Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Hoping that Gruber had better luck, I made for the stage door only to find him shaking his head and shrugging.

“No sign of him here either?”

“None,” Gruber said. “Not so much as a hair out of place on anybody. Not a nervous twitch, not a stammer, nothing.”

“Did you ask the guard to let you inspect his roster?”

“His roster?”

“Part of his duty is to check everyone as they enter … he has a list of the company staff, chorus, principal singers, orchestra, stagehands, everybody connected with the production.”

Gruber’s face reddened. “Sorry, Inspector, I had no idea — ”

The guard, recognizing me, was not pleased when I commanded him to hand over the list. “It’s all in perfect order,” he said, his tone belligerent. “Only thing missing are the mice that live in the basement. You’ll have to get their names yourself.”

As I expected, the roll was long, taking up three pages and containing some two hundred names all carefully sorted according to their departments and specific occupations. Members of the orchestra were grouped according to their instrumental sections. I ran a finger down the list page by page. It seemed the guard was right after all. Everything appeared in perfect order.

Until my finger landed on the section of the orchestra headed “Double Bass.”

I turned to the guard. “Since when are there nine double basses in the orchestra?”

“What do you mean nine? There are only eight.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I’ve been here often enough to know there are always eight. Your list shows nine .”

The guard thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. There was an extra double bass player … showed up almost at the last minute. Name’s there … Horst Schmidt. Said the Maestro hired him because the music called for more sound from the double basses. Showed me a note signed by Maestro Wagner himself.”

“So you admitted him?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“He carried a case for his double bass?”

The guard gave me a look of disgust. “Well what else would he use to carry a double bass, a snuff box?”

“You inspected the contents of the case?”

The guard took a deep breath. “Now why would I do a thing like that? I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into people’s instrument cases. God in heaven! I suppose next thing you’ll want to know is whether I make sure their instruments are tuned .”

“What did he look like?”

“About your height only in better shape, I’d say. You know, you have to be strong to handle a double bass. Wore one of those French-type berets. Spectacles too, the kind with silver rims. Evening clothes like all the others, white bow tie and so on. Oh yes, he had a flaming red beard and mustache. If I hadn’t known better I would’ve said he painted them, that’s how red they were.”

“Did you happen to see where he went from here?”

“Where everyone else in the orchestra would go, naturally. There is a large chamber down below … I mean just under the pit … where they get ready, tune up, whatever they do. When it’s time, they go up a set of steps into the pit and wait for the conductor. I expect you’ll find who you’re looking for there.”

I reached the players’ chamber just as they were beginning to file up the narrow set of stairs leading to the pit. Not one among them even came close to fitting the guard’s description. I spotted, propped against one wall, a row of double bass cases. I counted eight. My eyes fell on the rearguard inching their way toward the steps, the bass players, their bulky instruments and thick bows in hand. There were eight.

Gruber said, “He must be in the dressing room putting on his costume.”

“No, Gruber, that is one place he won’t be. I guarantee you he carried the first of his costumes in the instrument case, sword and all. His other costume, the one he wears in the very final scene, must be set aside in the dressing room. He’s probably deposited the case in one of the dark corridors in the basement with his suit of evening clothes.”

“Then he must be in the wings by now, waiting to go on,” Gruber guessed. “Maybe there’s still time — ”

From the pit rose the familiar sound of the oboist’s piercing “A,” the various sections of the orchestra tuning one by one … violins, violas, cellos, clarinets, horns, a pair of tubas gruffly clearing their throats … a swelling mélange of tones and half-tones … the players swooping up and down scales to warm up or fleetingly rehearsing yet again a handful of bars here and there that were especially tricky. Next a shower of applause from the audience, which meant the conductor von Bülow was threading his way through the first violin section en route to the podium. Any second now he would give two or three sharp raps of his baton on the music stand before him, extend his arms wide as though embracing his players, nod solemnly, and the opening strain of the overture would settle majestically across the silenced house.

“Maybe there’s still time, Inspector,” Gruber urged.

“No, Gruber, it’s too late,” I repeated. “Our man appears in the very opening scene. As we speak he’s already in his place on the stage, ready the minute the curtain goes up. Get yourself up to the wings, tell whoever is in charge there that you’re on police business but say no more, just stay put and don’t let Socransky out of your sight, especially whenever he’s off stage. I’m off to the first tier. Word has it that Wagner and his wife are seated with King Ludwig in the royal box. I’ll stay as close to the Maestro as possible, even during intermissions when he’ll be mingling with the high and mighty in the lounge.”

I took the stairs to the first tier two at a time only to be halted at the top by a pair of splendidly uniformed captains from the king’s personal guard who, examining my police identification, and informed that I bore an urgent message for Maestro Wagner, allowed me to pass without further delay. A long carpeted corridor led to the royal box located at the centre point of the tier. Approaching the door to the box I noticed that it was slightly ajar, which I thought strange given that the king and his entourage customarily warranted absolute privacy. Strange too was the absence of additional guardsmen outside the box. Better to close the door, I thought, and I reached out intending gently to close it when a voice behind me said “No need to trouble yourself, Preiss. Just leave it — ”

I swung about and found myself face to face with Commissioner von Mannstein. Next to him, wearing the medallion and sash of his office, stood Mayor von Braunschweig.

“You may consider yourself relieved for the remainder of the evening, Preiss,” von Mannstein said. “His Honour the Mayor and I are personally taking charge of Maestro Wagner’s security. You may go now, Inspector.”

Both wore expressions that made it clear they would brook no nonsense.

I took no more than a half-dozen steps on my retreat when von Mannstein called out, “By the way, Preiss, tell Constable Gruber he too is relieved. See to it that you both leave the house at once.”

Iobeyed Commissioner von Mannstein’s order to discharge Constable Gruber, said to myself, “That’s more than enough obedience for one day,” and proceeded without wasting another minute to find for myself a shadowy out-of-the-way cranny under the first tier balcony, not the most comfortable observation post from which to carry out a five-hour watch, but ideal for my purposes. From this vantage point I gained not only an unobstructed view of the performance onstage but the equally important performance in the royal box. I suffered only one disadvantage here: it was impossible to eavesdrop on whispered conversations as people across the aisle and beyond stole glances at the occupants in the floral-draped box where Cosima Wagner, in blinding white, her upswept hair fixed into place by a diamond-studded tiara, was ensconced in one of the throne-like chairs, looking more regal than any trueborn queen. Of course the topic of the moment would be her desertion of von Bülow, her union with Wagner, the king’s rumoured disapproval, as well as the disapproval of her father Franz Liszt. But on this sparkling night, although the great Liszt chose to be conspicuously absent, King Ludwig apparently chose to let bygones be bygones. Let the prim and the proper gasp; there sat the controversial couple now anointed with their monarch’s approbation.