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  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were worried about that letter.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Schmedes. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, I was being foolish — you were quite right. It’s perfectly safe for me to sing. I have nothing to fear. And I have my public to consider. They will be expecting another Tristan and I do not intend to disappoint them! Goodbye, Herr Director.’

  And with that the singer departed, slamming the door behind him. The company listened to him running down the stairs, singing the overture to Lohengrin.

  ‘Well,’ said Mahler. ‘That was quite remarkable. I am most impressed, Herr Doctor. Please forgive me for the impatience I displayed earlier.’

  Liebermann stood up and inclined his head.

  ‘Now that Doctor Liebermann has dealt with your crisis,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘could we resume our interview?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Mahler, laughing out loud. ‘With great pleasure.’

  9

  ‘Do you realise how many people work here, Inspector?’ said the director. ‘There are the principal performers, several choruses, choirmasters and repetiteurs, the members of the orchestra, guest instrumentalists, piano accompanists and the prompt. The stage machinery alone requires fifty permanent operators and a dozen electricians, and another thirty-five stage-hands are employed for large productions. There are the administrators, the costume designers, seamstresses, tailors, painters, carpenters, light engineers, porters, ushers, dressers, cloakroom attendants, and box-office staff. We even have our own opera physician. I could go on. The court opera is like a small principality. You wish to conduct an investigation — but where, exactly, do you propose to start?’

  Rheinhardt took a slim box of trabucos from his coat pocket and offered one to the director.

  Mahler waved his hand in the air.

  ‘No, have one of mine. I owe you two gentlemen this small courtesy, at least.’ He opened a desk drawer and removed a canister packed with fat cigars wrapped in silver paper. As he distributed them he added, ‘A gift from an archduke who fancies himself a composer. These cigars arrived with an opera score and a request for me to consider it for inclusion in next year’s programme. Regrettably, the music was entirely without merit and I had to refuse him. The lord chamberlain wasn’t very happy, but what was I supposed to do?’

  Rheinhardt struck a match and lit the director’s and Liebermann’s cigars before lighting his own. The tobacco was of a very high quality and tasted like caramel.

  ‘Very good,’ said Rheinhardt, exhaling a yellow cloud that expanded into a haze of pungent sweetness. Crossing his legs, he returned to the original topic of conversation. ‘I take your point, Herr Director: many people work at the opera house. But I only want to consult a few of Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s associates, preferably close associates, and was hoping that you would be able to identify who such persons might be.’

  ‘As I have already stated,’ said the director, ‘my relationship with Fraulein Rosenkrantz was strictly professional. I did not know her very well and therefore cannot speak with much authority.’ He rested his forehead against the knuckles of his closed fist. After a brief pause, he added, ‘It was rumoured that she was having some form of dalliance with Winkelmann last year, but I’m sure that it wasn’t very much more than a little harmless flirtation. You must understand, inspector, there is always a great deal of gossip at the opera house, and most of it is highly fanciful.’ Mahler drew on his cigar and the creases on his brow deepened. ‘However, I think I am correct in saying that Fraulein Rosenkrantz had a particular fondness for Herr Schneider.’

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook. ‘Who?’

  ‘Felix Schneider. Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser, although in reality he was more like a factotum. She brought him with her when she came here from Prague.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘He will be at home.’ Mahler addressed his secretary, ‘Przistaupinsky, can you find Herr Schneider’s address for the inspector?’

  The secretary bowed and left the room.

  Rheinhardt wrote the name Felix Schneider in his notebook and tapped the pencil against the page.

  ‘I understand that Fraulein Rosenkrantz wasn’t very happy at the opera house.’

  The director responded, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She found you …’ Rheinhardt faltered. ‘I apologise, Herr Director, but I must be blunt. I was informed that she found you demanding.’

  The corners of Mahler’s mouth curled to produce a humourless smile.

  ‘They all find me demanding, Inspector. I am perfectly aware of what people say behind my back. I am a tyrant, a monster! But when the singers are getting their standing ovations and the audience are calling for more and stamping their feet, all is forgiven. Under my direction they give the performances of their lives. That is why they stay.’

  ‘I have been told that there is bad feeling between some of the singers.’

  ‘Opera singers are a vainglorious breed. They surround themselves with sycophants and panderers whose foolish talk frequently excites envy. They covet each others’ roles and begrudge each others’ successes. This business with Schmedes and Winkelmann is typical.’ Mahler shook his head, becoming eloquent with despair. ‘There are so many factions and divisions in this opera house, the atmosphere is so heavy with rancour and hostility, that if I were transported backwards in time to the court of the Borgias it would seem a model society by comparison.’

  Rheinhardt smiled but his gaze remained steady and serious.

  ‘Did Fraulein Rosenkrantz have many enemies?’

  The director failed to register the question. He was still thinking about the vanity of opera singers. ‘You see, they don’t understand that, ultimately, what we do here is not about them but about the music. The music must come first.’ His fist came down on the desktop, causing everything on the surface to jump. ‘We must subjugate our individual personalities, our pretensions, and lose ourselves entirely in serving the composer’s vision. Did you know there are still some singers who employ the claque? I can’t have professional clappers in the opera house! I tried to stamp out this despicable practice as soon as I was appointed. They think it’s acceptable to break the spell of the music, destroy the magic of theatre for the sake of a few seconds’ contrived applause. But I’ll show them. I’ve recently hired some private detectives. I intend to discover the perpetrators and rid the opera house of the claque once and for all.’

  ‘Herr Director?’ said Rheinhardt. Mahler seemed to emerge from a state of self-absorption. ‘Herr Director,’ Rheinhardt repeated, ‘did Fraulein Rosenkrantz have many enemies?’

  Mahler tilted his head to one side and his spectacles became opaque with reflected light.

  ‘I can think of many singers who resented Ida Rosenkrantz’s success, her popularity. Even cab drivers recognised Rosenkrantz and took off their hats as they passed; however …’ He changed position and his eyes became visible again. ‘I would say that, among her peers, Arianne Amsel resented her most.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because prior to Rosenkrantz’s arrival many regarded Amsel as our finest female singer. She does possess a very fine voice, but, if I may express an opinion in confidence, I never considered her the equal of say, Anna von Mildenberg or Selma Kurz. Amsel’s voice does not possess Mildenberg’s wealth of shadings. Mildenberg’s piano will yield as much variety as her forte-’

  ‘Herr Director,’ Rheinhardt interrupted. ‘You were explaining why Amsel resented Fraulein Rosenkrantz.’

  The director raised a hand apologetically. ‘Yes, of course. My reservations concerning Amsel’s pre-eminence were not shared by the press. You may recall, perhaps, the outstanding reviews she was getting only a few years ago. The critics had become quite indiscriminate, lavishing commendations on her every performance. She was feted at society events, invited to the palace and presented to the emperor. Needless to say, all this adulation went straight to her head. She became proud and complacent, in
flated with self-regard. She started cancelling performances — more often than not, without good cause. I would have terminated her contract but she was so esteemed by the critics, the public and the palace, that my will was opposed. I was summoned by the lord chamberlain and reprimanded for being irascible and overhasty. The situation was intolerable. Yet things were to change and much sooner than I had expected.’

  Mahler stubbed out his cigar. ‘I appointed Ida Rosenkrantz after seeing her perform in Prague, where she had distinguished herself as Jitka in Smetana’s Dalibor. In her first season, here in Vienna, she sang well but was rather overlooked by the critics. Then something quite remarkable happened. We were due to perform The Flying Dutchman, with Amsel singing Senta, a role which she had made her own. That afternoon I received a telephone call and was informed, yet again, that Amsel was indisposed. As you can imagine, I was furious. And even more so when I learned that the soprano who was supposed to take the role of Senta in the event of Amsel’s indisposition had, that very morning, eloped with a Russian prince. It seemed that the public would have to be disappointed, and I was on the brink of making an announcement to that effect when Rosenkrantz came forward and said that she knew the role and was willing to perform it. I was sceptical, and nervous, but in the absence of any other alternative I agreed to her proposal. No one could have predicted the outcome. Rosenkrantz’s Senta was sensational. She brought to the role a curiously affecting vulnerability. I have never witnessed anything like it. The opinion of all but the most ardent of Amsel’s supporters was that Amsel’s hitherto definitive Senta had finally been surpassed. Some critics commented that Rosenkrantz made a very sympathetic female lead on account of her small build. Others were less diplomatic and stated plainly that Rosenkrantz was the prettiest soprano ever to grace the court opera stage. Somewhat insensitive comparisons were made with her statuesque competitors. From that night onwards, Rosenkrantz’s stock has been steadily rising, while Amsel’s has been steadily falling. Amsel has become quite embittered.’

  Rheinhardt frowned.

  ‘But Rosenkrantz didn’t do anything wrong, as such.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t,’ Mahler agreed. ‘But I suppose Amsel imagined Rosenkrantz secretly learning her best-loved roles in readiness for the moment when she could step into her shoes. And it did make a good story: the shy, diminutive soprano, thrust into the limelight by chance and given an opportunity to demonstrate her prodigious gift. It is the stuff of legends. Not strictly true, of course, but that’s what the critics wrote.’ Mahler picked up the metronome and slid the weight down the pendulum rod, from largo to presto. He seemed perplexed. ‘I suppose you will want to interview Fraulein Amsel. But I really don’t see how she will be able to help you. Amsel and Rosenkrantz were hardly intimates. They never spoke, apart from the exchange of an occasional frigid greeting.’

  Rheinhardt did not reply, because at that juncture the director’s secretary re-entered the room. He was carrying a square of blue paper on which Herr Schneider’s address was copied out in a neat, pedantic hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rheinhardt, folding the sheet into his notebook. Then, looking up at the director, he asked, ‘Is Fraulein Amsel in the building?’

  The director put the metronome down and consulted a massive volume that looked like an accountant’s ledger.

  ‘I believe she is rehearsing in the red room.’

  Rheinhardt stood up.

  ‘I would like to speak to her, if I may. I won’t keep her long.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the director. ‘Przistaupinsky will take you. But before you go …’ Mahler turned to face Liebermann. ‘Herr Doctor, do you have a card?’

  10

  They could hear her long before they arrived outside the red room. She was repeating the same line. Even though the director had expressed the view that Amsel’s gift had, in the past, been over-estimated, she was still an operatic diva, and the proximity of such a powerful voice made Liebermann’s heart race. The fragment of melody that she was practising ascended to a beautiful high note that she sustained before gradually introducing a gentle, warm tremolo.

  Przistaupinsky knocked on the door.

  When the singing stopped, they entered.

  The red room was clearly so called on account of its overwhelming redness. All four walls were covered with a bright red paint and the large Persian rug laid out on the floor was also red. The effect administered a violent shock to the eye.

  At the far end of the room was a grand piano at which a youthful accompanist was seated. Next to the piano stood a woman, and beside her was a short olive-skinned man with a pointed black beard. Przistaupinsky introduced Rheinhardt and Liebermann and then said a few words concerning the purpose of their visit. On hearing Rosenkrantz’s name, the olive-skinned man made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.

  An arrangement was made to resume the rehearsal in thirty minutes, and Przistaupinsky, the accompanist, and the olive-skinned gentleman left the room.

  Liebermann studied the soprano.

  She was in her late twenties and possessed an abundance of dark hair, the extremities of which had a tendency to twist into coils. Her eyebrows were high, forming almost semicircular arches, and her nose was, if a little too long, finely cast. The lips beneath the nose were wide and coloured a shade of red that matched the brightly painted walls. She was not overly large, as the critics had implied, but she was certainly tall and had an imposing appearance. The loose-fitting dress that she wore was green and cut from a material that shimmered. Even her smallest movements created vivid coruscations that intimated the contours of her figure beneath — the curvature of her hips, and the full swell of her breasts. A silver and emerald crucifix hung from her neck.

  Rheinhardt looked at the score on the music stand. It was an aria from Verdi’s Aida.

  ‘Do you read music, Inspector?’ asked the soprano, seating herself on a chair by the piano.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you sing?’

  ‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, his cheeks flushing. ‘I would hesitate to make such a claim in present company.’

  Amsel accepted the compliment tacitly by rippling her fingers.

  ‘Actually,’ said Liebermann, ‘he’s rather good for an amateur. A very competent lyric baritone.’

  The diva’s eyebrows, already naturally elevated, found further scope for ascent.

  ‘Then perhaps we should try a duet, Inspector.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Rheinhardt, lowering himself onto the piano stool. ‘Much as I would deem it a great honour.’

  Rheinhardt fancied that although Amsel’s suggestion wasn’t wholly serious, it wasn’t made entirely in jest, either. What a story it might have made, in years to come: how he had sung a duet with the celebrated prima donna. Rheinhardt dismissed the thought and returned the conversation to the subject of Ida Rosenkrantz.

  ‘Yes, poor Ida,’ said Amsel, touching her crucifix. ‘How dreadful, to turn away from God, to rebel against one’s maker.’ Then, looking from Rheinhardt to Liebermann and back again, she added, ‘But I’m not sure that I can help you. We were not … friends.’

  ‘You must have been acquainted.’

  ‘Well, yes … But … ’ Amsel’s ample bosom rose and descended as she produced a lengthy sigh. ‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘No one ever does. I will not judge you unkindly for being honest.’

  ‘We were not friends,’ Amsel repeated. ‘Indeed, it is no secret that our relationship was somewhat strained. We rarely spoke. I am sure that von Mildenberg, Forster-Lauterer, Slezak or even Winkelmann would be much better informed concerning Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s circumstances and state of mind.’

  Rheinhardt removed his notebook and scribbled down the names.

  ‘Why was your relationship with Fraulein Rosenkrantz strained? What was so contentious?’

  ‘Are petty opera house squabbles really of interest to the police, Herr Inspector?’ Rheinhardt did not re
spond and as the silence intensified Amsel was obliged to supply an answer: ‘She turned people against me.’

  ‘Who?’ Rheinhardt asked.

  ‘I trust this conversation is confidential?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The other singers — some of the critics — even Director Mahler. I do not want to speak ill of her, especially now, and I have remembered her in my prayers.’ Again the singer touched her crucifix. ‘But there was something about her … something about her appearance, a kind of fragility, the illusion of childish innocence, that she used to her advantage. She found it easy to manipulate men. And men run the opera house.’

  ‘Why would she want to turn people against you?’

  ‘Jealousy, Inspector.’ These words were spoken with decisive finality. Amsel clearly believed that her vocal superiority was indisputable and that only a man whose musical instincts had been horribly corrupted by Rosenkrantz’s perfidious charms could possibly think otherwise.

  Liebermann crossed the Persian rug and leaned back against the piano, his arms folded.

  ‘Why,’ he began, ‘did you say that Ida Rosenkrantz turned away from God?’

  ‘Because she took her own life,’ the singer replied, a little perplexed. Then, looking narrowly at Liebermann, she added, ‘In the Catholic faith, Herr Doctor, self-slaughter is considered a mortal sin.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Liebermann. ‘But why do you suppose she committed suicide?’

  ‘I am not supposing anything, Herr Doctor. I read that she had committed suicide in the Zeitung and the Tagblatt.’

  ‘The newspapers reported that Fraulein Rosenkrantz could have committed suicide. It was also suggested that Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death might have been accidental. The reports were inconclusive.’

  Amsel shrugged. ‘I formed the impression that she had killed herself.’

  ‘Do you think that is what happened, then? Do you think she took her own life?’

  The diva lifted her hands, her expression showing exasperation. ‘I don’t know. And what does it matter what I think? My opinion on this matter is surely of little importance. I didn’t know her well enough to pass comment.’ Then, quite suddenly, Amsel’s lower lip began to tremble and she produced a loud sob, an anguished spasm of grief that might easily have reached the upper balcony of the world’s largest opera houses. The sob was so theatrical that Liebermann could hardly accept it as sincere, even though tears had begun to course down Amsel’s cheeks.