Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov Page B

“Stability, my dear Inspector…stability of character, that's what society rests upon. Engineers, doctors, scientists, they are the meat and potatoes of the nation. All the rest is mere desserts, items on the public's menu that are frivolous and therefore entirely dispensable.”
    â€œIs it possible, Doctor, that what you call auditory hallucinations can be stimulated by some outside means? Could someone other than the creative artist himself trigger a hallucination?”
    Behind the small oval-shaped spectacles set in delicate silver frames, Möbius's eyes seemed to fade into blank patches of grey. “I have no idea what you're referring to, Inspector, not the slightest,” he said with a shrug.
    â€œVery well then. Let me re-state the question. Maestro Schumann maintains that someone is, or some persons are, deliberately attempting to drive him insane by producing, perhaps by some direct mechanical means, the sound of middle A on the musical scale, which sound occurs regardless of what piece of music is being played at any given moment. Indeed, even if no music is being played, that middle A sound may suddenly find its way into Schumann's ears. Is this possible?”
    Again a blank stare from the doctor. “Is what possible?”
    I put my question to him again. “Is it possible that the ‘auditory hallucination’ in this case is being created or produced from some source outside his own mind, and is therefore not, strictly speaking, an auditory hallucination?”
    Dr. Möbius was silent for a few moments. He seemed more interested in examining his cigar, which had gone cold. Without looking up at me, he said, “I deal in matters of science, Inspector, not idle speculations.”
    â€œIs this your way of informing me, sir, that there is no legitimacy to Robert Schumann's suspicions?”
    Still looking away, Möbius said, “You may draw any conclusion you wish, Inspector. I can say nothing more on the subject.” From his vest pocket he withdrew a heavy gold watch. “And now, sir, if you will excuse me—”
    I rose, collected my outerwear, and made my exit without another word.
    On my way out the side door of the house, I began to throw over my shoulders my greatcoat and muffler, and failed to notice a man mounting the steps as I was descending. We collided midway. I swung round. “I do beg your pardon,” I said.
    Ignoring my apology, the man dashed up the remaining steps, and I was able only to catch a quick look at him. In the split second of this encounter, I recognized him.
    The man being let into Dr. Möbius's house was Wilhelm Hupfer.

Chapter Fourteen
    I returned to my office at the constabulary headquarters on foot rather than by carriage. I wanted time to gather my thoughts after what was, at best, an hour of pure frustration spent— wasted is perhaps a better word—in the company of Germany's reputed leader in the new field of Psychiatry, Dr. Paul Möbius. A feeling of defeat weighed heavily on my shoulders, and my mood was not at all lightened by a typical February sky that pressed down from the clouds, a vast ominous quilt of grey stretching from one end of the city to the other. Nor was my mood improved when, approaching my desk, I spotted a note carefully propped up, so it could not possibly be missed. The gold seal representing the Düsseldorf Police District at the top of the note meant only one thing: a summons to appear before the Commissioner.
    â€œClose the door, Preiss,” was the Commissioner's curt greeting as I entered his office. Behind his handsome desk, my superior was pretending to peruse the detectives’ assignment ledger. His thick eyebrows hung over his spectacles like nightshades, always a sign that a storm was brewing. “Schumann…Schumann…I see no reference to a Schumann matter here. There's no official complaint on file. No criminal report of any sort. I have no record of