The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov Page A

expression. “Maybe you should have a third drink after all —”
    â€œNo, no, thank you. Enough is enough. You must be exhausted after such a full evening, Helena. And as for me, I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. Between you and me, it’s not going to be very pleasant. I’ve summoned another tenor for questioning at the Constabulary. Name’s Wolfgang Grilling. It’s in connection with the murder of Wagner’s designer Sandor Lantos.”
    â€œDo you think Schramm has a point … I mean about some enemy of Wagner setting out to —” Helena cut herself short. “That’s simply too preposterous.”
    â€œNot at all,” I said. “Crime and preposterousness are blood brothers. Sometimes they are even blood sisters.” I rose from my chair, moved to where Helena was seated, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered “Goodnight, my sweet. Be well.”
    â€œYou’re leaving me up in the air like this?” she asked, full of indignation.
    â€œYes, Helena,” I replied, “but with a word of advice. Whatever you decide to throw at the door as I’m closing it behind me … make sure it’s not too expensive.”

Chapter Twelve
    B efore attending Helena Becker’s recital I had dispatched one of my young constables, Emil Gruber, to the residence of the tenor Wolfgang Grilling bearing a summons to appear at my office at ten o’clock the following morning. I gave, as the reason for our meeting, my need to obtain as much background as possible into the character and work of Sandor Lantos from people who were in contact with him either socially or professionally, all in the hope of forming a picture of Lantos’s killer. I made a point of stating my reason innocuously, even humbly (“… your insights and experience would be of incalculable assistance, Herr Grilling …”), avoiding even the slightest hint that, for the moment, I considered him the prime suspect. Knowing that most artists and entertainers are not what are known as “morning people,” I planned to make this session as comfortable and informal as I could despite the fact that my office, like all offices in the Constabulary, can only be described as a formidable collection of unrelieved squares and rectangles. I would deliberately sit next to Grilling, rather than sitting in my usual place behind my desk; I would keep the conversation at the level of a chat rather than an interrogation. I even went so far as to order a pot of coffee to be delivered from the commissary, a demand so rare that the steward who took the order, when he thought I wasn’t looking, shook his head as though questioning my sanity.
    Ten o’clock arrived, but not Wolfgang Grilling. Very well, I told myself, allowances must be made. God knows, I should have grown accustomed to a certain amount of tardiness among musicians; Helena Becker, for example, was notoriously late for every appointment she and I made, and I had come to regard this habit as part of her charm — the profound and totally insincere apology accompanied by a sweet smile and the brush of her lips on my cheek. On the other hand, word was that if an artist were late for an appointment with Richard Wagner the fires of hell flamed up through the floor while lightning flashed through the ceiling. Face it, I said to myself, I am not Richard Wagner. Grilling will therefore make his entrance a quarter of an hour late and offer a profound and totally insincere apology. (No kiss of course.) I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the steaming pot (which did arrive on schedule) and sat back awaiting Herr Grilling.
    Fifteen minutes past ten and no Wolfgang Grilling. I helped myself to a second cup. Half past ten. Still no Grilling. Coffee no longer steaming, lukewarm, barely drinkable. Eleven o’clock. No sign of Grilling. Coffee cold. My temperature beginning to rise.
    I sent for Constable