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Updated: May 6, 2025
Good night." I would look up this German musician who had come from an obscure German town. I would go to him and bluntly say: "Mr. Weinmann, I beg your pardon, but is it true, as some people say it is, that your real name is Heinrich Spellerberg?" Meanwhile there was nothing to do but go to bed. All the way home the tune rang in my head.
Seated in the warm cafe, with appetizing viands and a bottle before us, I asked the doctor to tell me again the husband's name. "Heinrich Spellerberg." "And who had the woman been?" "I never ascertained. She was a vain, insignificant, shallow little blonde. The Paris newspapers could learn nothing as to her antecedents. She, too, was German, but slight and delicate in physique."
"I neffer be in Paris," he interrupted, with a start which shocked and convinced me, slight evidence though it may seem. So I spoke on: "What, never? Not even just that night that 17th of February? Try to recall it, Heinrich Spellerberg. You remember she came in late, and who would think that those soft white fingers had been strong enough?" "Hush, my friendt! I not touch her!
Tragedies in real life are not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris, apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. His name, as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from Breslau.
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