Murder in A-Major Read Online Free Page B

now—to my complete astonishment—interrupted my thoughts about the Schumanns and my own career with a discreet knock on my door.
    â€œDo forgive this intrusion, Hermann,” she said as she swept into my suite of rooms. Her face was flushed, and there was an air of unbridled excitement about her. Before I could take her cape, she circled her arms about my waist and pulled me to her. My first instinct was to laugh with pleasure. In the several years we had known one another, I had seldom seen her in such a state of elation.
    â€œDon't tell me, Helena, let me guess,” I said, inhaling her perfume and the natural clean scent of her hair, “you've been to the opera to see Wagner's Lohengrin again. I know how that opera always thrills you, especially the love scenes.”
    Like a coquette, she fluttered her eyelashes. “Wrong,” she said, not letting go of me. “Guess again, Hermann.”
    â€œYou were at an orchestral concert, and they played Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony . That's it. The final movement's enough to make anyone want to do something wild and wicked.”
    â€œWrong again.”
    I have to admit that at this hour of the night, my enthusiasm for playing a guessing game was growing thin. “I'll guess once more,” I said, trying to look stern, “and if I'm incorrect this time, I'm going to throw you out into the cold street. Now, then, I've heard a rumour that that dashing Hungarian Liszt is in Düsseldorf and that Baron Hoffman and his big fat frau were throwing a party to honour the man…to which, incidentally, I was not invited. I take it, Helena, that you were?”
    Helena gave me a generous kiss on the cheek. “I love it when you play clever detective. Yes, Franz Liszt was at the Hoffmans’, and he played his piano transcription of one of Wagner's overtures. My God, Hermann, the passion…I can scarcely describe it…it is so—so arousing!”
    The minutes that followed were dizzying. I found myself occupying the space ordinarily occupied by Helena Becker's cello. I could feel her right arm sliding back and forth across the small of my back, as though she were wielding her bow. With her left hand, she fingered the notes, as it were, up and down my shoulder blades, digging deeply.
    But when I closed my eyes, it was not Helena Becker's face I was imagining.
    It was the face of Clara Schumann.

Chapter Four
    T he following morning, eager to be alone with my private thoughts, I made a point of avoiding the ritual daily briefing with Commissioner Schilling, my immediate superior, and climbed the three flights to my office at the Constabulary by an out-of-the-way rear set of stairs. My case load happened to be unusually light. For some reason, the crime rate for the City of Düsseldorf regularly fell this time of year, suggesting that a severe drop in temperature could always be relied upon to freeze evil impulses. This gave me time to ponder the problem of Robert Schumann.
    How best to deal with it?
    More to the point, should a senior police official even bother to become involved?
    In the hope of resolving these questions, I arranged to meet Helena for lunch at her favourite restaurant in Düsseldorfs central market area, Schimmel's Coffee House on Linkstrasse. I selected a table in a quiet corner where we could talk and not be overheard. “Helena,” I said, “I need a favour.” Leaning closer to her, I said, speaking quietly, “What I'm about to disclose must remain absolutely confidential. It concerns the possible commission of a crime. Strictly speaking, it is police business. But the challenge here is so extraordinary that I must look outside the police community for assistance. You see, Helena, the victim—if one can call him a victim at this stage—is none other than Robert Schumann.”
    I went on to describe in detail my initial conversation with Schumann as well as with his wife, Clara.
    Helena,