The Maestro Murdered

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  McGill walked quickly into the rehearsal hall. Seated in a semi-circle off to the side of David, who was seated at the piano, were the orchestra’s concertmaster, Simon Anders, and violinist Susan Kim, along with the first violist and cellist from the orchestra and Hermann Hauptmann. All eyes quickly attached to McGill as he walked across the room to take a seat by the wall.

  “What's he doing here?” asked an obviously annoyed Anders. "Is this a rehearsal or an inquisition?”

  David smiled reassuringly. "Relax! Sean and I are old friends. He used to be a musician himself, you know. Graduated from the Institute a few years ago."

  "That doesn't answer my question,” Anders said. “Why is he here?”

  David sighed. "Look, Simon. He's my friend. He's here to provide another set of ears. I've told you that I haven't yet decided what we're going to program for this concert.”

  “And he's going to help you decide?”

  “Something like that. Now look, can we just get to work here? I want to get through the Brahms and get on to that new piece I told you about."

  Anders frowned but nodded his head. "Alright. Let's get back to work. I don't have all night."

  As McGill watched, the ensemble played through each movement of the Brahms quintet, stopping occasionally to discuss tempos and articulations. About forty-five minutes later, David rose to his feet. "Okay, that was fine. I think we've got a good handle on it. It's definitely in the program. Now wait just a minute and I'll get the new piece I wanted you to take a look at."

  As David reached in back of him to the nearby table to pick up the string parts, Hermann Hauptmann broke the silence. "Young man, this piece...I've been here looking at the score...this is not a piece you want to have on a program with a great work like the Brahms."

  "Oh, really? David said. "And why do you think that?"

  "This just not a substantial piece, David. It will sound frivolous next to the Brahms quintet,” said Hermann, tossing the score onto the table by his side.

  “I'm surprised you would say that,” said David. “This composer is young, but he's won several awards for his compositions.”

  Hermann grew heated. "Young man, I thought you invited me here tonight to give you my professional opinion on this new work. And I can tell you, as one of the most important composers of my generation, that this work is nothing. It has no substance. It...”

  McGill suddenly rose to his feet. “But Hermann, don't you think it's important that young composers have a chance to hear their works performed?”

  Hermann grimaced. "Being young is not always a great advantage, Mr….”

  “McGill. We met a couple of weeks ago. At a reception, perhaps you remember? And then I interviewed you briefly…about the tragic death of your brother.”

  “Yes…yes, I remember.” Hermann turned quickly to face David again. “But I tell you again, David, youth is not in itself an asset. A composer must have strength of character. That is the essential component."

  "But Hermann,” David said. “Shouldn't we all be searching for new ideas?”

  “No!” roared Hermann, rising to his feet. “Novelty is nothing. It is character and passion that must shine through in music...and experience....composers must have experienced something of life and demonstrate that through the music.”

  “But surely,” McGill said slowly, “time passes some composers by...they have their day and then they became irrelevant. And then young composers will…"

  Hermann clenched his fists as his face reddened. “No! I won't have it! I was young...I was a young composer...years ago. And people admired my work. My compositions were played by some of the great orchestras of Europe. But then it faded...it all faded away and my works were forgotten. I was ignored.”

  “Perhaps styles just change Hermann,” David said sympathetically. “Composers must change as well.”

  “My work has grown?” Hermann demanded. “I was a boy then. What did I know of life? But I became a man...my work became mature....my work grew and became more substantial...but still...no one…no one would…”

  McGill started to walk slowly toward Hermann, unclamping the briefcase in his hand while he spoke. "But still no one would perform your works, would they, Hermann? Not your new works, not the works that showed how much you had grown as a composer...and as a man.”

  “That's right!” shouted Hermann, almost choking with rage as he took a step forward “They refused to acknowledge my works...they refused to see that I was now twice the composer I was as a young man!”

  “But your brother told you he might play one of your works, didn't he?”

  “Bah! He was toying with me. I knew it all along. I knew that he would never perform any of my compositions. And in the end he retired, retired before he could fulfill his promise.” Hermann paused, a distant look in his eyes. “But then he came back to the orchestra, when Loreen Stenke decided to leave to have her baby,” he said more quietly. “And I thought, surely he will not refuse me now! Surely he will fulfill his promise now!”

  Hermann paused, sinking back into his chair. “But he wouldn’t. I asked him again. I begged him...begged him to be fair with me...to be honorable....but he refused. He put me off again and again. I knew then he could not be moved.”

  Moving closer, McGill nodded his head gently. “So one night, when you came to see him, he turned away from you for the last time, didn't he, Hermann? And that's when you shot him, shot him in the back of the head and killed him.”

  Hermann's face grew rigid. He said nothing.

  “But how about Loreen Stenke, Hermann? Why did you kill her? Did she refuse you as well?”

  Hermann was silent for several seconds. Then he spoke quietly. "When she returned to conduct the orchestra after Auguste’s death, there was going to be a memorial concert honoring my brother. She promised me. She said I could write a piece honoring my brother. And I did. I wrote a beautiful piece...full of humanity and grief...for my brother.”

  “Wouldn't she look at it, Hermann?”

  “She looked at it...or at least she said she did. But then she changed her mind. She said it was not suitable for a memorial concert. She said it wasn't substantial…not fit for a serious occasion.”

  “And did you try to change her mind...convince her to play your piece?”

  “Several times, but eventually she refused to see me. Then, after her miscarriage, she said she wanted no part of the concert honoring my brother. I went to her...to talk to her one last time...but I knew she wouldn't listen to me.”

  “So you thought you'd kill her as well, didn't you, Hermann?” McGill said evenly, reaching inside his briefcase. “And then you grabbed this!” He held up the Beethoven bust, shaking it slightly in his hand. “And you killed her with it, didn’t you? The problem is, Hermann, you forgot to wipe off the fingerprints before you snuck back to Loreen’s office to return it.”

  Hermann rose to his feet again, his mouth open. "I did...I never…” He turned as if to leave but saw a uniformed police officer standing in front of the door at the back of the room. Then he slumped back into his seat.

  “I'm sorry,” McGill said, “but you're going to have to come down to the station with me."