Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Ihad stayed on at Sandor Lantos’s studio late into the night examining everything from the man’s corpse, with its face frozen in an expression of open-mouthed astonishment, down to the tiniest scraps of sketching paper flung about the room as though by a furious wind. Though anything but an accomplished artist myself, I made a number of drawings of various parts of the crime scene that were at least serviceable, and fleshed these out with copious notes. By the end of that long night the thought which had first flashed through my mind — that this was the work of Wolfgang Grilling — was now deeply engraved. Not only would Grilling, a robust and powerfully strong man, have had the strength, he would have had the motive, given the rage he directed at Lantos after he’d viewed the sketches for his costume and make-up as Beckmesser. In all likelihood there had been an altercation between the singer and the designer; perhaps at some point Lantos, his own temper flaring, might have made threatening moves against Grilling, though the seated position of Lantos’s body made this possibility remote and suggested that Grilling must have attacked suddenly and with great speed and deadly precision.

One other fact convinced me the murderer was Wolfgang Grilling: the only sketches left undamaged were those of the Beckmesser character. One would have thought these would have been the first to be destroyed. Instead, though crumpled a bit here and there, they were not only intact but had escaped being strewn about with all the other papers. To me, this was the sign of a consummate amateur. If I destroy these sketches they’ll know for certain it was I who killed Lantos; therefore I’ll leave them more or less untouched and they’ll think someone else with a grievance did away with Lantos.

The following morning I arrived at my office at the Constabulary to be greeted by a remarkably elated commissioner and a smirking Franz Brunner.

“Well, Preiss, our man Wagner seems to have handed himself over to us on a silver platter,” he crowed. “As if his other crimes aren’t enough, he’s now added murder to his résumé.”

At this, Brunner’s smirk expanded into a smile of satisfaction. “To save you the trouble, Preiss,” he said, “I interviewed the stage manager and his crew at the opera house last night. To a man they all agreed: it had to be your man Wagner who murdered Lantos. When he discovered that Lantos had botched the measurements for the scenery, Wagner stormed out of the house uttering threats against Lantos. They said it was as though all hell was about to erupt right here in Munich! Not a shred of doubt about it, Preiss; Richard Wagner is our killer.” Turning to the commissioner, Brunner said, “With all due respect, sir, I think no time must be wasted. Wagner has a reputation as an escape artist. I would be prepared to arrest him within the hour if you will permit.”

Commissioner von Mannstein looked gravely at me. “Well, Preiss, it seems Brunner here has done you a favour. I see no point in agonizing over this. Brunner’s absolutely correct, you know; Richard Wagner is a genius at disappearing when it suits him. I want the two of you to bring him in without delay. I’m dispatching both of you in case the man makes a fuss. As a matter of fact, better take an extra couple of constables to make sure we do the job right. Last thing in the world I need at the moment is to have to inform the mayor that we had Richard Wagner where we wanted him and bungled. Off you go then, and Godspeed.”

I made no move and, seeing this, the commissioner frowned. “Well, Preiss, I thought I made myself perfectly clear — ”

“You did, sir. There’s only one problem — ”

“Problem? Brunner’s done his homework very efficiently I would say. I see no problem.”

“The problem is this, sir: Richard Wagner did not murder Sandor Lantos. Richard Wagner could not possibly have murdered Sandor Lantos.”

“And what makes you so sure?” von Mannstein demanded, obviously displeased.

“It’s true that Wagner was furious with Lantos and made straight for Lantos’s studio to vent his rage,” I replied, “but he was at that point in the company of his manager, the impresario Mecklenberg, and it was the two of them who, upon arrival at the studio, discovered that Lantos had already been murdered. No, Commissioner, Richard Wagner is not our man.”

Chewing his lower lip, a habit whenever he was unhappy, the commissioner glared at me, then at Brunner. To Brunner he said, “You failed to mention that Wagner was accompanied by this fellow Mecklenberg when he fled the opera house, Brunner.” Without waiting for Brunner’s explanation von Mannstein returned to me, still glaring. “Then who the devil is our man, Preiss? Do we at least have a suspect?”

At moments like these I rely upon an unfailing rule of conduct: When in doubt, lie. Looking my superior straight in the eye, I answered, “I have no idea, sir.” The commissioner’s face turned into a hairy mask of disappointment, the bushy eyebrows seeming to merge with the oversized moustache, which in turn became one with his generous sideburns and beard. Seeing this sorry expression on his face, I was overcome with pity, if only for a second or two, and quickly added, “However, I did engage in a careful survey of the murder scene and am confident that before this day is out significant clues will emerge.”

Hardly had these words escaped my lips than I knew I’d made a serious mistake. Von Mannstein’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Clues? Such as?”

“Well, to be frank, Commissioner — ” I paused, desperately trying to think up an answer that would satisfy the man. The news he most wanted to hear — that Wagner was somehow implicated in Lantos’s murder — was something I could not bring myself to fabricate, yes, even I who am not above shaping and reshaping truth now and then depending on circumstances. “To be frank, we find ourselves in a milieu far different from what one might call run-of-the-mill people, you know, citizens of a lower social order. We are dealing here with, shall we say, subtler forces.”

This brought another smirk to Brunner’s face. “With all due respect,” he said, directing his remark to the commissioner, his tone sarcastic, “that is nonsense. Criminals are criminals. I, for one, am not dazzled by these ‘subtler forces.’ There’s nothing subtle about murder.”

Ignoring Brunner’s comment, the commissioner said, “See here, Preiss, you seem to have had more than a little involvement over the years in Düsseldorf as well as in Munich with people of that ilk … I’m referring of course to these peculiar musical types with their temperaments and their idiosyncrasies. Of course, I myself have little or nothing to do with them; in fact, it’s a point of pride with me that I avoid their company as I avoid what you so aptly call citizens of a lower social order — ”

I wanted to interject, “Except prostitutes,” but held my tongue.

“So here is my decision,” the commissioner continued. “I want a full report by tomorrow morning, first thing, concerning your findings at Lantos’s studio, following which you have until the first of next week … that gives you five full days from today … to put two and two together and arrest the perpetrator of this crime. I hope you’re a good navigator, Preiss, one who knows his way among the shoals and shallows of these so-called artists. It certainly sounds to me as though somebody in that strange crowd has to be the guilty one.”

“But, sir,” I began to protest, “five days — ”

Von Mannstein’s hand directed me to halt. “Five days, Preiss. Not a minute longer. And remember, if there is anything — anything — even a mere grain of sand, which connects Richard Wagner to this ugly affair then I want him brought in as well. I’ll see to it that Brunner is free to work with you, of course.”