The Mastersinger from Minsk Read Online Free Page A

on.” Clearly Wagner’s long-time impresario was accustomed to making excuses for his client’s conduct.
    â€œBut how does anyone survive these tantrums of his?” I asked. “Come to think of it, how does he survive his tantrums?”
    â€œBelieve me, Preiss,” Mecklenberg said, smiling as much as his aged jowls would permit, “in the end it’s worth all the fuss and bother.”
    â€œFuss and bother? You call what we’ve just heard ‘fuss and bother’?”
    Before Mecklenberg could respond, the doors of the drawing room were thrust open. “Mecklenberg, where the hell have you been? Why are you standing there like a piece of furniture?”
    Then Wagner’s eyes landed on me like grapeshot. Lowering his voice he said to Mecklenberg, “Is this the policeman we sent for?”
    Nervously Mecklenberg replied, “Maestro, allow me to —”
    â€œCan’t the man speak for himself?” Still eyeing me, Wagner said, “And you are who?”
    â€œChief Inspector Hermann Preiss, Maestro.” I took a firm step in his direction and offered my hand.
    â€œI never shake hands when I’m working,” Wagner said without so much as a flicker of apology. “I don’t know why it is, Chief Inspector, but too many men nowadays seem under some kind of compulsion to prove their manliness by crushing the living daylights out of you when they shake hands. My hands are my life, Chief Inspector.”
    I couldn’t resist a smile. “I assure you, Maestro Wagner, I would have been as timid as a virgin.”
    Wagner stared at me for a moment with what I took to be disapproval, then suddenly smiled (though cautiously). “Well, Mecklenberg,” he called over his shoulder, “at least he’s got a sense of humour. Are you quite sure he’s a policeman?” His eyes narrowed again. “Wait … Hermann Preiss? … weren’t you the detective back in Düsseldorf some years ago … yes, of course! … involved with the Schumanns. Am I correct?”
    â€œYou are, sir.”
    â€œPity about the poor idiot. Schumann, I mean. Died young, didn’t he? Some asylum near Bonn, as I recall. That wife of his … Clara … there was a witch if ever I met one. Never had a decent word to say about me and my music. Still doesn’t, damn her. Brahms … Johannes Brahms … now there was a man more to her taste, in every sense of the term, if you know what I mean.” Wagner frowned, as though struggling to recall something. “There was talk about whether or not Schumann did away with some journalist … something scandalous about Schumann’s past that this writer threatened to expose. They say Schumann literally got away with murder.” Looking me straight in the eye, Wagner snorted, “Doesn’t say much about the quality of police work in Düsseldorf, does it … people getting away with murder.”
    I had two choices here: to agree with him, as a good public servant should do, perhaps even going so far as to bow and scrape; or to reply in kind and to hell with the consequences. I chose the latter. “It occurs to me, sir, that you must be a genuine connoisseur of police work, having been involved much of the time with justice systems here and abroad.”
    Wagner glared at me for a moment, then turned to Mecklenberg, the old man looking as though he wished the floor would open and allow him to disappear. “Well, Mecklenberg, at least he’s not spineless, which is more than I can say about most people with whom I’m forced to deal these days, isn’t that so?” Returning to me, Wagner said, “I’m not sure we’re going to get along, you and I, Preiss. I’ve been confronted with a serious threat. I need a man who will be at my service, nothing less.”
    â€œAnd that is exactly what I’m prepared to do, be at your service,” I