And so I was left standing on the platform, now nearly deserted, my arms limp at my sides, one hand still clutching a sheaf of crisp official documents I had gone to much trouble to procure, all in vain, all useless. I would have cursed every bone, every drop of blood in Hershel Socransky’s body for betraying my trust in him, had I not been too busy cursing every bone and every drop of blood in my own body for having trusted him in the first place. Our parting words earlier in the day came back to me:
Nine-thirty at the Ostbahnhof?
Why not?
Always … always … a question answered with a question! Of course the man hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving on that train. Even a fledgling police cadet would have seen through Socransky’s vaporous response.
An unseen hand forcefully pushed me out of the Ostbahnhof. A voice belonging to someone … was it mine? … hailed a cab and ordered the driver to deliver me to the place where the young tenor had rented lodgings since his arrival in Munich. There I was met by the superintendent, at this hour already in his nightclothes and bathrobe.
“Oh, you mean that nice young man, Schramm is it? Well, I’m sorry, Inspector, but he checked out just before the supper hour. Paid his rent right up-to-date like a decent fellow. You know, Inspector, most of the time those itinerant types leave in the middle of — ”
“Never mind that,” I snapped. “I need to see his rooms.”
Another disappointment. There was not so much as a speck of lint or a single strand of hair as evidence that Hershel Socransky had inhabited the place.
“Did he leave any forwarding address?”
“None,” replied the superintendent. “All he said was, if any mail came for him, I was to put it away, and he would arrange to have it picked up, maybe in a week or two. As far as I can remember, he only received one or two letters the whole time he was here, so I guess there’s not much chance of any mail showing up.”
“Was he carrying anything … luggage, that kind of thing?”
“Only one bag, a large canvas one, looked quite heavy. I offered to fetch him a carriage but he said he didn’t need one, that he could manage.” The old man chuckled. “I was once young and strong like him, but I don’t think anybody could get far lugging a bag that size.”
Clever bastard, Socransky. Even at this late hour of the night there are at least a hundred carriages for hire in Munich. No doubt he preferred to take one well out of the superintendent’s sight. Take one where? There are at least a thousand destinations — hotels, rooming houses, hostels, taverns — where the man could find temporary refuge. What was the point, then, in commencing a search, even if I were to enlist a small army of police constables to hunt him down?
But what about the residence of his target, Richard Wagner?
It was almost midnight when a cabdriver deposited me on the curb outside Wagner’s house. To my surprise, the place was aglow. Every window on the main floor was filled with light.
As I climbed the few steps leading to the door I could hear clearly sounds of merriment from within, as though a celebration were in progress. There was laughter and applause, and someone was playing a waltz, pounding out the rhythm in three-quarter time in an exaggerated fashion, on the Maestro’s grand piano. I recognized the piece: it was Strauss the Younger’s “Blue Danube Waltz,” introduced a year earlier in Vienna and by this time a favourite in every dance hall in Europe. I knocked on the door and was admitted by Wagner’s housekeeper who escorted me into the living room, where a throng of men and women holding glasses of Champagne were humming and swaying in time with the music. At the keyboard sat the Maestro, and next to him on the bench Cosima. Wagner, grinning, began to launch zestfully into a repeat of the waltz. (This was a sight I never expected to behold: Richard Wagner playing dance tunes written by a composer with Jewish blood in his veins!) After a slow introductory passage, he gave a cue to the young man standing in the curve of the piano. On cue, the singer began the lyric:
Oh Danube so blue …
I recognized the singer at once.
Chapter Forty-Three
Encore! Encore! Bravo! Bravissimo! Mass adoration … there is no other way to describe the audience’s reaction to the handsome young tenor’s rendition of the waltz. It didn’t seem to matter that the lyrics to “The Blue Danube” (penned by some poet whose obscurity was well-deserved) were as banal as bratwurst, or that the music itself was a mere cut above a beer garden drinking tune. Sung by “Henryk Schramm” in a voice that was pitch perfect and surprisingly spirited given the late hour, this “Blue Danube” outdid the river for which it was named.
Hoisting their glasses of Champagne in a toast to the singer, the crowd persisted with cries of Encore! Wagner, however, rose from the piano bench and, smiling genially, waved his arms to signal that a second chorus was out of the question. Moving to Socransky, he placed a fatherly arm around the young man’s shoulders. “We must let our heldentenor rest now,” he declared. Then, addressing Socransky directly, Wagner intoned, “Tomorrow you will do yourself honour; you will do me honour; you will do all of Germany honour!”
Someone shouted “The ‘Prize Song,’ Maestro … let us hear the ‘Prize Song,’ just once, please! …”
Suddenly the room erupted with cries of “The ‘Prize Song’ … the ‘Prize Song’ …”
Socransky looked at Wagner and shrugged as if to say “Well, I’m willing if you are …” But the Maestro was firm. “Sorry, dear friends,” he said, waving his arms again. “For the ‘Prize Song’ you must wait until tomorrow night, but I promise you it will be worth the wait. I make no pretense to modesty. It is simply the greatest song I have ever composed. You will not be disappointed.” Glancing down at Cosima, he said, “Am I not right, my darling?”
Cosima Wagner responded by springing up from the piano bench and wrapping the Maestro in a girlish embrace, her lips planted on his cheek, giving rise to warm applause. But then she turned to Socransky and repeated the gesture, her arms locked about his waist, her lips on his cheek. At this the crowd broke into cheers and loud whistles while the man known to them as Henryk Schramm stood motionless, as though stunned, the flush on his face a sign that this sudden and extraordinary attention paid him was overwhelming.
“And now,” Wagner proclaimed, “more Champagne everyone. King Ludwig has graced our house with a case of his finest and issued a royal decree that the entire lot is to be consumed before this night is over!” Ever the person in command, he gave a curt nod to his servants who moved quickly to circulate among the guests with freshly uncorked bottles, filling slender crystal flutes held out by eager hands.
I had purposely stayed at the back of the room, preferring to remain as inconspicuous as possible, while hoping at the same time that I could lure Socransky away, perhaps with some discreet signal. But this was not to be, for by this time he was pinned against the grand piano by a bevy of women, some young, some middle-aged, one or two old, all of them worshipful. Meanwhile their male counterparts stood on the sidelines, some with smiles of approval, some with solemn nods of tolerance, all of them — I was certain — filled with envy. It seemed I had no choice but to venture into the crowd and somehow attach myself to the object of their admiration without disclosing the fact that I was about to place him under arrest. Before I could do so, however, a familiar voice called out from somewhere behind me. “Why, Inspector Preiss! What a pleasant surprise! But what brings you here?”