The Broken Vase

Chapter 2

One of the policemen tramped over and inquired, “How did you fellows get in here? Isn’t there a man out there?”

Diego turned to look at him, but couldn’t speak.

“It’s all right,” Fox told him. “We came by the stage door. We belong.”

“Belong to what?”

“They’re friends of Mr. Tusar’s,” said Koch, and the policeman nodded and let it go.

Diego stood staring at the dressing-room door, his face contorted like a man trying to lift something too heavy for him.

Fox sidled to a corner and surveyed the scene. He did that both from instinct and from habit. He had at one time regarded that diathesis as a defect of his organism, and still was not fond of it, but an extended and sometimes painful experience had forced him to accept the fact. Events and situations which caused the blood of most people to rush in hot torrents, or froze it in their veins, merely turned him into an instrument of precision for record and appraisal. Whether he liked it or not, that was perforce his function in the face of tragedy, while others might lament or console or collapse.

Of those visible, none had collapsed. They were here and there in pairs and groups, gazing silently at the door of the dressing room or murmuring in hushed tones. A woman was trying not to giggle, and a man and another woman were gripping her arm and telling her to stop. Felix Beck, Jan Tusar’s teacher, was pacing up and down, washing his hands in air. Diego Zorilla, having found speech, was talking with Adolph Koch. Hebe Heath was not to be seen, but the young man who had been in the dressing room with her previously, whom Diego had not known, was standing across the room with his hands in his pockets, and Fox noted that he also seemed to fancy himself as a recording and appraising instrument. Then Fox frowned, moved involuntarily, and stopped again, as his gaze was directed at Dora Mowbray. She was on a chair by the opposite wall, and on her face, no longer white but a sickly gray, there was no expression whatever or sign that she was hearing the words being addressed to her by Perry Dunham, who was leaning over her and talking earnestly to her ear.

Everyone turned as the door opened and three men entered. They were not in uniform, but the manner of their entry proclaimed them. One of the policemen called, “In here, Captain,” and the man in front, after a rapid glance around, crossed the room briskly and then stopped and turned. His air and attitude were businesslike but not aggressive, and when he spoke his voice, not raised, was affable almost to the point of apology.

“If you please,” he said, “it will save time if you’ll give your names and addresses to these men. Please don’t fuss about it now.”

He turned again and opened the door of the dressing room, and after one of the policemen followed him in the door was closed. The other two men got out notebooks and pencils and started on their task. The arrival of competent authority seemed to have absorbed some of the general shock and tension; people moved, and murmurs became audible words. Fox stuck to his corner. There, in due course, he was approached by a man with a notebook.

“Name, please?”

“Tecumseh Fox.”

“How do you spell?...”

Fox spelled it, and repeated it, “Tecumseh Fox, Brewster, New York.”

“Occupation, please?”

“Private detective.”

“Huh?” The man looked up. “Oh, sure. You’re that one.” He finished writing. “You here on business?”

“Nope. My night off.”

The man grunted, made the astonishing statement, “You look more like a chess player,” in a tone of detachment, and moved on.

Fox unobtrusively made his way to the other side of the room, to the neighborhood of the young man Diego didn’t know, and got close enough to learn that his name was Theodore Gill and that he practiced the calling of publicity agent. When the census taker had passed on, the young man suddenly turned, met Fox’s eyes with an amused grin, and inquired:

“Did you get it all right? Theodore Gill. My friends call me Ted.”

Fox, a little taken aback, paid the grin with a smile. He noted that the eyes were more gray than blue, and the hair more light-brown than yellow, as he explained, “I thought I knew you, but I guess I don’t. My name’s Fox.”

The other nodded. “Sure, I know. I know everything and everybody because I have to, God help me. Which do you think is worse — ah, here comes the science squad. They even beat the medical — no, here he is too. Look at that, would you? We are the universal necessity of the modern world. I mean publicity agents, of which I am one. Without us no one can live, and some poor devils can’t even die. They’ll take a hundred pictures of him. By the way, didn’t I hear you say you came in by the stage door?”

“I expect so. I said it.”

“Did you happen to see an entrancing vision of breathtaking beauty anywhere around? Momentarily blond?”

“If you mean Hebe Heath, no. Have you lost her?”

“I hope not. She was here, but isn’t.”

“Are you her — uh—”

“I’m her trumpet-tongued herald. She’s a client of mine. If ever you need — but that can wait, and must. Here’s the third act.”

The captain had emerged from the dressing room and pulled the door to behind him. His hat and overcoat had been discarded. The deliberate sweep of his eyes took them all in, and his manner was a shade more aggressive than it had been, but his voice was grave and informative rather than hostile or menacing:

“Mr. Jan Tusar is dead from a bullet that entered his open mouth and came out at the top of his skull. The official conclusion at present is that he shot himself, and there is no reason to suppose that it will be changed. He left a brief note—” the captain raised his hand to display a slip of paper — “addressed ‘To my friends who believed in me.’ I won’t read it now. The handwriting will be authenticated by experts, but I would like to have it tentatively verified now by one of you who is familiar with Tusar’s writing. Will someone do that, please?”

There were glances, movements, hesitations, murmurs. A voice came out of the subdued confusion:

“I will.”

“Thank you. Your name?”

“Beck. Felix Beck.” He stepped forward. His mouth opened without any sound emerging, and then he said loudly as though to establish for all time an important and immortal fact, “I am Tusar’s teacher. For years I am his teacher.”

“Good.” The captain handed him the paper. “Is that his handwriting?”

Beck took it and peered at it, in a complete silence except for muffled voices and sounds of activity that came from behind the closed door of the dressing room. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and looked again, his lips moving as he read the words. Then he looked up at the faces and spoke in a low quaver, “Do you know what he says to us?” He shook the paper at them. “I am one of them, am I not? His friends who believed in him? I ask you! Do you know—” Two tears rolled down his cheeks, and he couldn’t go on.

The captain said sharply, “Mr. Beck! I’m asking you. Is this Tusar’s writing?” He reached and got the paper.

Beck nodded, swiped at his eyes again, and shouted, “Yes! Of course it is!”

“Thank you.” The captain put the paper in his pocket. “Now a few questions, and that will be all. Were any of you in this room at the time Tusar left the stage and came to the dressing room?”

Felix Beck spoke again. “I was.”

“You saw him enter the dressing room?”

“Yes.” Beck’s voice was more controlled. “I was at the listening hole outside, but I came here after the Lalo. I couldn’t — I came away. I went in the dressing room and came out again, and was here when he came through.”

“What did you go in the dressing room for?”

“I wanted to look at the violin case.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see. I did not think it was his violin he was playing.” A stir and murmur sounded, and Beck looked around defiantly. “I still do not think so!”

The captain was frowning. “Why not?”

“Because the sound! Good God, I can hear, can’t I?”

“You mean it didn’t sound right? Was Tusar’s violin a specially good one?”

“It is a Stradivarius. Not only a Stradivarius, but the Oksmann. Is that sufficient?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t Tusar have it with him when he came here from the stage?”

“Of course he did. But he wouldn’t stop. I spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. He walked on by, not looking at me, and entered the dressing room and shut the door. I went and started to open it and spoke to him, but he called to me to keep out. I thought I would let him alone for a little, and then Miss Mowbray came, and Mr. Koch, and Mr. Dunham, and then others—”

“When you went in the dressing room to look at the violin case, was there anyone in there?”

Beck stared. “Anyone— Of course not!”

“Did you see a gun in the dressing room?”

“I didn’t see one, no. But it was in his overcoat — at least it always was. Since he played at a benefit for Czechoslovakia, and got threatening letters, he has always carried one. I told him it was foolish, but he did it.”

“I see.” The captain nodded. “So it was his own gun. You say Miss Mowbray was the first one to appear after Tusar. Who is she?”

“She is Tusar’s accompanist—”

“This is Miss Mowbray,” a voice snapped, “and it’s about time she was taken out of here. She’s in no condition to answer a lot of unnecessary questions.”

The young man who spoke — handsome, dark-eyed and dark-haired, fully as elegant in evening attire as Adolph Koch, and considerably more slender and athletic — had a hand on the back of Dora Mowbray’s chair. His tone, while not exactly supercilious, conveyed the impression that if he had the time and felt like it he might do his grandmother the favor of teaching her to suck eggs. The captain’s eyes took him in, as did others. The captain inquired:

“Your name, please?”

“My name’s Perry Dunham. There’s no need to question Miss Mowbray. She’s already passed out once. She and I both saw Jan shoot himself.”

“Oh. You did?”

“We did, as most of the people present can tell you. When I got back here Miss Mowbray and Mr. Koch were already here, and a lot of others came soon after. Everybody buzzed around, wondering what was wrong with Jan. Two or three of them started to go in the dressing room, but he yelled at them to stay out. Finally, when the intermission time was about up, Beck and Koch decided Miss Mowbray should go in, but I thought he might even throw something at her, so I went along. He was standing in front of the mirror with the pistol in his hand. I kept my head and told Miss Mowbray to shut the door and she did. I started talking to Jan, and getting closer to him, but when I was still ten feet away he stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Well.” The captain took a breath. “As I said, Mr. Dunham, I had already concluded that Tusar committed suicide. I never heard of a man holding his mouth open for someone to stick a gun in it pointing straight up. Of course this settles it, but as a matter of form I’ll ask Miss Mowbray a question. Did this thing occur as Mr. Dunham describes it, Miss Mowbray?”

Without looking at him, without lifting her head or eyes to look at anyone, she nodded.

“I’m sorry,” the captain persisted, “but if we get it clear now that ends it. You were present, with Mr. Dunham, when Tusar shot himself?”

“Yes.” She whispered it. Then her head came up and her eyes met the captain’s, and her voice was suddenly and surprisingly strong. “While we stood there — as Perry said. I was farther away than he was, keeping myself — trying not to scream at him. When he lifted the gun Perry jumped for him, but it was — he couldn’t—”

“He was too fast,” said Dunham curtly. “Or I was too slow. He went down and I stumbled and went down too. When I got up Miss Mowbray had backed up against the door and didn’t realize her weight was holding it against someone’s effort to open it. I didn’t think there ought to be a mob rushing in there, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I went and got her away from the door and opened it, and in they came.”

The captain grunted. He rubbed his chin, looked slowly around at the faces, and grunted again. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see any point in bothering you people. We have your names if we need them, but I don’t suppose we will. I understand that one of the officers phoned Tusar’s sister. Has she come?”

Shaken heads gave him a negative. He went on, “It would be a good idea if a couple of you who are friends of hers would wait here for her. The rest of you might as well go. Unless anyone has something to add to what has been said.”

His eyes made the round again. Silence seemed to be all he was to get, until a voice rumbled:

“There’s one little thing.”

It was Adolph Koch, who had left his chair and was standing in the middle of the room. The captain’s eyes settled on him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where the other note went to.”

“The other?...”

“You say Tusar left a note addressed to his friends who believed in him. But soon after the shot was heard several of us entered the dressing room, and though there was a good deal of confusion I heard Mr. Gill say, ‘Here’s a note he left,’ and Miss Mowbray said, ‘There are two notes,’ and Mr. Gill said, ‘No, there’s only one,’ and Miss Mowbray said, “There are two, I saw them there together,’ ” Koch sighed. “I suppose it’s of no importance, but in case you think it desirable to search for the other note before we leave...”

The captain was scowling distastefully; this intrusion of a nasty little complication like a missing note in a perfectly straightforward suicide was most unwelcome. He addressed Dora Mowbray with a tone more aggressive than he had previously used:

“Is that right? Did you say there were two notes?”

She nodded with a heavy head. “I guess I did. I thought I saw two — but of course I was wrong. I saw them when I was standing there and Jan had the gun and Perry was getting closer to him. It was just an impression — it must have been wrong, because Perry says he only saw one. Oh, does it matter?”

The captain bore down. “Then you are not prepared to state positively that you saw two notes?”

“Oh, no — there must have been only one—”

“You saw only one, Mr. Dunham?”

“Of course.” The youth darted an unfriendly glance at Adolph Koch. The older man ignored it and said in a skeptical tone to the girl:

“You have very good eyes, Dora.” He looked at the captain: “It really does seem probable that there were two notes and that someone took one of them.”

The captain demanded testily, “What’s your name?”

“Adolph Koch. Manufacturer of dresses and suits. Admirer of the arts.”

“Do you make a point of this? Do you think I’m going to ask these ladies and gentlemen to permit me to search their persons?”

“By no means.” Koch was unperturbed. “I wouldn’t even permit you to search me. I mentioned the matter only because you asked if anyone had anything to add.”

“Well, have you anything else?”

“No.”

“Has anyone?”

The expression on the captain’s face did not invite further contributions, but one came. A baritone inquired politely, “May I make a suggestion?”

Another voice spoke from the rear, “That’s Tecumseh Fox, Captain.”

“Here as a spectator only,” Fox got in hastily. “I was just going to suggest, before you send us off, do you think it would be a good plan to have Mr. Beck take a look at that violin? In view of his doubt of its identity?”

“Certainly, I wasn’t forgetting that, of course—”

“Before we leave? If you don’t mind?”

The captain addressed Felix Beck: “Can you identify Tusar’s violin?”

“Naturally,” Beck replied, as though he had been asked if he could identify his own face in a mirror.

“All of you please remain a moment,” said the captain, and went to the dressing room and entered, closing the door behind him. There was a cessation of the other muffled sounds from within; voices could be heard, but not words; and then the captain reappeared. He closed the door and turned to confront them, and the scowl on his face was considerably more pronounced than it had been when Koch had raised the question of the notes. He surveyed the audience for a long moment in silence, and when he spoke his tone was one of dry disgust.

“There’s no violin in there.”

Ejaculations, gasps, startled movements were the response to that. Felix Beck darted for the dressing-room door, but one of the census takers grabbed him by the arm and held him. Half a dozen people were declaring that it was impossible, they had seen it there, and the captain was lifting a hand to restore the meeting to order when the confusion gained a new recruit from without. The door at the far end burst open and a woman entered — her mink coat flying open, her dark agitated eyes in her pale face seeing none of them, her red lips parted for panting. She rushed across through the lane they made, toward the dressing room, until she was stopped by the captain, who blocked her way.

Adolph Koch marched toward her, calling sharply, “Garda! You shouldn’t have—”

She was clawing at the captain. “My brother! Jan! Where is he—”

Tecumseh Fox quietly retreated to the corner he had pre-empted before.