Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov

their home this coming Saturday at eight o'clock. The guest of honour will be Franz Liszt, who is once again visiting Düsseldorf en route to Weimar. I gather that a number of luminaries in the musical world will be present. Our Quartet will perform Dr. Schumann's Quintet for Piano and Strings with Clara Schumann at the keyboard. The invitation mentions that each of us may bring a guest.
    I can think of no one who might benefit more than you from attending this event. Therefore I shall refrain from further tempting you to accompany me except to add that our hosts will offer a light supper prior to the musicale. (And if you play your cards right, I may offer you further refreshments later in the evening, Hermann.)
    Helena

Chapter Nine
    T he Robert Schumann now planting himself before me, beaming and ebullient, pumping my hand vigorously as he and his wife welcomed me on my arrival at the Saturday evening musicale, was not the Robert Schumann who, only a few nights earlier, had been in a state of collapse after the concert, overcome by panic. Even more extraordinary was Clara Schumann's greeting. Glowing with amiability, she said, “Ah, Helena, my dear, what a charming idea, bringing along Düsseldorfs finest policeman for protection.” Turning to me, smiling slyly, she said, “And you, Inspector, are you here to guard Fräulein Becker's priceless cello or Fräulein Becker herself?”
    â€œAs anyone can see,” I said, “Fräulein Becker is far more priceless than her cello.” I knew this was the response that was called for. But my gaze, which should have fallen then on Helena, instead remained on Clara Schumann. For a moment or two, I wondered if hypnosis, a phenomenon I had long regarded with disbelief, was not a sham after all. Attired in a simple emerald gown, her neck encircled by a single strand of pearls, the woman was proof that elegance did not depend on adornments.
    Madam Schumann said to her husband, “Robert, dear, why don't you take Fräulein Becker's wrap and help her store her cello against the piano. Meanwhile, I'll escort our famished-looking Inspector to the buffet.”
    Schumann seemed perfectly happy to obey, and happier still when, as Helena shed her wrap and loosened her silk shawl about her shoulders, he caught sight of her high, firm bosom.
    Taking my arm, Clara steered me toward the warmly lit dining room. On her face was a broad smile, but now it struck me as fixed, and I sensed beneath her show of hospitality a cold layer of suspicion. I was not wrong. “So, Inspector,” she said, speaking in a low voice only I would be able to hear, “why are you really here tonight? Have you come to spy on us?”
    The best way to disarm her, I decided, was to treat the matter of my presence facetiously. “If you must know,” I said, trying to sound secretive and speaking just above a whisper, “the real reason for my attendance is standing over there,” I nodded in the direction of the far corner of the dining room table. There, hovering over a platter of roasted meats and poultry, was Georg Adelmann, fork poised in his right hand like a spear. Balanced on the palm of his left hand was a large plate already laden with a mountain of cheeses, potatoes, salads and slices of bread.
    My hostess gave me a puzzled look. “Georg Adelmann? Are you saying he of all people is under surveillance?”
    I put my finger to my lips. In a hushed tone, I said, “Please, I beg you to say nothing of this to anyone, Madam Schumann. What I have just told you is in strict confidence.”
    â€œThe only crime Georg Adelmann commits, if indeed one can call it a crime, is the crime of over-eating,” Clara said.
    I had begun this business about Georg Adelmann as a diversion, hastily contrived, I admit, but for what I perceived as a good cause. On Clara Schumann's face there was an expression now of such intense curiosity that I had no choice but to