he who informed me that Schramm’s real name is Socransky and that he’s a Jew. Why does this fact not appear in your report?”
“Because I did not regard the man’s racial or religious origins to be germane in these circumstances, any more than if he were a Roman Catholic, a Lutheran, or a Druid for that matter. You said there were two questions, Commissioner. The second is — ?”
“The second is: what the devil is a Jewish singer doing in an opera composed by the likes of Richard Wagner?” Suddenly von Mannstein, whose expressions up to this point had ranged from annoyed to profoundly annoyed, broke into a half smile. “D’you suppose, Preiss, that circumcision affects the voices of these people? Gives ’em some kind of advantage? Wagner is a menace, yes, but the man’s no fool. Maybe he’s learned their secret, eh?”
Just as suddenly, von Mannstein turned serious again. “Less than two hours from now I am going to find myself standing before Mayor von Braunschweig stumbling and mumbling through a string of pitiful excuses. There’ll be damned little rejoicing when I announce that the one good thing to come out of this … if one can call it a good thing … is that a murderer is no longer loose among us. But I will not compound this unsatisfactory turn of events by fixing my stamp of approval on a report which labels this tenor of yours innocent. You forget, Preiss, that there is a moral dimension to what we do, you and I. If we yield to hypocrisy, to concealment, to favouritism, where are we, Preiss? Where, I ask you?”
A moment went by, and then I heard a voice uttering the following response to the commissioner’s question: “You ask where are we, sir? We are in places and situations which we prefer not to be made public, such as a certain house in Friedensplatz operated by one Rosina Waldheim, or a certain relationship — albeit it distant — to a family by the name of Waggoner.”
Much to my amazement, the voice that spoke those words was mine!
“Damn it, Preiss, I could have you sacked for such impertinence!” von Mannstein shot back through clenched teeth.
“Indeed you could, sir,” I admitted, “but then this discussion would have to come to light, wouldn’t it? Not a pleasant prospect for either of us … with all due respect.”
For the next minute or two I found myself participating with von Mannstein in a silent game I hadn’t played since I was a child. The two of us sat staring uncompromisingly at one another, neither one of us daring to blink.
It was Commissioner von Mannstein who blinked first.
“Very well, Preiss,” he said, eyeing me coldly, “we will consider the case of Fräulein Vanderhoute officially closed. We will attempt to put the best complexion on it that we can. ‘A deranged murderer has fortunately met her just end’ … that’s how my report to the mayor will read. For what it’s worth, I shall also have to add, distasteful as it is, that with her death the threat to Wagner has died as well. As for your man Schramm, or Socransky, or whatever his name is, and as for all the rest of these artistic pests … well, Preiss, enough is enough. Your orders are to return immediately to real police work. This Wagner business is over, Inspector. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir,” I replied.
Returning to my own office I set the Wagner file squarely before me on my desk. I leafed through numerous pages of notes, clippings from newspapers and magazines, official and unofficial reports, several state documents, until I came across a single sheet of inexpensive stationery upon which, written in a crude hand, was the message:
JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION
I sat back, holding the paper at arm’s length.
I read the message over and over, aloud but in a quiet voice.
Then I replaced the sheet of paper in the file. I locked the file in a private drawer of my desk.
This Wagner business may have been over for Commissioner von Mannstein, but it was far from over for me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Every May, when the sun has finally ended its annual winter game of hide and seek and bursts from behind April’s clouds as if to shout “Surprise!” Munich spreads itself bare under the warming rays so that by the time May has slipped effortlessly into June the city once more blooms with newborn gardens. There is a sense that every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, every petal of every flower is out to prove that Nature, which has treated the city with callous indifference over the long winter months, possesses a softer side after all. Total strangers, having shed the constraints of cold weather along with their heavy coats and hats and boots, pass one another in the streets and smile. On the surface, Munich at this time of the year is a collection of sunbeams and greenery and charm and civility.
Crime, on the other hand, possesses no softer side. Indeed, this spring, which brought balmier-than-usual temperatures, inspired Munich’s denizens of the underworld to burst forth from their hiding places with a kind of vigour and audacity not seen here in recent years. In the Old Town, almost within the shadows of the onion-shape domes of the ancient Frauenkirche Cathedral, petty thieves were stealing their daily bread regularly at the stalls of the Viktualienmarkt, helping themselves brazenly as well to expensive meats and vegetables, fruits and cheeses. Nothing but the best for these non-paying gourmands! Climb the high tower of nearby Peterskirche for a view of the area and, if you had sharp eyes, you would catch sight of pickpockets here and there following closely on the heels of affluent pedestrians like stray dogs, waiting for the right moment to capture a fat wallet or snatch a loosely held purse, their skills revived after months of inactivity due to the cold. As June’s temperatures climbed, so did both the quantity and quality of lawlessness in the city. At the beer gardens frequented by ruffians, evenings of heavy drinking intended to afford relief from the heat erupted into quarrels, which in turn led to vicious beatings and stabbings, many with fatal results.
Once again a rapist was creating fear, this time in the vicinity of the Botanical Gardens adjacent to the Schloss Nymphenburg, a favourite spot of young couples for a romantic stroll after dusk. The method was the same in every one of a half-dozen cases: the rapist, described as having the build of a professional wrestler, would attack the male from the rear, dispatching him with a single blow to the head; the female would then be dragged off behind a hedgerow. If she were lucky she would lapse into unconsciousness before her assailant was finished.