The Mastersinger from Minsk

by Morley Torgov

  I had waited for an opening. Nature, in the form of two ravenous hawks and a dead field mouse, came to my assistance. “Speaking of investigations, Maestro, something has come up … something of a rather unusual … perhaps I should say unconventional or unorthodox —”

  But Wagner was paying no attention, none whatsoever. As though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said, he chuckled. “I gather you are no stranger to music, Preiss. What do you think of Johannes Brahms’s stuff?” Without waiting for my reply, he went on: “To judge by what I’ve heard, the man’s possessed by a burning desire for anonymity, don’t you agree?” Again not waiting for my answer, he said, “Cosima and I are off to a concert tonight. The orchestra is from Weimar. The program opens with a Brahms symphony and I am so excited, Preiss!”

  “But Maestro, your aversion to Brahms is well-known. From what you’ve often said about his music, in five minutes you’ll be fast asleep.”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m so excited!”

  We both stopped to laugh, Wagner beaming with pleasure over the wickedness of his own joke. And for the first time since our initial meeting, I detected beneath the sooty layers of his past misdeeds and his boundless self-centredness a few gratifying flickers of wit.

  I waited for this rare moment to pass, then said, “Maestro, I regret having to change the subject, but —”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Preiss. You did say we have something important to discuss. Well?”

  “It concerns this woman Cornelia Vanderhoute —”

  “You’ve found her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Wagner halted abruptly. “But I don’t understand, Preiss. Rotfogel was supposed to lead you to her. You twisted my arm until I agreed to rehire him, but the bastard didn’t have the decency to show up today for rehearsal after all the upheaval he created. How do you explain that, I’d like to know.”

  “Thilo Rotfogel is dead, Maestro. Murdered. I was going to add ‘in cold blood’ but actually it appears the circumstances were hot-blooded, if you take my meaning.”

  Wagner gave me a knowing smile. “You mean that poor excuse for a human male was done away with while trying to make love, don’t you? Well, I’m not surprised. He was a brilliant hornist, Preiss. Brilliant! But I always suspected that his private life was a tunnel with no light at the end. And Cornelia … how does she fit into the picture?”

  “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 d
on’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?

  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 sys
tematic 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.