The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov Page A

runaway horse. The message, however, was clear and concise. “Preiss — I need to see you at once on a matter of urgency!” The signature, of course, was that of Commissioner von Mannstein. I let out a long loud groan (one of the privileges that comes with occupying a private office). Having spent yet another restless night (too much wine, too much rich food, too many lingering thoughts about Karla Steilmann), I regarded the prospect of beginning this day on a matter of urgency with the commissioner as less appealing than a march to the scaffold. Besides, I continued to be nagged by questions about this man Henryk Schramm. Detectives and cows have one thing in common: we are ruminants; we chew and chew again what has already been swallowed. The more I recalled fragments of our conversation over dinner, and turned over in my mind how at times he would look me squarely in the eye while at other times diverting his gaze when responding to a question, the more I doubted that Schramm was who he said he was.
    Von Mannstein wasted no time getting to the point. “I have here a copy of an entry made in the daily log of Detective Brunner,” said the commissioner, waving a sheet of paper but not offering it to me to examine. “The entry records that Brunner was approached by one Otto Mecklenberg concerning a threat made against Richard Wagner. I gather, Preiss, this fellow Mecklenberg is what is known in musical circles as an impresario, one who manages the day-to-day business affairs of artists. Sounds like a nursemaid, if you ask me. At any rate, apparently this matter has fallen into your hands, Preiss. Correct?”
    I hesitated, observing the deep scowl on the commissioner’s face. How to answer: yes? no? maybe? Perhaps all three? Rashly I chose the truth. “Yes, Herr Commissioner, that is correct.”
    I was not prepared for what followed. Von Mannstein’s scowl vanished. “What a stroke of luck, Preiss! What perfect timing!” The commissioner was exultant. “It’s as though the gods had somehow intervened and ordained that you, Preiss, should come to the rescue of Munich!”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir —”
    â€œDon’t you see, Preiss? Thanks to your involvement with Wagner … I understand he counts on you to find and arrest whoever is threatening to ruin him … you are in an ideal position to keep an eye on what the man’s up to. I don’t mean musically; frankly I don’t give a damn if Wagner composes operas or lullabies. Come to think of it, far as I’m concerned both kinds of music put people to sleep.”
    The commissioner took a moment to chortle at his own wit, then carried on: “It’s Wagner’s political activity the mayor and I are concerned with. Also certain aspects of his social and personal life which are infelicitous to say the least. Bear in mind, Preiss, it is imperative that we amass sufficient grounds to rid Munich of Richard Wagner once and for all.” Von Mannstein paused and gave me a quizzical look. “Tell me, Preiss, when von Braunschweig and I met with you, why did you not disclose that you’d already become engaged in this Wagner affair? Frankly, I was distressed at first to learn about it from Brunner. No doubt he brought it to my attention because he was concerned about a possible conflict of interest; you know, the kind of thing that might have proved embarrassing to us, eh?”
    â€œI’m certain Brunner acted with the best of intentions, sir,” I said. (At the same time I made a vow to myself. Someday, preferably in the very near future, I would see to it that Munich saw the last of Detective Franz Brunner once and for all.)
    Von Mannstein shook his head reassuringly. “Well, Preiss, have no fear in that respect,” he said. “I set Brunner straight, of course. I know you to be a man of exquisite discretion. In all likelihood you