Morley Torgov - Murder in A-Major

Schilling made a scoffing sound through his nose as he once again thrust my report back at me. “Tell me something, Preiss,” he said, “can you think of one good reason why I should not, here and now, on the spot, dismiss you from the force?”

I stood pondering the question for a few moments.

“Well?”

I took another moment or two, then said “Baron von Hoffman.”

Schilling eyed me suspiciously, but nervously now too. “What about the Baron?”

“I simply point out, sir, that he has on several occasions recently made certain overtures to me-”

“Overtures? What sort of overtures?”

“As you will no doubt appreciate,” I said, “the Baron and Baroness are concerned in these increasingly crime-ridden times about their personal safety as well as the security of their manor here, their country estate, and their valuable contents. And since the Baron's time is very much taken up with his public duties-you will recall that, among other functions, he is chairman of the committee which determines retirement benefits for senior civil servants such as yourself-he has too little time to attend to certain personal needs of an urgent nature. He has therefore suggested that, with your concurrence of course, it would be most beneficial…I mean beneficial for him and the Baroness…if I were delegated to look into arrangements concerning their safety and security, especially when they find it necessary to travel abroad. I assume this would not unduly inconvenience you, sir?”

I put this last statement in the form of a question, knowing full well what the old man's response would be.

“The Baron wants this, eh? Well now-” Again much throat-clearing. “We'll have to give this some very serious thought, will we not? One certainly cannot overlook the wishes of one of our most important citizens, can one? Imagine the shame that would befall our fair city should the Baron and Baroness come to grief! Very well, Preiss, I will expect a detailed plan by the end of this week regarding the von Hoffmans. In the meantime, give me something- any thing-that I can present to the mayor regarding this damned Adelmann affair.”

There followed a strange moment of silence, and I had the feeling that Commissioner Schilling wanted to say more but was holding back. Cautiously, I said, “Does the Commissioner have any further instructions? Otherwise, I take it that I may return to my office and resume my duties.”

The Commissioner rose and came around to my side of his desk. In a quiet confidential tone, he said, “It occurs to me, Preiss, that a day or two ago you had quite a confrontation with an itinerant group of gypsies.”

“That is correct, sir. So I did. And a not-too-pleasant band they were.”

“Ah, yes,” Schilling said, nodding agreeably. “Trouble-makers, every single one of ’em, eh?”

“Why do you mention this?” I asked.

Lowering his voice still more, Schilling said, “It would be very convenient…for all of us, you understand…if we could report to the mayor that Adelmann was likely done in by one or more of these here-today-gone-tomorrow gypsy types. You know how these journalist types like to mess about. Never saw one that didn't have a bohemian streak in him. You understand, Preiss, I'm sure.”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Well then, enough time wasted, eh? Back to work!”

For the record, Baron von Hoffman had not in fact approached me with a proposal to protect him and his wife and their precious possessions. But he was instantly enthusiastic when I approached him with the idea (which, in fact, I made a point of doing not more than an hour after my latest encounter with the Commissioner).

“I do admire a man like you, Preiss,” the Baron said, beaming and clapping a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Imagination, that's what gives a man a place in the sun, eh?”

I was keenly aware that the Baron had inherited his place in the sun, but why split hairs? “Thank you, Your Excellency,” I said. “I look forward to being of service to you for many years to come.”

“Indeed you will!” said the Baron. “One of these days we'll be considering a successor to Commissioner Schilling. Face it, the man deserves a good long rest, don't you agree?”

Hoping I sounded generous, I said, “The Commissioner deserves more than that, sir.”

His hand still pressing my shoulder, the Baron said, “You're a good man, Preiss. You must dine one evening soon with the Baroness and me. Oh, and be sure to bring along that charming friend of yours, the cellist-”

“Fräulein Becker-”

“Yes, by all means. Fine musician, that young woman. And not hard to look at, eh? Made quite an impression on me that evening at the Schumanns. By the way, I hear Schumann had to be carted off to some hospital near Bonn. Endenich or some such place. From all accounts, it sounds like the poor fellow has gone mad. Pity about these creative people, isn't it? All sorts of wild rumours floating about, too. Mostly about his wife and this young musician Brahms.” The Baron regarded me with a cagey smile. ‘You happen to know anything about all this, Preiss?”

“Very little,” I said. “Domestic matters of that sort are really no concern of my department.”

“Of course,” the Baron said, nodding in an understanding way. “Just a bit of idle curiosity on my part. Anyway, composers come and go, don't they. We lose one, we gain another. I'm old enough, Preiss, to remember when Beethoven died. Everyone moaned and groaned about the musical world coming to an end. But it didn't come to an end, did it? Which reminds me: anything new about the murder of Georg Adelmann? You know, the last time I saw the poor fellow was at the Schumanns’ musicale. I happened to wander into the Maestro's study, and there was Adelmann, all alone, standing transfixed before a cabinet, gazing at an original Beethoven manuscript. I left the room, but Adelmann couldn't seem to tear himself away from it. Odd how one thought leads to another, eh?”

You have no idea, sir, how odd,” I said and left it at that.

Escorting me to the massive oak doors at the front entrance of his mansion, where his valet stood holding my coat, Baron von Hoffman abruptly brought me to a halt. “I hope you'll not take offense, Preiss,” he said, “but I cannot help observing that you look exhausted. I insist you take one of my carriages back to the Constabulary.” I began to protest that his offer was much too generous. “Nonsense! Not another word!”

The carriage turned out to be one of those fine English-built four-wheel coaches with oversize shackles and luxuriously padded seats that cushioned the passenger against the winter-ravaged cobbles. I sat back, silently congratulating myself on my good fortune. I had managed to learn-albeit by accident-that at one point during the evening of the Schumanns’ musicale, Georg Adelmann had been observed by the Baron in Robert Schumann's study standing alone; he would have been entirely free to steal the precious Beethoven manuscript which so obviously entranced him. There was now not the slightest doubt in my mind: Adelmann had lied to me about the manuscript having come into his possession as a gift-a bribe, really-from Schumann.

But the Baron was right. I was exhausted, and it did not take long for the steady clip-clopping of the horses and the gentle swaying from side to side of the driver perched up front to mesmerize me. My eyelids were growing heavy and beginning to close. I was aware that I was falling asleep there, in the comfort of that splendid vehicle, when suddenly-as though the coachman's whip had flicked across my face-my eyes snapped open, I sat up, and heard myself sharply call out, “Stop! Please stop!”