The Broken Vase

Chapter 4

Garda Tusar’s chair fell over backwards as she left it to gain her feet, but that was as far as she got, for she found her arms imprisoned in Diego Zorilla’s powerful grip. Sounds from the others were overborne by that from Perry Dunham, who, his eyes popping out at Dora, barked at her across the table:

“Have you gone batty, for God’s sake?”

“No, I haven’t,” Dora said, looking at his mother instead of him. Her voice came through a constricted throat, but there was decision in it. “I didn’t know it would be like that, but I did it. I must have. I thought when the violin was gone it might have been that — but now of course it wasn’t—”

“Just a minute, Miss Mowbray.” Tecumseh Fox, seated at her left, addressed her profile. “Are you saying that you shot Tusar?”

Her head turned. “That I?—”

“Fired the gun. Pulled the trigger.”

“Why — how could I? He did. Jan did.”

“Then,” Mrs. Pomfret demanded impatiently, “what are you talking about?”

“I am saying,” Dora faced her again, “that I think I killed Jan. If I sound melodramatic — I don’t mean to. And God knows I didn’t mean him to die — I didn’t even mean to hurt him — though I did before — when I thought he had killed my father—”

“Slut!” Garda spat past Diego’s and Fox’s faces. “It was you who started that dirty lie—”

“Garda!” Mrs. Pomfret did not spit, but her voice prevailed. “You will stop that! You will behave yourself or you’ll be asked to leave, and any man here would enjoy carrying you out if it comes to that. This is disgraceful!”

Diego inquired, “Shall I?—”

“No. Put her in her chair— Now, Dora?”

“I don’t blame her,” Dora said. She took a deep breath. “Not that I’m a slut, nor did I start any lie. I have never said to anyone that I thought Jan killed my father, but for a time I did think so. I was — some of you know how I was — I loved my father — and I never did love Jan, the way he thought I should. And I thought I would hurt him in the only way I could hurt him.”

She took another breath. “It was a vile thing even to think of, I know it was, but my father dying that way — you said yourself, Mrs. Pomfret, I was half out of my mind. I thought I would work with Jan again, practice his big concert with him, and then I would ruin it — not so anyone would know except Jan, of course. I could have done that. I thought I could, but after we had practiced a few times I realized that I couldn’t — I mean that I wouldn’t be able to make myself do it — and anyway, I wasn’t so sure that I was right about how father died. I suppose my head was trying to get normal again.”

Diego growled at her, “That wasn’t a pretty idea you had, my little Dora.”

“I know it, Diego. But I soon got rid of it. Anyway, I thought I had — no, I was sure of it. And Jan insisted I must work with him. Then that night came, and of course with the first bars he played I knew something was wrong, and I was afraid it was me, that I was doing unconsciously, without knowing it, what I had once planned to do. I wanted to call to him, to get up and run out, to do something, anything, but I couldn’t. I had to hang on and do my best, and I did. I never tried so hard — believe me! Oh, don’t you believe me? I never tried so hard — and my fingers were as stiff as my father’s had been and it was all wrong — it was horrible, horrible—”

“Nonsense,” Felix Beck declared gruffly. “That’s all nonsense. With the piano there was nothing wrong at all. Diego, do you agree?”

“I didn’t hear the piano. But I would have if there had been anything much wrong with it.”

“There was,” Dora insisted miserably. “There must have been! To make Jan choke it, kill it, like that? You heard him! I knew it must have been me, and when I saw him — when he — when I saw—”

“Fish!” said Mrs. Pomfret energetically. Fox darted a startled glance at her; the others, familiar with her favorite expression of impatience, merely glanced. She was going on, “Dora dear, your feeling of guilt is fantastic. Garda, your suspicions are claptrap and in extremely bad taste and you will please stop making a fool of yourself. We have a serious decision to make.”

Her meeting under control, she took time to clear her throat. “As I said, the police are aware that no crime has been committed, except possibly theft, and since the violin has been returned intact they won’t inquire into that unless we ask them to. So that puts it up to us. We can dispose of the violin and drop the matter, or — Garda, be quiet! — or we can have an investigation made and try to answer the questions Diego and Mr. Gill have raised, which of course were in all our minds. My own opinion is that in spite of the unpleasantness that will conceivably result from an investigation, we owe it to Jan, to ourselves, to music, to have one made.” Her lips tightened. “I personally owe it to the impertinent scoundrel who sent that package to me.”

Koch, frowning, inquired, “Investigation by whom?”

“The police,” Garda Tusar said emphatically.

Dora Mowbray breathed, “Oh, no!” and then clasped her hand to her mouth.

“It seems to me,” Hebe Heath offered, “that it would be horribly revolting—”

A sharp and commanding glance from Ted Gill silenced her, but before anyone else could speak she started again, “But, Ted, I’m sure Mr. Koch would agree, because he was saying only yesterday — you remember, Dolphie, when I asked you why nobody—”

“Hebe!” It was Ted Gill. “We’re out of this.”

“Very well, Ted,” she said with aggrieved dignity.

“I think,” said Koch, smoothly and composedly, but with a suggestion of pink on his heavy cheeks, “that it depends entirely on who does the investigating.”

“So do I,” Mrs. Pomfret concurred. “Luckily one of our own number — one of the present owners of the violin — is a trained and skillful investigator. Mr. Fox, will you do it?”

“Him!” Garda exploded scornfully. “One of you!”

Mrs. Pomfret, ignoring her, observed what she took for reluctance on Fox’s face. “Of course,” she said, “I would expect to pay you for it. Myself.”

Fox shook his head. “There wouldn’t be any bill.” He glanced around. “If there’s no objection from any of the owners of the violin — Miss Mowbray?”

Dora met his eyes, and nodded.

“Do you want me to find out what happened?”

“Yes — certainly.”

“Mr. Koch?”

“By all means. An excellent idea. My knowledge of your reputation is somewhat vague—”

“I pay my income tax. Miss Heath?”

“Oh, yes!” Her tone was enthusiastic and her incredible eyes were melting under his gaze. “Please do!”

“All right, I will.” Fox returned to Mrs. Pomfret. “It is understood, of course, that anything I find will be reported to all of you — I feel, as you did when you invited us here today, that consideration is due Miss Tusar and Mr. Beck and Diego. Your husband and son also, naturally.”

“Thanks!” Perry Dunham said with exaggerated gratitude. “I was afraid you were going to leave me out. When and how do we start?”

Fox was out of his chair. Going to the end of the table, between Mrs. Pomfret and the secretary, he staked a claim on the carton by laying his hand on it. “I suppose,” he inquired, “you kept the wrapper with the address on it? And the string?”

Mrs. Pomfret said, “Wells,” and the secretary disappeared behind the screen and in a moment emerged, and handed Fox a thick fold of heavy brown wrapping paper and a neat coil of twine. Fox stuck the twine in his pocket and asked:

“It was delivered this morning?”

Wells nodded. “Around nine o’clock.”

“Who opened the parcel?”

“I did. I open all packages. When I saw what was in it I informed Mrs. Pomfret immediately. We are of course not experts, but we both thought it was the Stradivarius. She instructed me to lock it in the cabinet, and she telephoned the police commissioner.”

“And he sent a man to examine it for fingerprints and none were found.”

“That’s correct. He reported that there were none anywhere, except on the part of the wrapping paper that had been outside. And also except Mrs. Pomfret’s and my own.”

“Well, so much for that.” Fox picked up the carton and tucked it under his arm. “Now if there’s a room where I can take this for a little preliminary survey?”

“We’ll leave you here with it.” Mrs. Pomfret arose. “I suppose you would all like a cocktail? I know I would.” She moved. “Garda, I want to talk to you. Henry, please— Henry! Miss Heath is capable of standing alone. Please tell Stevens...”

They got away from their chairs and made it a general exodus.

Fox, left to himself, set about his examination of the evidence at hand without dilation of his nostrils or any other perceptible reaction of the sort that an investigator fired with ardor is supposed to display. From his manner it might even have been suspected that at least half of his mind was busy with something else. Not that he actually skimped anything; he inspected with great care the violin, the coil of string, and all sides of the carton, and then removed methodically, one by one, the pieces of tissue paper which had been used for packing. Apparently no revelation appeared, for his eyes lit up with no gleam of discovery, but they did flicker with an accent of interest when he unfolded the sheet of wrapping paper and leaned over to peer at the address which had been printed on it in ink:

“That,” he muttered, straightening up, “helps the odds a little anyway.” Noting the postmark, Columbus Circle Station, he folded the paper up again, proceeded to repack the carton, and, turning the cover flaps into position, stood and drummed on them with his fingers and gazed first at one empty chair and then at another, as if subjecting their late occupants to a prolonged scrutiny and calculation.

The door swung open and Perry Dunham walked in.

He glanced at the closed carton and at Fox in surprise.

“What! Haven’t you started the inquest yet?”

“Sure, I’ve finished. I’m a fast worker.”

“Who sent it? Me?”

“Yes. The string smells of the perfume you use.”

“Curses! Us criminals always slip up somewhere, don’t we?” The youth had crossed to Fox’s end of the table. “Mum wants to ask you something, or maybe Garda does, anyway Mum wants you. In the yellow room, across the big hall. She sent me to guard this while you’re gone, but in case you object you can lug it—”

“I’ll take a chance, since your mother sent you. Is that where the cocktails are?”

“Yes, but don’t get fuzzy now. You’re going to need all your brains—”

Fox was going, was at the door, had it open, was in the corridor, had closed the door behind him. The entrance to this side of the big hall was twenty steps down the corridor, and he took ten of them briskly, striding along on the thick carpet, and then suddenly and abruptly turned, tiptoed swiftly back to the door he had just closed, knelt, and put his eye to the keyhole. One glance sufficed; in one burst of movement he flung the door open and regained his feet across the threshold.

The flaps of the carton were open, tissue was scattered on the table, and Perry Dunham, startled fury on his face, stood at the edge of the screen with the violin in his hands.

“Goddam you,” Perry said through his teeth.

“And how about you?” Fox moved forward, not in haste. As he got to the far end of the table and approached Perry, the young man drew back a step, clutching the violin, his body tensed for resistance, his face pale and defiant.

“Relax,” Fox said curtly. “Hand it over.”

Perry retreated another step. “Listen—”

“I’m deaf. I may be able to hear you when that thing is back where it belongs.”

Perry obviously did not intend to put it back where it belonged. He intended to fight. That was in his eyes, and it remained in them for ten seconds while they withstood Fox’s steady relentless gaze. Then they flickered, wavered...

“We can’t roughhouse,” he said. “We’d bust it. You don’t want to bust it.”

“I’ll take a chance if you start going anywhere. I can stand here as long as you can.”

The two pairs of eyes met and clashed again, and then suddenly Perry held out the violin and Fox took it.

“Now,” Fox said, “I can hear better if you care to explain—”

Perry laughed shortly and not agreeably. “How would you like to go to hell? If only this had been somewhere else! If only...” He shrugged it off. “I’ll drown it in bourbon.” He tramped out, disappearing through the open door without bothering to close it.

Fox put the violin to bed again, placing the wrapping paper on top of the tissue before closing the flaps, got the carton snugly under his arm, and departed — down the corridor, across the main hall, where a man directed him to the yellow room, and into the presence of the hostess and the remaining guests. A glance showed him that they were all there with the exceptions of Hebe Heath and Ted Gill, in more or less animated conversation over cocktails. He crossed to where Mrs. Pomfret sat with Garda Tusar:

“Excuse me. Did you want to speak to me?”

“I?” She looked blank. “Oh. My son suggested — we were trying to persuade Garda to be reasonable — and he thought you might do that more effectively than we could—”

“I’ll be glad to try, though not right now.” Fox, glancing from her to meet Garda’s black eyes, saw no great promise of reasonableness there, though there was no lack of other qualities which might be admired and responded to by anyone with an inclination that way.

Mrs. Pomfret, glancing at the bulky carton under his arm, inquired, “Do you want Wells to lock that up again?”

“No, thanks.” Fox turned. Conversation had stopped and he had all the eyes. Wells and Felix Beck were off in a corner, Henry Pomfret and Dora were on a nearby divan, Diego and Adolph Koch were standing in the middle of the room. Backed up to a window, with a drink in his hand, Perry Dunham met Fox’s gaze with a cool stare.

“I’m going,” Fox announced, “and I’m taking this with me. I’ll take good care of it. As soon as there is something worth reporting, I’ll report it. If I need to consult with any of you individually, which is probable, I’ll get in touch with you through Wells.” He moved.

“Have you got the violin in there?” Koch asked.

“I have.”

“Don’t you think it would be safer—”

“I think,” said Fox from the door, “that it’s safer with me than it would be — anywhere else.”