“Of course I know he is incomparable,” said Sylvia, wisely, when they had settled down again after the first flurry of the news. “I am one of the three people in London who have heard him. Papa and his old master are the other two. All the rest are dying of curiosity, just like yourself, Dora. Oh, don’t deny it! You suspect my swan is a goose. There are only fifty people invited in all. I have been positively mobbed for cards. I have had to go about disguised for the last fortnight or I would never have escaped with my life.”
She was brimming over with delight and babbled incoherently.
“Monsieur Gallasseau is coming, too. You know him, of course. The second best violin player in the world; only he thinks himself the best. Won’t it be fun when he finds out! Don’t shake your head that way, you solemn old thing; you have not heard our Italian.”
“Your Italian, Sylvia?”
“I didn’t say mine, and you must not snap up my words like that, or I’ll take my card from you. Mind you come in good time. Now I must be off.” And before the blush her friend’s words had called up had left her fair face, she was out of the room.
There was a subdued excitement amongst the fortunate fifty that were gathered together in the great drawing-room of Mellecent’s house in Park Lane, and an impatience even of the dainties that were handed round on silver salvers by soft-footed servants.
Through the low buzz of conversation one name sounded persistently. Broken sentences could be heard here and there.
“I believe he’s just wonderful.”
“The music of the spheres, my dear.”
“His violin is all carved out of one piece of wood, they tell me.”
“And he’s so young and handsome!”
“They say that Lord Mellecent could never have coaxed him to come but for Sylvia, and that she is just simply——”
“But surely Lord Mellecent would never give his consent. He is too——”
“One can never be sure nowadays. Genius is so much the fashion it can go anywhere and do anything.”
Unconscious Sylvia, lovely in pure, soft white, with a bunch of blue ribbon at her throat, sat with Dora Myrl in the front row, close to a dais carpeted in dark red, with a music stand conspicuous in the centre. Her soft cheek was flushed to the wild-rose tint, and her blue eyes alight with eager expectancy.
A sudden hush came upon the people. All the eyes were on the dais. A side door opened, and there appeared the Earl of Mellecent, with a man walking on either side, and half-a-dozen of the most noted musical connoisseurs in London following.
The famous Frenchman, Gallasseau, walked at the Earl’s right hand—tall, broad, swarthy, and smiling. But the young Italian on his left caught and held the eyes of the audience. His beauty would have in itself compelled attention apart from the subtle rumours of his genius. He had the figure of a Greek god, black eyes full of light and fire, and a face perfect in curve and colour.
There was a dead silence in the body of the room, and a little buzz of talk upon the dais. The suave Frenchman blandly insisted that his young rival should take precedence, and after a moment’s courteous contention Nicolo Amati came forward to the front of the platform.
A wonderful old violin, that glowed a rich, dark, warm red in the taper’s light, nestled lovingly at his chin. He held it with a clasp so light it was almost a caress.
In the moment’s pause the people fidgeted in their seats in the intensity of expectation. The bow swept the strings and all held their breath to listen.
Never was such music heard since Orpheus drew beasts and trees in his train, and charmed the heart of the grim King of Hades by the magic of his lute. “Sweet, sweet, blinding sweet,” it filled all hearts with ecstasy that was almost pain. The melody flowed as life flows, with infinite variety. Love and grief and joy were wakened in their turn. Now the flying bow struck quick, clear notes from the strings like showers of many-coloured sparks; now the magic violin sighed or moaned or sung under the hands of the master. Its pores and fibres were filled with all the melody it had made and heard, and thrilled with sweet remembrance at his touch.
The music faded away in a long, dying fall that filled all eyes with idle tears. The silence rested for awhile in love with the sweet strains—softly, almost reverently.
Applause broke out at last coming straight from the heart.
As Amati bowed, his dark eyes were lustrous with unshed tears.
“You know the famous Scotch test?” Dora whispered. “ ‘A mon is a player when he can gar himsel’ greet wi’ his fiddle.’ ”
Sylvia made no sign, spoke no word, but sat motionless with parted lips and shining eyes like one inspired.
Presently a low murmur arose in which the name of “Gallasseau” was mingled, but there was no heartiness in the sound.
Monsieur Gallasseau was equal to the occasion.
“No, no,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders higher at each “no.” “I will not break the charm. The vanquished salutes the victor,” he added, bowing smilingly, “but you would not publicly drag me at your chariot wheels, mon ami? If the favour might be permitted I would willingly play with you alone and hear you play. But it is too much to ask?”
Before Lord Mellecent could interpose, Amati answered courteously, in good English, softened and made musical by the pure Italian vowels:
“Signor Gallasseau is too modest. But if he will come to my rooms tomorrow at noon my violin and myself are at his service.”
The Frenchman bowed his thanks with a smile on his handsome face, in which there was no trace of envy.
Presently the company began to move and melt away softly, as if still under the spell of the music.
Sylvia whispered to Dora, “Don’t stir; he will be here for the evening, and will play for us again. I want you to know him well.”
“It is not I, signorina,” said Amati to Dora Myrl the same evening, when, almost faint with delight, she murmured her praise of his playing: “it is not I, it is my violin. The music is here always, asleep till the touch of the bow awakens it.”
“A wonderful violin!” Lord Mellecent chimed in, settling himself in the saddle for an easy canter on his hobby. “You know the story, of course?” This to Dora. “It is the masterpiece of Stradivarius—we have it under his own hand—and was a gift to his godson, the son of his master, ‘Nicolo Amati.’ For nearly two hundred years it has made music for the family of Amati, and it is today more lovely than when it came from the master’s hand. There is no violin in the world to match it. Look at the scroll; it is chiselled clean, and sharp, and fine. See how perfect is the purfling! Mark the elegant droop of the long corners. Above all, the varnish—the miraculous varnish of which the secret is lost to the world—pure dragon’s blood, with a rich inward glow.”
He moved the violin softly in the light, and the smooth surface glowed like deep red wine. There was no chip or stain on the gem-like glow; only the under varnish of rich yellow showed through the worn surface of the fainter red where the touch of the players had been through all those years.
Dora, who knew something about violins as she knew something about most things worth knowing, recognised the supreme beauty of the noble instrument in whose heart was hidden such melody.
The music was in her ears and heart all through the night, and all next day its strains kept mingling with the thoughts she strove to concentrate on the details of the “tough case” on which she was engaged.
There was a sudden sound of quick steps on the stairs, and, without knocking, Sylvia burst into the room.
Turning sharply on her office chair, that swung round with the motion of her body, Dora saw the handsome face of Amati appear behind the excited girl with a strange look in his dark eyes.
It was Sylvia who spoke.
“You’ll find it, won’t you, Dora? I promised him you would. His violin, you know—it’s lost,
stolen, vanished, but you’ll find it!”
“If I can,” said Dora quietly. Her lips tightened, and a curious light kindled at the back of her clear grey eyes. “But first I must know all about the loss. Gently, Sylvia; sit down. Sit down, Signor Amati. Now tell me the story.”
Amati told it with a running accompaniment of interruptions and exclamations from Sylvia. There was very little to tell. It appeared that Monsieur Gallasseau called at eleven instead of twelve, carrying his violin case with him in the hansom. He was much disappointed that Amati was out. At first he said he would wait for him, but changed his mind in a few moments, and came down, with his violin case still in his hands, and drove away.
On his return before noon Amati heard the story, and missed his violin from its case. He drove straight to the Frenchman’s residence, about two miles away.
“When I got there,” Amati went on, “I was told that Monsieur’s flat was on the fourth floor. There was a porter at the entrance.
“ ‘Can I see Signor Gallasseau?’ I asked.
“ ‘He has left strict directions he is not to be disturbed on any account.’
“ ‘Will you kindly take him my card?’
“He went with my card to the lift. There was a moment’s delay. I stepped past unobserved and ran swiftly up the shallow stairs.”
“Bravo!” said Dora under her breath.
“I opened the door of the sitting-room on the fourth floor. It was not his—it was vacant. But above me I heard the sound of a violin. It was my own. I ran on; louder and sweeter the notes came. He can play—that Signor Gallasseau. I turned the handle of the door; it was locked. I beat upon it with my hands. The music ceased at once. There was a sound of steps in the room and a tinkling of metal. The next moment the door opened and Signor Gallasseau stood before me smiling.
“ ‘Oh, Signor Amati,’ he said, ‘I am so charmed to see you. You may go,’ this angrily to the porter who came up behind me. ‘I have just come from your place; you were not there. Did you mistake the hour or did I? I am so much grieved.’
“I stood for a moment bewildered at his coolness. Then I broke out:
“ ‘I came for the violin you carried away!’
“With a puzzled look on his face he offered me his own violin which lay on the table.
“ ‘But for what,’ he said, ‘to play upon—is it not? It is at your service. But surely your own is much finer.’
“ ‘My own has been stolen, Signor.’
“ ‘Stolen! It is impossible! You do not know, then, where it is gone?’
“ ‘But I do, Signor,’ I answered hotly. ‘It is here—here in your room; I heard it played a minute before the door was opened.’
“For a moment he looked angry, then shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“ ‘Monsieur is droll,’ he said. ‘But monsieur loves his violin as myself, and it is a fine instrument. Monsieur will be pleased to search my rooms.’
“Then I searched everywhere, looking even in impossible places, and I found nothing!
“ ‘Monsieur is satisfied?’ he asked politely.
“ ‘Satisfied that you have hidden it cunningly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Monsieur is pleased to be rude, but I can pardon him on account of his loss. Adieu.’
“ ‘Not adieu, Signor. I will come again, believe me.’
“ ‘Monsieur will be welcome.’
“In the street I met Signora Sylvia, and she brought me to you.”
Dora listened intently with half-closed eyes and puckered brows.
“Now, I want to ask you a few questions. Don’t you say a word, Sylvia. Did Monsieur Gallasseau look you straight in the face?”
“Straight in the face, with a smile on his own. His eyes were never off me while I was in the room.”
“Did you notice at his neck—— No, a man would never notice that. But tell me, were there any mirrors in the room?”
“Oh, I had forgotten to mention it; there were four small mirrors with frames of wrought brass hanging by brass chains. But all four had their faces turned to the wall.”
“That was strange!”
“Very strange.”
“Did you turn them back again, Signor?”
“No, but I looked carefully behind them for an opening in the wall. There was none.”
“You are certain the violin was in the room when you knocked?”
“Quite certain; I heard it.”
“You could not have mistaken the sound?”
“Can a mother mistake the laugh of her baby, or a lover the voice of his love? No, it is impossible.”
“Yet you have not the least notion where the violin was hidden?”
“Not the least.”
“But you have, Dora!” broke in Sylvia impetuously.
“That remains to be seen, my dear. Now let us go to business. You say, Signor, there is a vacant set of chambers just under those of Monsieur Gallasseau? Well, I’ll take those chambers tomorrow, and I will be glad to see you there as often and as long as you can spare time. That is if you don’t object, my dear?”
Sylvia’s answer was a pinch and a kiss. The jest cheered her, for she guessed that Dora was not confident without cause.
On the third day, as Amati was visiting Dora in her new quarters, he met Gallasseau on the stairs, and the Frenchman bowed with an amused smile on his handsome face.
That same afternoon, while Dora and Amati sat at tea, the strains of a violin were heard, superlatively sweet.
“Mine! mine!” Amati cried. “Oh, I shall find it!”
He started from his seat excitedly, but Dora’s restraining hand was on his arm.
“Softly, softly,” she said. “You tried before, remember, and failed. It is my turn now.”
“We shall go together.”
“If you will, but I doubt if he will admit us both.”
They crept softly up the carpeted stairs together. The music sounded clearer and more sweet.
“There is no doubt?” whispered Dora.
“None, none,” he answered, with his hand upon the door knob. It was locked, but at the first rattle of the lock the music ceased. They heard four steps across the room, and instantly, as it seemed, the key was turned in the lock, and Monsieur Gallasseau stood in the doorway facing them, smiling.
“Good evening, mademoiselle; good evening, monsieur. Monsieur is come to apologise, is he not?”
“I came to search,” Signor Amati answered shortly.
“What, again!” with a contemptuous shrug. “Very good. For this one time. But you observe it is the last. I will be troubled no more.”
Dora and Amati made together towards the door. But Gallasseau blocked the entrance, facing them squarely.
“No, no, I will allow one—no more. It is you or mademoiselle. For me, I prefer mademoiselle, of course.”
Then Dora asserted herself.
“You must have your wish, monsieur. Signor Amati, if you will do me the favour to wait in my sitting-room, in five minutes I will bring you your violin.”
With an amused smile Gallasseau moved backwards from the door, allowing Dora to pass into the room.
“Mademoiselle is so droll!” he said, “but she is welcome, very welcome to my poor rooms to find the violin—if she can.”
She gave one quick look round the room, but made no movement to search.
“The mirrors are gone, monsieur?” she said very quietly.
He started for a moment, but answered, still smiling:
“Mademoiselle has heard of my mirrors. Yes, they are gone to be relacquered. If I could have guessed this visit, there would have been mirrors for mademoiselle.”
“Oh, I think not, I really think not. You will pardon me for contradicting you, monsieur. Won’t you sit down. I hate t
o keep you standing while I search.”
“Mademoiselle will pardon me; I will not sit down in her presence. I prefer to stand and look at mademoiselle, if I may?”
“Why, certainly.”
She had moved across the room to a table near the door where the Frenchman’s own violin lay. There was a high backed chair close beside.
“Monsieur was seated here playing when he heard the handle turn in the door?”
“It is so, mademoiselle.”
“And you opened the door instantly?”
“As mademoiselle observes—instantly.”
“The chair is only three yards from the door; there was no time to hide a violin, monsieur.”
“No time at all, mademoiselle.”
“Unless you hid it quite close of course?”
“Quite close?” repeated the Frenchman vaguely, with a puzzled look on his face.
She changed the subject abruptly.
“Forgive me, monsieur, there is a little band of white ribbon running round your collar; it is drawn quite tight. It must incommode you, I fear. Will you allow me?”
He started back with a frightened look from her outstretched hand.
“Quite right,” she went on calmly, “it is really not necessary. You are quick enough to see, monsieur, that the game is up. Turn round.”
Monsieur Gallasseau hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled a very sickly smile.
“Mademoiselle is very clevaire,” he said, and turning round showed the violin, like the golden hair of the young lady in the ballad, “hanging down his back.”
BEFORE WORLD WAR I
(AMERICAN)
DETECTIVE: ELINOR FOSTER
CHRISTABEL’S CRYSTAL
Carolyn Wells
THE PROLIFIC AND BIBLIOPHILIC Carolyn Wells (1862–1942) wrote and edited 170 books, of which 82 are mysteries, many of which had exceptionally ingenious plot ideas, and most of which are achingly dull—reason enough to ignore them. Still, it is difficult to understand that someone so enormously popular and prominent in her lifetime could be so largely forgotten and unread today.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 21