Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

“I wonder if you can help me, sir,” I said.

“What sort of help? You don’t strike me as somebody who needs help. I suppose you’re from the Office of Civil Service Administration, eh?”

“No, sir, I am not .”

“That’s what they all say. Tricky bunch, sending around inspectors disguised as ordinary civilians, checking up on us, writing their damned reports. That’s how your type get promoted, of course. Well, go ahead, ask me what it is you need to know and let’s get it over with.”

At this point I realized I had been standing before him hat in hand like a suppliant. To repair my image, I adopted a harsh authoritative tone. “I’m not here to listen to your life story. I need to know if there is a Russian-style steam bath on these premises. It’s a matter of great urgency.”

“A Russian -style steam bath, you say? That’s ridiculous. I’ve had some dealings with Russians. Never known a single one of ’em to take a bath, steam or otherwise. Anyway, what’s so urgent?”

I handed the man my identification badge. “I am here on police business. If there is not a Russian-style steam bath here, is there anything of that nature available to the public?”

Regarding me with open disapproval, the attendant replied, “As a police officer, are you not ashamed to be involving yourself in that kind of business?”

“What kind of business?”

“ That kind of business. You know as well as I do what goes on in such places. My God, what’s society coming to when a chief inspector spends his time in a bath house? That’s no place for a real man.”

“I am not here to engage in ‘that kind of business!’”

My protest was in vain; the man simply could not overcome his disgust. “Third floor,” he snarled, “south end of the building. Supervised by a man from Sweden or someplace like that. You’ll know when you’re getting close; you can feel the heat.”

He was right. I was met by an invisible wall of heat as I approached the entrance to the steam bath. I wondered why any sane person would want to indulge in such a punishing exercise on one of the balmiest days in months. I wondered, too, about my own sanity. Here I was, after years of pursuing bizarre people doing bizarre things in bizarre places, about to engage in the bizarre act of hunting for a suspect in a hellishly hot public steam bath on a warm day in June! Report this to von Mannstein and my next “promotion” would be to an asylum.

Behind a tower of thick white towels sat another attendant, small metal cash box at his feet, next to it a bowl containing bars of soap giving off a strong carbolic scent.

“You wish to take a steam bath, sir?” the attendant asked, speaking German with an inflection peculiar to Swedes. There was an eagerness about him which was explained when I glanced at the open cash box and observed a fifty-pfenning coin lying there in solitary confinement.

I presented my badge. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I’m looking for someone, a young man who may be here — ”

The attendant shook his head. “Young men seldom come here in warm weather. They prefer other places. Today I have only one customer, an older man, but he’s been here almost one hour so I expect he’ll be getting dressed and ready to leave.” I must have looked skeptical for he added quickly, “You can go in and see for yourself if you don’t mind the heat.”

I removed my hat, loosened my collar, unbuttoned my jacket, and started through the narrow entrance. Not more than a half-dozen steps in, I halted and stood aside to let the man whom the attendant described pass on his way out. He was indeed an older man with an impressively full beard and a generous handlebar mustache that functioned like a bridge joining one cheek to the other. He wore sensibly light clothing, and on his head a broad-brimmed straw hat favoured by fashionable Italians in summer. He carried a satchel. We nodded to one another, he went his way, I went mine.

A search of ten private dressing rooms yielded nothing. As for the steam room, three tiers of wooden benches lay idle in the fog. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Again I wondered why any man in his right mind would subject himself to this kind of self-inflicted torture. Mopping my brow, I mentioned this to the attendant as I was about to leave.

“Odd you should say that, Inspector,” he said. “The fellow who just left complained that the steam was not hot enough and the water not cold enough.”

“Then he must truly be a mad man,” I said.

“Or a Russian,” said the attendant, winking as though he and I shared some measure of disdain for Russians.

Or a Russian -

That beard, the mustache, the satchel large enough to contain a complete change of clothing … who better than an opera singer would know about costumes and disguises? Such people lived day and night in a make-believe universe of costumes and disguises. The man behind the beard and mustache, his face partly concealed by that oversized Italian straw hat … he had to be Hershel Socransky.

My second encounter with the attendant in charge of the information kiosk was no more genial than the first. “Oh, it’s you again,” he growled, squinting at me as though I were a tax collector. “What is it now?”

“Did you happen to see a man with a beard and handlebar mustache wearing a large straw hat and toting a satchel pass by on his way out?”

The attendant cast a frowning glance from one end of the main reception hall to the other, the place swarming by this time with people coming and going, many with bundles of swimming attire tucked under their arms or carried in satchels. Throwing up his arms, he said, “Look around you, for God’s sake. I probably see a hundred men who fit that description on a warm day like this.”

“I mean in the last minute or two — ” My mind added, “you idiot.”

“This is some kind of test, isn’t it?”

“ Yes or no — ?”

“Yes, damn it!”

“Yes what — ?”

“There was a man … stopped by to ask me a question. Said he was a visitor to Munich and could I recommend a good hotel.”

“A good hotel where?”

“Some place close to Schloss Nymphenburg. Said he heard the castle and grounds were especially nice this time of year. I used to be a guard there. Told him there are any number of decent tourist lodgings in that district.”

“Did you recommend one?”

“No. I suggested he try Romanstrasse or Prinzenstrasse. There’s at least a dozen inns and hotels within walking distance of the castle.”

Nymphenburg …

In that blink of an eye when we passed each other it would have occurred to Socransky that my turning up at the baths — of all places — had to be more than mere coincidence. Never mind how or why I found my way here. What mattered was how to throw me off his trail. Figuring (rightly) that I would question the old attendant, what better way than to plant a false inquiry about hotels in a section of Munich far west of the National Theatre and Müllsersches Volksbad, indeed almost at the opposite end of the city. An amateurish ruse? Probably. But then again, if by the slimmest of chances he were serious, what then? At this busy period of the day a journey across the city would be no easy accomplishment. A search of numerous hotels and inns, not to mention the palace and its surroundings park, would exhaust what few precious hours remained until curtain time, a gamble I could ill afford.

Once outside the Volksbad I paused. To Nymphenburg, or not?

My thoughts flew back to that initial visit to the studio of Sandor Lantos … to sketches of two costumes for Walther von Stolzing: one consisting of a plain workaday blouse and breeches; the other a dashing black tunic with silver trim and a matching cap; with both costumes a long slender ceremonial sword, its ornate handle protruding from the scabbard at the knight’s left flank. Knowing Wagner’s passion for authenticity, the sword would be a real weapon. No fake. No plaything. I pictured “Henryk Schramm” inspecting Lantos’s drawings with approval, gloating inwardly. Motive. Opportunity. And means! The gods — not Richard Wagner’s but Hershel Socransky’s — were smiling favourably upon his plans.