The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  Many others followed – Elman, Zimbalist, Persinger, Szigeti, Busch, all trusting Emil Hermann to provide a genuine instrument at a fair price. A bargain struck and cemented by a shared heritage.

  Emil was amused on a cold November day in 1927 when a chubby boy of about eleven in velvet knickerbockers was ushered into his shop. He had seen the boy, touted as ‘the ultimate wunderkind’ on stage in Carnegie Hall playing Beethoven’s violin concerto on a decent but unspectacular Grancino. The boy was accompanied by a blind, wealthy banker called Goldman and he asked to speak to Emil personally.

  “Mr Hermann,” said Goldman, “in my earlier days I sold violins door to door and I can tell a good one from a bad one, believe me. Young Menuhin here is doing his best but, if you like, he is trying to win the Kentucky Derby on a carthorse. What can we do? I am prepared to pay the price and I trust you to find me the right violin for the right price.”

  “Well,” said Emil, “I believe there is a metaphysical connection between man and violin. You only understand the chemistry when you put them together.”

  Young Yehudi tried perhaps twenty violins over an hour or so. Eventually he turned to Goldman and said, “This one. This is the one. I like its deep red varnish and its sound – powerful, mellow and sweet. This is the one.”

  Emil pulled an appreciatively admiring face.

  “Your judgement is excellent. That is the Kevenhüller. You see here,” pointing to the annotation on the label, “you can just see, it says ‘Anni 90’. This is only one of ten violins with such a mark. We believe that is the mark of the maker of the violin himself, telling us, down the years, that he has fashioned it himself and saying ‘Look, I may be ninety years old but I can still make a beautiful violin’.

  “You have chosen brilliantly. Your judgement is as sharp as your violin playing. I think the old maestro at ninety years old would be amused to find his violin being played majestically by a ten-year-old boy!”

  “And what is a fair price do you believe, Mr Hermann?”

  “You may have it for twenty thousand dollars.”

  The deal was settled at that.

  *

  In the early 1930s a father brought in his shy daughter. He introduced himself to Emil.

  “I have heard of your story and the reputation of your business. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Michael Frankel and this,” acknowledging a girl of about ten or eleven, “is my daughter Ruth. I am from Berlin, like yourself I believe, and I work as a lawyer. I am here on business but I have brought Ruth along although it was much against her mother’s wishes, to see a little of the world. And a change from the climate of fear in Germany is welcome. You would think that I, who served my country well in the Great War and was awarded the Iron Cross, would be free of pressure but I am afraid it is not so. You did well to move here when you did. However, the main reason for my visit is to see if we can find an instrument for Ruth. Although she is young, she shows promise.”

  Emil listened to the story, nodding sympathetically. He had heard of the hostility towards the Jews in Europe from many expatriates and visitors.

  “We can only hope that sense prevails, although I hear that many fear the worst and are making plans. It seems to be the fate of Jews in history always to be hated and exiled.

  “Now how may I help you and your daughter – Ruth is it?” He smiled at the girl. “Give me some idea of your budget and I promise to try and give you the best possible deal I can.”

  Frankel pulled a rueful face.

  “Times are hard in the current climate so I’m afraid we are not anywhere near the league of Italian classical instruments. I was hoping you could find us a genuine instrument with a pure resonance through which Ruth can express herself. I’m afraid we can only run to about, say, five thousand dollars?”

  “As chance would have it,” said Emil conspiratorially, “I believe I may have the very thing. I negotiated the sale only last week and I think you will really like this one,” he said, disappearing to the back of the shop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Harry Farquharson and Ronan McMurtry stepped down the gangplank of the Cunard liner Atlantic Explorer in New York to celebrity status. As first-class passengers on the two-week crossing, they had established a court of acolytes gathered to drink and listen to the drawling hauteur of the Honourable Courtney Fellows and his partner, the amusing Irishman, Hanley Breen, scion of a Dublin landowning family.

  The two had cultivated an aura of success, mystery and intense speculation about their intentions in New York. This had happened over magnums of champagne and pre-prandial oysters in the Victoria Lounge. Dropping famous names and titbits of scandalous gossip, they were clearly wealthy, well connected and on the up. Other first-class passengers, successful in their own right, jockeyed to sit with and listen to the Englishman with the aristocratic cachet and little black book, and the Dubliner with his compendium of business successes and hints of ventures in the glamorous world of Broadway and the cinema.

  A New York Times journalist, who happened to be making the same journey, listened intently then raced back to his room to write up the story and wire his words to his editor.

  On their arrival in the United States, feverishly anticipated by the press, a series of flashbulbs lit the dull November late afternoon. A picture of the two accompanied a breathless article.

  AGENTS IN TOWN TONITE!

  Two famous London agents (pictured) with literary, film and aristocratic connexions disembarked in New York today. The Honourable Courtney Fellows and his partner Irishman Hanley Breen are moving Stateside and declared themselves OPEN FOR BUSINESS! Precise details of their enterprise are top secret, but, from the sound of their connexions back in Britain, it won’t be long before they are challenging the established Broadway order. Initially staying at the Waldorf Astoria, they expect to be renting offices in Park Avenue or similar and will reveal all once established. There is a seething ferment of conjecture…

  The set-up could not have gone better. Already they were celebrities with a hungry enthusiasm for them to appear at opening nights. Invitations began to arrive courtesy of The Waldorf Astoria for charity nights, philanthropic dinners, awards ceremonies and the like. The story of their hinterland had barely been validated. New York, after the crash, was hungry for glamour. In the star-struck world of 1930s cinema and theatre, the press ached for new stories. And an English Lord with his amusing Irish counterpart were 24-carat gold.

  In truth Harry and Ronan were unsure about how they were going to operate. All they knew was that in this industry, in this city, money moved around like hot liquid and there should be ample opportunity to direct some of it their way. The first part of the scene was set. A credulous New York had swallowed their chicanery. The invitations were rolling in and as Ronan said, “Once you’ve got them on the hook, sure they can wriggle all they like but one thing’s certain, they’re going into the sizzler!”

  After a couple of weeks of first night parties, music concerts and oversized steaks with the gifted and the gilded, a plan began to crystallise. Already there had been a number of enquiries from aspiring actresses and a few actors for introductions. Some hopefuls had sent scripts for films or novels and pitched ideas for literary ventures, biographies and the like. Some people simply wanted the Fellows and Breen Agency to facilitate their introduction into the upper strata of society so that they could rub shoulders with the 1930s New York glitterati.

  Ronan and Harry hatched a notion that they could be a general introduction agency for all of these people. Why not spread the net wide? For a significant amount of money people could buy access to their undoubted contacts and influence. Meetings could be arranged between hopeful starlet and film producer, between a writer with the definitive novel or even simply a personal introduction for business or romantic motives.

  Of course Fellows and Breen would need to strike quickly as the busines
s would be defying gravity. Get the money in then disappear out of the jurisdiction of the New York or Federal authorities.

  They rented office space on Sixth Avenue where rents were exorbitant, unless you never had any intention of paying any. Mr McGarrity, their landlord, in any case, was as star struck as anyone and basked in the reflected light from his famous tenants.

  The two decked out the office with posters, impressively weighty tomes on business and finance that Ronan had secured as a job lot from a business bust in the crash. A British Who’s Who was prominently displayed as were photographs of politicians, British aristocrats and well-known stars, all with sincere wishes to Harry or Ronan and a signature appended.

  Commissions quickly followed. A string of American girls had sent letters and pictures. They were a variegated medley. Ranging from about fifteen years old, to one girl who looked around fifty but claimed twenty-nine, they disported themselves in various stages of dancing poses and déshabillé. Some left nothing to the imagination.

  All received a standardised reply from Veronica, a plain, competent secretary they had employed. All the hopefuls were told that there was indeed interest from American, British and Canadian film producers with a view to an interview and a screen test for forthcoming productions. Naturally, as had been their modus operandi in London, there would be a small charge of $50 as an introduction and administrative fee. Jubilant that their looks and talent were finally being recognised, the fees poured in to the Fellows and Breen coffers.

  The two charlatans had also put the word about that they could expedite potential film scripts that were guaranteed to get in front of the key players in very short order. Applicants should follow a prescribed format Harry and Ronan had dreamed up over a very convivial lunch. They should submit their clever cinematic ideas, which had hitherto unfairly remained unrecognised, with a plot outline (one typewritten double-spaced page), a sample of dialogue, descriptions of characters, settings and also likely candidates for the starring roles.

  Success could not be guaranteed instantly as the best ideas took time to gestate. In order to facilitate the process and get scripts in front of appropriate moguls an advance fee of $100 was required ($500 if they required a fast track) to cover ‘Introduction and Administrative costs’. Cash only.

  “Who would have thought,” said Harry, after a deluge of applications that they only read cursorily in order to amuse themselves, “that there were so many deluded individuals out there?” The deluded, of course, received a formal acknowledgement and were told to wait for the call.

  The third strand of the introduction agency happened by accident. At a gala dinner to celebrate the opening of a new musical, Ronan had sat next to an industrial magnate who had part-sponsored the production. A corpulent man in early middle age with immense wealth – a grand property near Central Park, house in the Hamptons, cruise liner, a conglomerate empire of shops and businesses – had been boring Ronan for half an hour before he mentioned something which made the Irishman’s ears prick up. He had been talking about his recently deceased wife.

  “Great girl. Really miss her. Never forgot her country roots but wore a sable and diamonds as fancy as you like. Left a hole in my life. Of course there are women around but how do you trust ‘em? Gold-diggers most of ‘em. What I need is someone to introduce me to another unpolished diamond like Rosemary. Nobody will ever replace her but it would be good to find someone – not too young, preferably pretty but not beautiful, someone on my wavelength. Someone I can trust. Don’t suppose that with all your contacts you’ve got somebody answering that description, Mr Breen?”

  A light bulb went off in Ronan’s head and he wasted no time in discussing this further business opportunity with Harry. Within a week they were interviewing likely girls. They needed someone reliable enough to be in on the secret. She must be an actress able to mould herself into any shape the client required. Somebody with not too much history. Finally, she should be astute and plausible enough to ensure that the very small but select group of rich men would be only too happy to redirect some of that wealth through to the Fellows and Breen agency. Although, naturally, everything needed to be ultra-discreet in view of the personalities and sensitivities involved.

  Interviewing for an, as yet, unspecified role (‘Involved with business liaison but absolute discretion required’) they eventually settled on Francelle Carlsen, an attractive, curvy girl of indeterminate age, probably early thirties. She had dark ringlets of hair and an enchanting little trick of giving her whole smiling attention to whomever she was speaking. Harry and Ronan took her out for dinner for field research. They noted how she would stand up close to people, touch them and laugh at their jokes and feign rapt attention even if the topic was the intricacies of the Dow-Jones index. Perfect.

  Harry and Ronan were both smitten. Via a circuitous route they subtly revealed their strategy piece by piece. Francelle was there before them.

  “So you want me to cosy up to a few wealthy guys, get them to fall in love with me, then empty their wallets?” she asked.

  “Keep it down,” hushed Harry, glancing round the crowded Trattoria Antonio although they were in a fairly private booth at the back.

  “Remember we need your absolute discretion. We’ll cut you in on the deal handsomely. You can be a third partner on this. What do you say?”

  “Just point me to the first punter,” she said. “Of course I’m not going to do anything sordid. I don’t want some sweaty fatso crushing me just for a couple of drinks.”

  They shook their heads in agreement.

  “I think,” she said, stroking both their hands, “I’ll keep the sordid stuff for you guys,” laughing with a coquettish pout and raise of the eyebrows.

  Ronan gulped while Harry took an imperceptible sharp little intake of breath.

  *

  Over the next few weeks in early 1931, the ‘fees’ rolled in. Cash. A bank account would have been a complication and need to be unscrambled, always time-consuming. Proceeds were divided scrupulously fairly and stashed in trunks in their locked wardrobes in the Waldorf apartments they now ‘rented’.

  Francelle threw herself into her role. Of course it would not be advisable to have a string of beaus – serial exploitation was more sensible. She wouldn’t have wanted to turn up at a ball and be photographed with one punter when another ‘lover’ was in his corner office on Wall Street looking at the picture and having an incendiary moment.

  Her first assignment was Josip Broz, a first generation Hungarian immigrant who had cornered a market in denim jeans production and had extensive factories in the Garment District. He had also started buying up property in Midtown. Add to that some successful speculation in gold ingots and Josip was a seriously wealthy man. Standing about five feet, four inches, overweight and of an unprepossessing Eastern European countenance, he had not had time, nor the inclination, for a woman in his life.

  Francelle was to change all that. Planted next to him at a charity auction, she switched on the charm. Touching him, laughing at all his rather ordinary bon mots as though uttered by Robert Benchley or Dorothy Parker, she licked her scarlet lips, and let her tongue dangle fetchingly from the corner of her mouth whilst in close conversation with Josip over the auction listings.

  At the end of the meal he leaned over.

  “Ve haff to meet again.”

  “Yes,” she said, then charmingly mimicking his accent, giving a little laugh and touching his leg, “Ve haff to!”

  And for the first time in a long time, Josip laughed.

  Within days, a lunchtime rendezvous had resulted in the provision of a year’s advance of an allowance to cover rent, clothes, hairdressing and the like.

  “Of course,” she gently chided Josip, “we must ensure this is long term before we… you know?”

  “Of course,” he said, “it is the same in my country and I am happy that you are not like those o
ther New York girls.” He was prepared to wait. Such a girl only came round once in a lifetime and he would be patient.

  Francelle was on manoeuvres elsewhere. Unbeknown to each of them, she had started a serious affair with both Harry and Ronan. Each of them was her ‘special best boy’ and she had discreetly seen the inside of both their bedrooms at the Waldorf apartments. She began to drive a secret wedge between them, hedging her bets. Francelle was never off duty.

  “You’re the one, Harry. Can’t we just go away together, you and me? Let’s just disappear and make a new life. Florida? London?” She breathed as she was simultaneously stroking him back to stiffness after a lovemaking session that had left him flushed and breathless.

  And with Ronan, he watched himself in the full-length apartment mirror behind her as she knelt on the bed.

  “Oh Ronan, no man has ever made me feel like you do. Oh my God! Oh yes! Fill me up! I can’t live without you, my fine young Irish stallion!”

  The foxes had been outfoxed. Harry bought her jewels (‘You can say that your Hungarian dwarf has bought them if you like’) and Ronan gave her wads of cash well over the agreed rate for her ‘introductory’ work.

  But outside this ménage a trois the clouds were gathering. Complaints to the Police Department about unfulfilled promises, unreturned phone calls, unanswered letters and wasted ‘fees’ began to mount. A picture began to emerge.

  *

  Detective Patrick Foy compiled a dossier on Fellows and Breen. Whichever way you looked at it, although it was clever and absolute proof was elusive, this looked like fraud. Detective Foy turned up at the office on Sixth Avenue with a number of officers and a warrant. Veronica, the secretary, watched in astonishment. The house of cards had collapsed and in July 1931 the New York Police Department called to arrest Harry and Ronan who had, that morning, booked train seats to Toronto. They were handcuffed and led away. Francelle, who was in the office watched with a manufactured expression of surprise on her pretty face, even now enjoying being admired by a burly cop.