Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Franz Brunner gave me a dry smile. “Of course,” he chimed in. “I look forward to the experience, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m sure you do, Brunner,” I said, returning an even drier smile. “After all, it’s not often that you get to come in contact with people who speak in words of more than one syllable.”

Observing that both Detective Franz Brunner and I were smiling at one another, Commissioner von Mannstein chuckled. “Nothing like a bit of humour between comrades, eh? Well, splendid! Now let us to our work.”

The supper party I had arranged to follow Helena Becker’s recital was meant to be a quiet intimate affair, and I thought I had made this perfectly clear to Ziggy Bolliger, the proprietor of Maison Espãna. I suppose I ought to have known better, given Bolliger’s fondness for ceremony. Meeting us as our carriages pulled up, Bolliger paraded us into the restaurant as though we were courtiers showing up for a grand ball. With measured steps he ushered us along a deliberately circuitous path to a table reserved at the very centre of the place, all the while smilingly acknowledging the attention of his patrons as if he himself were the arriving celebrity. At surrounding tables, diners who had attended the recital broke into genteel applause (the men more enthusiastic than the women in appreciation of Helena’s somewhat revealing gown) while I, as shameless now as Bolliger, basked in her limelight. Besides Helena, my party comprised Henryk Schramm, Karla Steilmann, and a fourth guest, the pianist Madam Olga Vronsky, whom Helena had brought from Düsseldorf as her accompanist, the same endlessly patient and suffering Madam Vronsky who some years earlier had valiantly struggled to teach me to play the piano and who, in her sweet-natured way, taught me that nothing cures vain ambition as effectively as a healthy dose of truth. (Nowadays I play for a critical audience of one — myself.) Earlier that evening both women had performed two Beethoven sonatas for cello and piano followed by Franz Schubert’s Arpeggiona , and the adoration that flowed upward from the audience to the stage when they took the last of many bows was almost palpable, not the least my own for, despite my aversion to public displays of affection, I found myself throwing kisses to both cellist and pianist as though I were some starry-eyed Romeo.

Of course Helena could not wait to call attention to my behavior even before the cork in the first bottle of Champagne was popped. Addressing my guests she said with a sly grin, “I trust everyone noted how our host abandoned his habitual reserve at the conclusion of the recital. If I’m not mistaken, I believe I even heard a bravo or two coming from his direction.” Wagging a finger at me she said, “You must watch yourself, Hermann. That’s conduct unbecoming a police officer.”

Gruffly I replied, “Nonsense! You wouldn’t catch me shouting ‘Bravo’ in a hundred years. Far as I’m concerned there’s solid reliable military band music; all the rest is just so much whipped cream.”

“Liar,” Helena said, squeezing my hand.

“Which brings up an interesting subject,” Schramm said. “Speaking of police officers, tell us, Inspector, any word yet on Sandor Lantos’s killer? There are as many rumours flying around the streets as there are seats in the opera house, but of course you must be aware of that.”

I was not at all prepared for this sudden change of topic, yet not surprised that it was Schramm who brought up the subject. I had not at this point succeeded in identifying what there was about Schramm’s character that gave me the distinct feeling there was more to him than met the eye and ear. The plain fact, however, was that a tiny seed of unease had planted itself under my skin and was growing steadily with each exposure to the man. Better, therefore, to answer his query by falling back on standard police issue. “I hope you won’t think me rude,” I said, “but the investigation into Lantos’s murder is at a very delicate stage and I’m naturally bound to exercise absolute discretion.”

Schramm’s face took on a troubled look. “I hope you won’t think me rude, Inspector, but with all due respect I have to point out that poor Lantos may only be the first victim. What I mean is, there is no secret about the number of enemies Maestro Wagner has accumulated. Suppose someone, let’s say someone with a profound grudge, or perhaps some homicidal lunatic, has decided to wreak vengeance on Wagner by eliminating all of us one by one, starting with Lantos and eventually ending with the Maestro himself. Maybe this strikes you as farfetched but still — ”

I leaned back in my chair smiling with what I hoped was an air of smug self-confidence. “My dear Schramm,” I said, “in my line of work nothing is ever farfetched. Nevertheless, one mustn’t let one’s imagination run away with itself. ‘Murder may pass unpunished for a time, but tardy justice will o’ertake the crime.’”

Karla Steilmann said, “I didn’t know you’re a poet, Inspector.”

“I’m not,” I said. “That was written by an English poet by the name of Dryden. I’m particularly fond of that little couplet, needless to say.”

“Let me offer another rhyme,” Schramm said. “‘Unless the crime is solved by winter’s freeze, the evil deed will fester like old cheese.’”

Madam Vronsky’s face suddenly brightened. “Wherever did you pick up that saying?” she asked Schramm. “I haven’t heard it since I was a child. My uncle Alexander Vronsky was a police official in St. Petersburg and used to quote it often, in Russian of course. But I must say your translation into German is impeccable, Herr Schramm.”

Quickly Schramm said, “It’s not my translation. I must have read it somewhere.”

“But have you been to Russia then?” Madam Vronsky wanted to know.

“I sang in Moscow … once,” Schramm replied.

“You must let me teach you how to say it in Russian. Somehow it sounds more authentic in my native tongue,” said Madam Vronsky.

“I’m sure it does,” Schramm said, giving her a gracious smile, “but perhaps another time when this stomach of mine is not rumbling with hunger.”

As Schramm said this, a waiter miraculously appeared and stationed himself next to me like a soldier reporting for duty. “You see,” I said to my guests, “this proves the wisdom of an old French saying: ‘Always choose a table near a waiter.’ Shall we order?”

I had made a point of seating Helena Becker next to Henryk Schramm hoping this would encourage more direct conversation between the two while I would try to preoccupy Karla Steilmann and Madam Vronsky. Throughout a course of appetizers followed by entrées my plan worked beautifully so that by the time the dessert cart arrived, Becker and Schramm appeared thoroughly engrossed in one another. For me then, the challenge was to keep one ear devoted to conversation with Steilmann and Vronsky while straining with the other ear to catch snippets of dialogue between the other two, no easy trick given that, as supper progressed, both Helena and her new tenor friend began lowering their voices until they were speaking almost in whispers. At first I found this annoying and frustrating, but on second thought I told myself this was probably for the best. After all, it was I who had enlisted Helena and cast her in this position, and if she were carrying out her mission a little more ardently than I required then at least the end would justify the means. Helena Becker was a shrewd judge of people, often more so than I; if her obvious enchantment with Schramm and his with her was the price I had to pay for the benefit of her impressions, well, so be it.