“Yes indeed. This woman Vanderhoute … remember her? Well, here’s another fact, my friend. You knew her for some period of time before the night she died. She and my late colleague Detective Brunner had some prior contact with you. In fact, they were attempting to blackmail you … for money of course. You resisted. Somehow you learned that she was on a mission of her own that might involve killing Wagner. That would interfere with your own mission — whatever it was, or is — and so you decided to dispose of her. You lured her to your rooms and did away with her, making it appear that you killed her in self-defence.”
A smile returned to the tenor’s face. “There’s still one cream bun, Inspector. Care to share it with me?” I indicated my refusal with a shake of my head and waited while he ate it and finished the remains of his coffee as though we had all the time in the world. He used a snow-white linen napkin to dab the corners of his mouth and wipe his fingers clean of crumbs, then sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “God bless Germany,” he said, “land of canons and cream buns! Now then, Inspector, let us suppose … just for the sake of argument, of course … that your theory is correct. What then?”
“You have two choices,” I replied. “One: Withdraw immediately from your role in Die Meistersinger. By immediately I mean today. There is a train which leaves tonight for Russia. Be on it. I will see to it that your necessary travel papers are in order. Two: Stay and face prosecution for the murder of Cornelia Vanderhoute, as well as for threatening the life of Richard Wagner.”
Socransky’s eyes narrowed. “Something doesn’t make sense, Preiss,” he said at last. “If you have proof, why would you offer me an opportunity to leave the country? Why wouldn’t you simply do your duty, arrest me, imprison me while I await trial for my alleged crime? I don’t understand what is happening here … I mean, what is really happening.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I said, “but I suppose it would be unfair that you be exiled to Minsk only to spend the rest of your days wondering why.”
“Excuse the interruption,” Socransky said politely, “but aren’t you being a bit presumptuous? You did offer two choices — ”
“Don’t be a fool, Socransky. I have enough evidence to convince a court of law that you had a perfect motive and a perfect opportunity to do away with the woman, and that you have an equally perfect motive to take some drastic form of revenge against Wagner and need only a perfect opportunity … which I am not about to hand you. No, my young friend, go east, and leave Richard Wagner’s fate to others. Trust me, Socransky: the authorities to whom I answer have their priorities well set when it comes to Wagner. Trying one murderer for murdering another murderer doesn’t rate so much as a single phrase on their agenda.”
“In other words,” Socransky said, without bitterness, “you can’t wait to get rid of me — ”
“Yes, I suppose that sums up my message pretty succinctly — ”
“- while Richard Wagner remains at large, so to speak.”
“For the time being, yes.”
Socransky studied me for a few moments, then stared into his empty coffee cup, biting his lips, mulling over the choices. Then, looking up, he gave me a smile best described as a sign of subtle defiance. “One of the things I’ve learned about you, Inspector Preiss, is that you have a reputation for making allowances for people whom you regard as special … geniuses like Robert Schumann, his wife Clara, and now Wagner. Why in God’s name would you take it upon yourself to shield a villain like him?”
“A villain, yes,” I replied, “but a rare villain, one who does not besmirch everything he touches. Even you must admit that.”
“I admit no such thing. You cannot separate the man from his creation no matter how great his music. To me that is crystal clear, and if you will pardon my frankness, Inspector, I’m shocked that you show such ambivalence.”
“When you have spent years and years dealing with every kind of human emotion imaginable, as I have, you learn — if you have any brains at all — that a healthy dose of ambivalence is like a tonic. Clarity, on the other hand, often comes back to haunt you and stop you in your tracks. Take my advice, Socransky. Whatever grievance you have, leave it to destiny. Destiny, if you let it be, eventually veers toward some kind of just resolution.”
I signalled to the waiter for the cheque. “And now, enough talk,” I said. “You need time to get your things in order, pack, and so on. I should let you go about your business.”
“You do appreciate that today is June twentieth, Inspector,” Socransky said. “Tomorrow night, seven o’clock — ” He shrugged.
“The world will not come to an end,” I said. “Besides, the tenor hired to replace Grilling as Beckmesser is familiar with your role. His understudy can sing the part of Beckmesser.”
“So you have it all neatly figured out, I see. You Germans are so efficient!”
“Efficiency is our religion,” I said, “although that, too, often comes back to haunt us. Your train leaves for the east at ten. I will meet you a half-hour earlier at the Ostbahnhof and clear the way for you with the officials. By the way, I’ve arranged a first-class ticket for you, courtesy of the taxpayers of Munich. It’s a long journey, but at least it will be a comfortable one.” The Ostbahnhof is the second largest railway station in Munich and handles most of the railway travel towards the east. I hoped to see Socransky at one of those trains.
“And how do you propose to break the news of my sudden departure to the Maestro?”
“Ah yes,” I replied with a rueful chuckle, “that little detail will be attended to the moment you and I wave our last goodbyes to each other.” I gave the young tenor a playful jab on the arm. “You see, Socransky, whenever you ask me a question, unlike you I respond with an answer, not another question. Nine-thirty at the Ostbahnhof?”
Socransky returned the playful jab. “Why not?” he replied.
Chapter Forty-Two
At the Ostbahnhof I took a position in the rotunda directly under the ornate gold dome, a central spot that enabled me best to keep my eyes on the constant waves of humanity flooding in and out of the terminal. There is a clock mounted on the wall just above the main entrance, its face large and bright as the sun, its classic Roman numerals giving time an extraordinary measure of elegance. When it announces the hours and half-hours, the terrazzo floor underfoot trembles and one would swear God Himself had struck the chimes.
Tucked securely under my arm was a leather portfolio containing all the necessary paperwork hastily prepared to clear the way for Socransky’s return to Russia, including a personal note from Commissioner von Mannstein addressed to the German border authorities certifying the young tenor to be a visitor of good reputation bound for his homeland with the blessing of the entire population of Munich. (Shaking his head as he handed me the note, von Mannstein muttered, “I’ll never for the life of me understand why these Slavs love their country.”)
As I had promised Socransky, I arrived precisely at nine-thirty, just in time to feel the ground beneath the Ostbahnhof quaking as the big clock did its job.
At precisely ten o’clock the train leaving Munich for the east departed, right on schedule. On the station platform now, I watched the last passenger car grow smaller and smaller, heard the train’s whistle grow fainter and fainter, until there was nothing but darkness and silence at the end of the tunnel leading away from the terminal.
Everything was accomplished on schedule. Everything was in perfect order … with only one exception: Hershel Socransky was not aboard the train. In fact, he failed to show up at all.