The schumann proof, p.29
The Schumann Proof, page 29
“That’s right. I was in the hallway. I would have seen if he left.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you sure it was Mr. Bryce in his studio? Did you actually see him go in?”
The wariness returned his expression. “I saw him go up to the third floor. He was in his studio when I got there.”
“You’re certain? Did you look inside?”
“Why would I do that?” Walter folded burly arms across his chest. “I could see that Mr. Bryce was inside. He’d put his coat-tree in front of the window.”
I could tell I’d be making a mistake if I pushed him further. I thanked him and started to walk away, feeling his eyes on my back. He waited till I’d nearly reached the end of the hallway, then called out, sounding defensive: “How else could it have got there?”
Fourteen
Und eh’ ich’s gedacht, war alles verhallt.
(“Ere I did think it, deception it proved.”)
—Liederkreis, Opus 39, III
The run of attentive listeners at Evelyn ended Thursday night.
When I arrived there after my chat with Walter Kurek, I walked into a lounge three-quarters full of patrons nursing the how-can-it-just-be-Thursday blues, clearly needing a booster shot of soothing sounds to ease them into the long day before Saturday. I noodled my way through three sets of what the doctor ordered—Lloyd-Webber showtunes and Streisand hits—nearly sedating myself in the process. The clients paid little notice, conversed quietly, and kept Toby Ryan busier than usual with vodka martinis and Chardonnay.
The snorefest gave me time to consider what I’d learned from Walter. It proved nothing, really. If what Janice had told me was true, Bryce and Siobhan had been together the night of the murders. Of course they’d blocked the view into his studio. Bryce did that anyway, as I’d noticed when I called on him to ask about Mann’s Liederkreis prank.
The tranquillizing effects of “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” and “Evergreen” didn’t help me sleep when I got home. The odour of lust still lurked in the loft, and when I tried to ignore it, I started worrying about Bryce again. It had been a mistake telling Elly I was going to talk to him. The smart thing would be to leave it for the police. Fishing for information about the Liederkreis was one thing; confronting Bryce came under a different heading altogether, tantamount to an accusation of murder. I could still back out, but I knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and pondered why.
Murder had cut short a nascent friendship. Two friendships, really, because who knew how close Mann and I might have become had Laura and I started working with him in earnest?
I might have prevented Thursday night’s events if I’d remained at the studio. I didn’t have to go running off. I could have stayed with Laura and Mann. If I had, they might still be alive. I needed to atone, to take some sort of decisive action to compensate for what had proved to be a fatal truancy.
I wanted to solve the puzzle. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Elly had asked. She didn’t disapprove. She understood. In a funny sort of way, she’d given me her blessing, whatever her reservations.
All good reasons for confronting Bryce in the morning, and none telling the whole story: that I wanted to prove myself to the man whose scent still lingered up here in the loft. I wanted to show him a trophy, a prize, something to impress him, to invite his praise. The trouble was, the trophy I was after more properly belonged to him. He was the detective, not me. Solving murders was his business, not mine.
Since the dawn of time, men have competed against each other to catch the eye of those they desire. Bigger, faster, stronger, smarter... Laudable or catastrophic, the competition makes sense when it’s two men fighting to impress a woman. But what happened when the mate one was vying for also happened to be the man one was contending with? The compulsion was absurd, but, it seemed, as impossible to resist as the seasons or the tides.
I drifted off an hour or so later, contemplating what sort of uneasy truce would have to exist between lust and contest in a relationship with Andrew March. Uncle Charles’ never-far-off voice murmured stark lines from Peer Gynt: “In love, a prophet and a tomcat are the same.”
I called Elly early the next morning to see if she knew when Bryce took lunch. She sounded surprised, less by the question than by the hour of the call. She was supposed to be calling me at this time.
“You’re still intending to talk to Bryce today?” she asked.
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re opening a can of worms, Vikkan. Bryce’s affair with Siobhan already puts the Conservatory in jeopardy with Rawlings, but if on top of that he was leaking exam questions...”
“I know Laura confronted him about it,” I said. “I have to find out whether she threatened to go to Janssen as well.”
Elly was silent for a moment. “I don’t know his schedule,” she said finally. “Even if I did, I’m not entirely sure I’d tell you.”
“You don’t happen to know where he eats?”
“I’ve seen him at the Swiss Chalet,” she admitted.
“The one across from the Conservatory?”
“That’s the one.”
Even the click when she hung up was full of misgivings.
I stayed in the carriage house for the next couple of hours, practising, trying not to contemplate what I was about to do. Around eleven, I left for downtown. I needed to get a table near the Swiss Chalet entrance so I could snag Bryce when he came in, and that meant getting there before the restaurant filled up for lunch.
It was nearly one o’clock before he finally showed up. I caught his eye and waved him over. The hostess who brought him to my table looked as if she just might just forgive me for hogging a prime booth during lunch with nothing more than a salad for company.
“This is great, Vikkan,” he enthused, slipping off his ever-present leather knapsack. Dressed in khaki slacks and a wool shirt, he looked as if he’d just come from a photo shoot for the Gap. “I hate the line-ups here. The food’s pretty good, though, as long as you stay away from the barbecue sauce. Tastes like detergent.” He caught a dirndled waitress’s eye, flashed some teeth, and ordered a quarter chicken—white, no sauce—without consulting the menu.
“Funny how we keep running into each other,” he said after she left. “You disappeared—what? five years ago?—and now everywhere I go... What happened to you, anyway? How come you dropped out of sight?”
“Tired of city life,” I said.
“Pressure too much?” he asked, ignoring what was obviously a drop-the-subject answer. “I know, it’s true. Once your name gets around, it never stops.” He put on a sympathetic face. “I understand, believe me.”
“It wasn’t that.”
“No? Personal stuff?”
“In a way.”
“Well, whatever,” he said, finally getting the hint, “it looks like you’re back in circulation now.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. People just keep roping me into things. Like Ulrike. Would you believe she even asked me to accompany the Liederkreis premiere?”
His imitation of innocence was pretty good. “Really?” he said. “You refused, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Leopards and spots. You already turned down the chance to play it once.”
The waitress came back with his chicken and a small bowl of salad. Bryce busied himself with the plastic container of dressing.
“It’s not news to you, is it?” I asked. “Ulrike wanting me to play for her.”
He speared a chunk of iceberg lettuce and gave an aw-shucks-you-caught-me-out grin. “She started pumping me about you,” he said. “I put two and two together. Can’t say I was happy about it, but I did tell her the truth.” He popped the lettuce in his mouth.
“Which was?”
He swallowed. “That you’re a better pianist than me.” He shrugged, as if the admission hadn’t cost him anything at all.
“You weren’t worried we’d be in competition for accompanying the Liederkreis premiere?”
“Competition? From you? I don’t think so.”
He shook his head and went back to his salad, polishing it off in rhythmic forkfuls, as if by rote. For the next few minutes, I might as well not have been there. He pushed the bowl aside and started cutting his chicken into neat, bite-sized pieces. The meat went into a tidy pile in one third of his plate, his fries into another, the halves of what looked like a toasted hamburger bun completed the arrangement. The operation was mesmerizing.
“You weren’t fond of Laura Erskine, were you?” I asked.
“Huh?” He looked up, his fork poised over the plate. “Where’d that come from?”
“Just an observation.”
He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t help noticing. Last week, when you dropped in on our lesson with Mann. You totally ignored her. I wondered if there was bad blood between you.”
He stabbed a fry and brought it to his mouth. “You’re imagining things.”
“That’s good,” I said, watching him chew. “I was afraid it might have had something to do with what she knew about you and Siobhan Rawlings.”
His jaw froze. I couldn’t hear a pin drop only because the restaurant was crowded. He swallowed. “What, exactly,” he said, recovering, “is Laura supposed to have known about me and Siobhan Rawlings?”
“I was hoping you might tell me.”
He made to take another fry. “Siobhan’s a student of mine. What else is there to tell?”
“How about that you were balling her?”
He blinked. “Where’d you hear that?”
“From Siobhan’s ex-best-friend, Janice Cleary. Who also maintains there was some quid pro quo going on. A little matter of you leaking exam questions?”
He set his fork down and looked at me with hard green eyes, his face as still and unrevealing as a store mannequin’s.
“Laura knew, didn’t she?” I asked.
I got the distinct impression that behind his eyes, he was scanning for the right choice between truth, evasion and outright denial. Without looking down, he picked up a napkin and blotted the corners of his mouth. “Janice Cleary,” he enunciated very clearly, “is a stupid little teenager, and Laura Erskine was a tiresome, meddling bitch.”
“That’s funny. ‘Bitch’ is exactly how Janice said Siobhan characterized Laura, too. She must have scared you bad.”
“Meaning what?”
“Where were you when Laura was murdered?”
He exhaled sharply, derisively. “Is that some sort of accusation? You think I had something to do with the murders? For your information—and it’s none of your fucking business—I was with Siobhan Rawlings that night. In my studio. ‘Balling’, as you so quaintly put it. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”
“It won’t be me asking.”
“You shit. You told the police? It’s not something they needed to know.”
“No? You don’t think they’ll be interested that Laura knew what was going on between you and Siobhan? That she threatened to tell Janssen? That is what she said she was going to do, isn’t it?”
Bryce didn’t answer. In the silence, I realized what I’d said. You don’t think they’ll be interested. Future tense. He looked past my shoulder, as if seeking inspiration in the view outside on Bloor Street. Then he glanced down. A water glass took his attention. He put his fingers on the rim and started turning it in little half-circles. An expression of private amusement came over his face. “You haven’t told them yet, have you?” he asked.
It was my turn to look for inspiration. None came.
“You know, Vikkan,” he said slowly, looking up, “I used to wonder how you could possibly play the piano as well as you do. I think I know now. You’re some kind of idiot-savant. You really don’t have a clue about anything.”
I couldn’t figure out what he was driving at. He noticed and shook his head as if he felt sorry for me. “Of course Laura said she’d report me. What would you expect her to do? But here’s the catch: she did tell Janssen. And guess what? He wasn’t going to do anything about it. Nothing. Nothing at all. Rien. Nada. Nichts.”
I left the restaurant shaken and not a little humiliated. Without thinking, I crossed Bloor Street and made for Philosopher’s Walk, heading for the grass at the back of the ROM—the same spot where Laura and I had shared lunch a week and a half ago. Across the way, a number of the Con’s windows were thrown open, letting out a cacophony of pianos, violins, trumpets, voices and flutes. The whole building sounded like an orchestra tuning up.
I sat down and hugged my knees close to my chest. Why hadn’t I seen it coming? Of course Laura reporting Bryce to Janssen had posed no threat to him. He’d probably laughed in her face. He might have been less sanguine if his misdeeds had involved anyone other than Siobhan, but with the Rawlings endowment still undecided, he knew Janssen wouldn’t risk a scandal by taking any action.
I closed my eyes and hugged myself closer. Swirling orange patterns danced across my eyelids. The sun felt summer-hot through my jeans, but did nothing to dispel the nasty chill forming in my stomach. What if Laura had disapproved of Jarnsen’s politic silence? What if she’d threatened to expose Bryce by going to Rawlings directly? If Janssen even suspected...
I’d made a mistake, and I knew it. I should have listened to Elly and gone straight to the police. Why did Andrew have to be out of town right now? Bryce would almost certainly tell Janssen about our lunchtime encounter, giving Janssen plenty of time to polish whatever lies he’d need. And there were still the crime-scene photos I wanted to look at. If they confirmed that the studio had been broken into after the murders...
A thought suddenly occurred to me: did Janssen have access to copies of the studio keys? The way I figured it, the killer had broken into Elly’s studio in order to retrieve her key. But if Janssen had duplicates, or could get one without attracting attention, why would he bother? He could simply go up to the studio, unlock it, and retrieve the original.
The memory of Bryce’s scorn still stung. I needed to do a little checking before I saw Andrew. I didn’t feel like having my conjectures ridiculed twice in one day. I stood up, brushed myself off, and crossed Philosopher’s Walk to the Conservatory.
Had I the authority of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force, I could probably have gone up to the front desk and simply asked about duplicate keys. Figuring a civilian enquiry would be met with suspicion, or at least require an explanation, I decided to rent a studio instead and deliberately lock the key inside.
The studio I got was way up on the fourth floor, an airy, garret-type room with a pretty good Bechstein. I had to kill time before going back downstairs, so I practised Bach Suites for half an hour. The piano was turned to face the door, and I noticed several pairs of curious eyes peering in. When my memory for Bach’s counterpoint gave out, I left—keyless—and went down to the front desk.
“Could you just give me a spare?” I asked, apologizing for my fictive absentmindedness. “I’ll come right back.”
The woman in charge—not Karen Jacobs, but Mrs. Hewson, an imposing woman who probably didn’t know she’d been nicknamed “Cow”—looked me up and down. “You’ll have to go to maintenance,” she said curtly, giving no indication that she recognized me from my student days.
“But I’ve done this before,” I said. “They usually just give me a copy right here.”
She gave me a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of people who locked their keys inside the studios more than once. “Not anymore. All the duplicates are with the janitor.”
I found Walter Kurek lunching on sausage and rye bread in his basement office. I wondered if he lived there. His shift didn’t end until the building closed at night.
“Yes,” he said, between mouthfuls, his eyes roving over my face, “I have all the extra keys. Since last week. The locks are being changed.”
“That would be because of the vandalism on Tuesday? Not because of what happened Thursday night?”
“Yes.”
“So until they’re changed, you have the old spares?”
It took a long while for him to nod and say yes. My second appearance in two days had made him doubly suspicious.
Upstairs, as he let me into the studio, I asked if he’d made a lot of trips like this since being given charge of the duplicate keys. “It must get really annoying,” I added sympathetically.
“It hasn’t happened. Until now.”
“I guess no one else has a set of spare keys? The president, for example?”
It didn’t matter that I tried to sound offhand. Walter’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, “even if Mr. Janssen did something like this,”—something stupid like this—“he would have to come to me.”
I could see there wasn’t much point in asking whether Janssen, in fact, ever had.
Instead of going straight back to the front desk afterward, I made a detour to Elly’s studio. From inside, a tenor strangled out a few phrases of Handel’s Ombra mai fu’ and stopped. A moment later, he started again. It didn’t sound like the same voice. This time it was rich, confident, supremely legato. Elly working her magic. I left her to it and went downstairs.
As I was signing out, it occurred to me that not once had I been asked to show a student card. Surely that formed part of the new security precautions. Changing locks and tracking keys wouldn’t go very far if a stranger could walk in off the street and rent a studio.
I was wondering about that when I turned and came face to face with the man for whom, in his own words, “security is no longer something about which we can afford to be lax.”
“Vikkan,” Janssen said, “would you come upstairs a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.” His tone was polite, but there was no mistaking the steel in it.
Nils Janssen may well have been president of the Royal Conservatory of Music, but I was no longer a student. I could have told him to take a hike. Instead, I followed him up to his office, my heart racing.
“I’ve just spoken with David Bryce,” he said, closing the door.
