Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

“No, no, thank you. Enough is enough. You must be exhausted after such a full evening, Helena. And as for me, I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. Between you and me, it’s not going to be very pleasant. I’ve summoned another tenor for questioning at the Constabulary. Name’s Wolfgang Grilling. It’s in connection with the murder of Wagner’s designer Sandor Lantos.”

“Do you think Schramm has a point … I mean about some enemy of Wagner setting out to — ” Helena cut herself short. “That’s simply too preposterous.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Crime and preposterousness are blood brothers. Sometimes they are even blood sisters.” I rose from my chair, moved to where Helena was seated, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered “Goodnight, my sweet. Be well.”

“You’re leaving me up in the air like this?” she asked, full of indignation.

“Yes, Helena,” I replied, “but with a word of advice. Whatever you decide to throw at the door as I’m closing it behind me … make sure it’s not too expensive.”

Before attending Helena Becker’s recital I had dispatched one of my young constables, Emil Gruber, to the residence of the tenor Wolfgang Grilling bearing a summons to appear at my office at ten o’clock the following morning. I gave, as the reason for our meeting, my need to obtain as much background as possible into the character and work of Sandor Lantos from people who were in contact with him either socially or professionally, all in the hope of forming a picture of Lantos’s killer. I made a point of stating my reason innocuously, even humbly (“… your insights and experience would be of incalculable assistance, Herr Grilling …”), avoiding even the slightest hint that, for the moment, I considered him the prime suspect. Knowing that most artists and entertainers are not what are known as “morning people,” I planned to make this session as comfortable and informal as I could despite the fact that my office, like all offices in the Constabulary, can only be described as a formidable collection of unrelieved squares and rectangles. I would deliberately sit next to Grilling, rather than sitting in my usual place behind my desk; I would keep the conversation at the level of a chat rather than an interrogation. I even went so far as to order a pot of coffee to be delivered from the commissary, a demand so rare that the steward who took the order, when he thought I wasn’t looking, shook his head as though questioning my sanity.

Ten o’clock arrived, but not Wolfgang Grilling. Very well, I told myself, allowances must be made. God knows, I should have grown accustomed to a certain amount of tardiness among musicians; Helena Becker, for example, was notoriously late for every appointment she and I made, and I had come to regard this habit as part of her charm — the profound and totally insincere apology accompanied by a sweet smile and the brush of her lips on my cheek. On the other hand, word was that if an artist were late for an appointment with Richard Wagner the fires of hell flamed up through the floor while lightning flashed through the ceiling. Face it, I said to myself, I am not Richard Wagner. Grilling will therefore make his entrance a quarter of an hour late and offer a profound and totally insincere apology. (No kiss of course.) I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the steaming pot (which did arrive on schedule) and sat back awaiting Herr Grilling.

Fifteen minutes past ten and no Wolfgang Grilling. I helped myself to a second cup. Half past ten. Still no Grilling. Coffee no longer steaming, lukewarm, barely drinkable. Eleven o’clock. No sign of Grilling. Coffee cold. My temperature beginning to rise.

I sent for Constable Gruber. “Gruber, I want you to go round to Grilling’s rooms,” I said, “and I don’t give a damn if he’s still in his nightshirt or in his bath, I want the bastard here! And no excuses, do you understand? I don’t care if he’s dying , Gruber!”

One hour later, at the stroke of noon, Constable Emil Gruber stood before me removing his helmet and wiping his sweaty brow. “Sorry, Inspector,” Gruber said, his voice hoarse with excitement, “but this fellow Grilling — ”

Impatiently I said, “Well, what about him, damn it — ”

“He won’t be keeping his appointment.”

“And why the hell not?”

“He appears to be dead, sir.”

“ Appears ? You mean he’s playing dead?”

“Oh no, Inspector, in my opinion he is genuinely dead,” the young constable said with such earnestness that for a fleeting second I regretted my sarcasm. “I have to report,” he went on, “that upon arriving at the subject’s premises I proceeded to make my presence known by knocking several times, each time with increased vigour, on the door of his apartment, whereupon, failing to achieve a response I sought the assistance of the concierge and immediately upon gaining entry with the master key I discovered the body of a scantily attired male person lying in a position consistent with — ”

At this point I’m afraid I exploded in the face of the well-meaning constable. “For God’s sake, Gruber, please! Enough police terminology! Tell me in plain language!”

“The subject … sorry … Herr Grilling … was lying on the floor. I immediately checked his pulse and determined that he was deceased.”

“Other than feeling for his pulse, you touched nothing?”

“Nothing, sir, absolutely nothing.”

“And you instructed the concierge to touch nothing?”

“I not only instructed her — ” Here Gruber produced a key. “I made certain by relieving her of the master key.” Gruber seemed about to add something but stopped himself.

“Well, Gruber, speak up. What is it?”

“I have to warn you, sir,” Gruber said, “it’s not a pretty sight. I mean the body, and the place itself. The concierge, poor woman, nearly fainted. As for me — ”

“Gruber,” I said, “I was investigating crime scenes and mutilated bodies when your mother and father were still wondering what they had to do to conceive you. Now be so good as to order a cab at once.”

Ishould not have dismissed Constable Gruber’s warning so curtly. The sitting room where Wolfgang Grilling’s lifeless body lay looked as though it had been invaded not by a single intruder but by an army of intruders, so violently was everything strewn about. Underfoot lay a veritable stew of broken glass and crockery intermingled with crumpled bits of newspaper obviously swept from a large table used to hold books and periodicals which occupied a prominent spot near the fireplace. Someone, either the victim or his assailant, had desperately grasped the curtains covering the set of windows in the room, bringing down not only the thick green velvet draperies but the brass rod on which they hung as well as the wall fittings. Streaks of blood crisscrossed the curtains, stained the light grey upholstery of the armchairs on either side of the fireplace, and defaced in a particularly grotesque way a pen sketch of Grilling lying within reach of his body, its frame and mat bent out of shape. Every lamp in the room had been knocked over, every chair upended, every rug left askew.

Central to this disorder was the corpse of Wolfgang Grilling, lying face up, the head close to the fireplace, arms outstretched and wide apart as though held down by a superior force, legs similarly positioned. His throat, just below the Adam’s apple, had been deeply pierced. Left carelessly across Grilling’s chest was a sharply pointed iron poker, part of the fireside implements that stood in the overturned stand nearby, its shaft wet with Grilling’s blood.