Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov Page A

carry on.
    â€œNotice, madam,” I said, “the exceedingly generous cut of Adelmann's coat. Even for a man of his enormous girth the coat is clearly two sizes too large. My father was a tailor, and I have more than a passing interest in clothing. Trust me, there is a reason for this…a sinister reason.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œI am willing to wager my badge of office that his coat contains deep inner pockets capable of containing certain items he is in the habit of—to put it politely—appropriating for his own use and enjoyment—small but precious trinkets, household ornaments, perhaps the odd valuable piece of jewellery or tableware.”
    I suppose it was somewhat shabby of me to cast a shadow over the eminent journalist, one of the Schumanns’ stellar guests, but what I had divulged was not spur-of-the-moment fiction. The fact was that, at my luncheon meeting with him at Emmerich's, I had watched with a mixture of astonishment and fascination as Adelmann, with the clumsiness of an amateur petty thief, had folded his linen napkin over a small silver salver and, thinking his actions were unseen, slipped his prize into some secret depository well down inside his suit coat. Physicians who dabbled in this new branch of Medicine known as Psychology had a word for people like Adelmann—kleptomaniacs. My word for this kind of activity was much more to the point: robbery. At any rate, it was one of those incidents a detective tucks away in the back of his mind, like something put away for a rainy day, something that might come in handy in the future. The “rainy day” was here and now.
    â€œPlease, don't let this distract you,” I said to Clara. “You have my assurance that I will keep an eye on our friend over there throughout the evening.” Then, feeling an urge to change the subject, I said, “I'm thrilled at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the great Franz Liszt. Do you think he'll favour us with a selection or two at the piano?”
    â€œThe ‘great’ Franz Liszt is here officially as a guest, not as a performer. But mark my words, Inspector: he has never needed a second invitation to light up the sky with one of his fireworks displays. Even though he's not on tonight's program, don't be surprised if he is the one who plays the encores.”
    She was smiling when she told me this, but I could taste the acid in her voice. I said, “I could easily detect your dislike of the man, even if I weren't a detective.”
    â€œYou must understand something,” she said. “Liszt and his friend Wagner have gone out of their way to discredit everything my husband stands for. They refer to themselves rather grandly as ‘The Weimar School’ and regard themselves as superior avant-gardists. In one of his recent magazine pieces, Wagner used an English expression—‘stick-in-the-mud’—to describe what he calls sarcastically ‘The Leipzig School’.”
    â€œThen why all this elaborate fuss in honour of an artist you hold in such contempt?”
    â€œThe Italians have a saying,” she replied. “‘If you want an audience, start a fight.’ Here, in Germany, we say ‘If you want an audience, drop the name Franz Liszt.’ She reduced her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, half the people you see here this evening are only here out of curiosity to see Liszt in the flesh, to be able to say tomorrow to their friends that they were in the same room as he.”
    â€œPlease pardon a frank question,” I said, “but aren't you being—”
    â€œHypocritical?” She gave me a shrewd smile. “Of course.” Her smile vanished. “We don't live in a spiritual world, Inspector; we live in the real world. At least, I do. I'm not always certain about Robert.”
    By this time the rooms were filling with invited guests. I recognized several persons prominent in