“Well, Mr. Rinehart, naturally.”
“Consequently, Rinehart, who saw his way barred by the unfortunate Eryson, can’t be sorry for the young violinist’s death?”
“My God! Rinehart doesn’t have such a hard heart. I don’t consider him to be a wicked man.”
“Have you spoken with him since Eryson’s nomination was made public?”
“No.”
“Has he said anything before this about this nomination?”
“My God! Yes. He once declared to me in a rather excited tone that it would be a great injustice if they preferred Eryson, ‘that young greenhorn.’ Yes, he said verbatim ‘that young greenhorn.’ ”
“And what did you answer him?”
“I told him in so many words that he probably should resign himself to that preference, and that, besides, Mr. Eryson was a totally remarkable artist, a pre-eminent man to whom the name ‘young greenhorn’ couldn’t be applied.”
Ethel King rose.
“I thank you for your information, Mr. Edgins. Until tomorrow evening, and most of all, be discreet.”
“Very good, Miss King. I will be as silent as the tomb.”
First Assessment
When Ethel King was back in the street, she motioned to her cousin to join her and they walked a while down the street.
“I have a job for you, Charley. Go back to Philadelphia immediately. Go to the photographer I told to take the photographs of John Eryson. Place the negatives under glass and buy yourself a good projector, then come back here to our hotel.”
The young man took the road to the railroad station. An hour later he was sitting in an express train that was carrying him toward Philadelphia. As for Ethel King, she left Philadelphia by the western route and arrived in front of James Rinehart’s property at the end of a brief walk.
A beautiful villa, in the modern style, rose above some terraces in the middle of a large park. The gardens opposite the road were flanked by a high cliff that, at one point, came very close to the house.
The rock was chalky. Seeing it, Ethel King murmured:
“Well, well, that’s something that will fit perfectly with carrying out my plan.”
As the afternoon was far advanced, she put off her visit until the next morning and returned to spend the day at her hotel. The next day, she again picked up the road to the villa and rang at the wrought iron gate.
The manservant came to open the gate for her and asked her what she wanted.
“May I speak to Mr. Rinehart?” Ethel King asked.
The manservant took the calling card she handed him and read Elly Walthour engraved on it.
“What does Elly Walthour want to see Mr. Rinehart about?”
“It’s for lessons.”
“All right, I’ll announce you, Miss.”
Ethel King waited a minute in the luxurious entry hall; then the servant told her Mr. Rinehart was waiting for her. The young woman was ushered into a superb drawing room where James Rinehart greeted her. The musician was what is usually called a handsome man. He had a very black beard and hair. He had pale, regular features and a curious facial expression.
Rinehart was seated nonchalantly at a superb ebony piano.
“You are welcome, Miss Walthour,” he said, with all the marks of extreme politeness. “How may I help you?”
“I’ve come to ask you to accept me as a pupil,” Ethel King answered.
“Do you have talent?”
“Not a great deal, but I have the most ardent desire to acquire some. I don’t want to become an artist as a career; I just want to perfect my technique so as to be able to execute the works of the great masters.”
“Have you already studied the principles of the piano?”
“Yes, but I’m still only a very mediocre player.”
Rinehart looked intently at his visitor.
“I don’t recall ever having seen you. Are you from Harrisburg?”
“No, from Baltimore. I was living with my father, who died several months ago. I haven’t been able to resist my desire to study music.”
“I don’t see anything to prevent your becoming my pupil. I must, however, point out to you that I usually ask rather large honorariums.”
“That doesn’t bother me. One more thing. Could you recommend a good boarding house for me?”
“A good boarding house? What do you expect to pay?”
“That makes absolutely no difference to me. Thanks to God, I’m rich and I don’t have to be concerned about the price.”
“In that case, you can be a boarder in my own house.”
“Really! I would be delighted to do so.”
Rinehart looked at his new pupil out of the corner of his eye.
“Complete boarding facilities, including instruction, will cost you $3000, approximately,” he said in a hesitating tone. Clearly, he himself found his terms too high. He didn’t notice the mocking smile that played over Ethel King’s lips, and which seemed to say: “I was right in thinking that you were extremely avaricious.”
To the great satisfaction of the professor, the detective said aloud:
“That’s fine, we’re in agreement. How long do you think my studies should last?”
“That depends on your aptitude. But you should count on three years at least.”
“Good. May I move into your house here this afternoon?”
“But, of course!”
The professor took Ethel King up to the second floor and had her visit two luxurious rooms which would be used as her apartment.
“We will have a piano installed here,” he stated. “And you’ll be able to study without being disturbed, Miss Walthour.”
“Oh! How happy I am!” Ethel King exclaimed enthusiastically.
When she had returned with him to the drawing room, Rinehart said to her:
“I’m giving a little musical party here today. I heartily invite you to attend.”
“Oh! Better and better! I’ll come down then, it goes without saying. I hope to have the pleasure of hearing the master.”
“I’ll play a few of my last compositions,” Rinehart replied, hiding his vanity under apparent indifference.
“I can’t wait to hear them. Can you tell the titles of these works?”
“You’re too curious,” he said jokingly. “Wait until this evening.”
The young woman moved as if to leave, but she stopped.
“I was forgetting, Master. Should I congratulate you?”
“For what?”
“Haven’t you been named Director of the Harrisburg Conservatory?”
“Not yet. But how do you know about that?”
“I heard it talked about on the train. Some gentlemen were saying that John Eryson of Philadelphia had been murdered and that you would probably be named to take his place.”
James Rinehart straightened up proudly.
“You are well informed. I’ll be Directory of the Conservatory; no one is better qualified than I to fill those high functions.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Ethel King replied.
“That young man, that Eryson of Philadelphia, was perhaps an excellent violinist, but he was not made to direct a school of this importance.”
Rinehart was speaking in a tone of profound conviction.
“I’ve come to the right place,” Ethel King said. “Student of the Director of the Harrisburg Conservatory!”
She took leave of the professor.
“I’ll send for my bags this afternoon. Then I’ll move in. Will you give me my first lesson tomorrow?”
“But of course. We’ll start immediately.”
Ethel King was having lunch at the hotel when Charley Lux returned from Philadelphia. The young man brought the photographs under glass and an excellent projector. Ethel King began to give him his instructions.
“This evening, when James Rinehart is beginning his evening’s entertainment, you will slip secretly into the park and you’ll stay hidden there. At the right moment, I�
��ll alert you with a soft whistle. You will then get settled with the projector in a darkened room of the house.”
In the afternoon the detective had a big trunk that, on her orders, Charley had brought from Philadelphia, transported to Rinehart’s villa. She herself arrived somewhat late at the home of the professor, who received her in a very friendly way. He insisted that she take a cup of tea and showed himself a charming host.
However, Ethel King felt that his affable and correct attitude in every situation did not fit the man’s true character. As calm and cool as Rinehart wanted to appear, his inner agitation showed itself in certain signs. A gleam of worry sometimes manifest itself in his look. A nervous tremor shook him and, when the vestibule door opened, he listened to hear who was there.
“That poor John Eryson,” Ethel King said in the course of the conversation. “What infamous wretch had the heart to kill a man so very gifted? It had to be a ferocious beast devoid of any sensitivity.”
James Rinehart nodded his head in approval, but protested:
“Please, let’s not talk about that. When I think about the tragic fate of my colleague, I am overwhelmed. It seems to me then that a similar menace is suspended over my head.”
“You could well be right!” Ethel King thought, but she said aloud:
“I won’t mention that subject again, since it’s painful to you, Master. I understand very well that the horrible end of your famous colleague has affected you.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and put on, for the evening party, a red outfit, simple but elegant.
A Terrifying Vision
The big music room of Rinehart’s villa and the other rooms on the ground floor were resplendent with light. The people brought together there belonged to the best society of Harrisburg. All the conservatory professors, without exception, had come. Mr. Edgins, venerable with his white beard, was there also. The musicians present were all impatient to hear Rinehart’s new compositions, that the professor himself had said were so good. But Edgins was doubly interested in the gathering. On his arrival, he had cast a questioning glance around him.
Truly, that woman in the red outfit was Ethel King! So she was present at the soirée! James Rinehart introduced her later to the old master.
“Miss Elly Walthour, my student. Mr. Edgins.”
The young woman and the old man acknowledged the introduction as if they had never before seen each other. Ethel King could be pleased with Edgins. But he was worried. It wasn’t a simple premonition that he had; he was certain that a drama was going to play out that evening, and he saw the coming events with terror. As Rinehart tried to start a conversation with him, he scarcely answered, and then with monosyllables. Finally, the professor, astonished, asked him:
“Mr. Edgins, what’s wrong with you? You seem preoccupied.”
“I have an intolerable migraine. If the desire to hear your new compositions hadn’t compelled me, I would have excused myself and you wouldn’t have seen me this evening.”
“Well! Let’s hope that my music will chase away your migraine,” Rinehart declared.
He busied himself with other guests.
Ethel King found the opportunity to leave the drawing room one time. She went up to the second floor and went through the rooms facing the cliff. She found one bedroom which looked out over a wide terrace encircled by a stone balustrade. You could go out from the drawing room onto that terrace by a wide glass bay window. The doors to it were still closed.
Ethel King, satisfied with her inspection, opened a window and looked outside.
“That will work marvelously from here,” she murmured.
She went downstairs quickly and slipped into the garden through a concealed door. A soft whistle called Charley Lux, who until then had kept himself hidden in the bushes. The young man carried his projection lantern, which he had fitted with an oil lamp with an incandescent spout.
“It will soon be time to start,” Ethel King whispered. “Get to your post. Go to the bedroom upstairs that is just above the terrace. Stay ready at the open window. Put down the projector. As a precaution, you can lock the door from the inside, but I don’t think you’ll be disturbed.”
“And when should I project the photograph, Ethel?”
“Pay close attention to what happens on the terrace. As soon as you see me come out with Rinehart, listen to what I’m telling him. You’ll pick the right moment for yourself.”
The detective went back through the hidden door and made sure there was no one in the entry hall. Then she motioned to Charley, who went up silently to the second floor.
Ethel King returned to the music room, where a young pianist had just played a brilliant piece. The young woman entered among the applause. It was now the turn of Rinehart, with his new compositions. Those were written for violin and piano. The violin’s part was played by a conservatory student with whom Rinehart had practiced the evening before. The author himself was seated at the piano.
A religious silence fell over the room. The young violinist tuned his instrument. Rinehart bowed and said:
“We are beginning with a serenade in E Flat Major.”
When she heard that announcement, Ethel King felt as if stabbed in the heart. She was seated in a corner and was watching Rinehart without being seen.
The first notes were played. People held their breath to listen, and, at the end of some minutes, all the connoisseurs had the impression that a genius had just been revealed. The conservatory professors exchanged astonished looks. They hadn’t expected such a delight. Rinehart filled his listeners with astonishment. They had to admit that they, until then, had misjudged their colleague.
When the last notes stopped resonating, applause broke out. Everyone came forward to congratulate the radiant composer and shake his hand. With a smile of superiority, Rinehart accepted the flattering words heaped on him. There were only two persons who abstained from congratulating him and taking part in the general enthusiasm. Those were Ethel King, who remained pensive and quiet in her corner, and Edgins.
The old man was standing by a window. An insupportable agony was clutching him. He couldn’t chase away his fatal premonitions. It seemed to him impossible that James Rinehart was the author of that serenade in E Sharp Major.
The composer was asked to play another of his works and everyone went back to their seats.
Rinehart proudly looked at the audience and said:
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your warm applause. I see that by perseverance I have reached the summit of the art. I hope later to astonish the world by other considerable works. We’re going to play for you now a ballad in B Flat Major.”
Ethel King nodded her head slightly; she had already whispered the title before Rinehart pronounced it.
Edgins, who was watching the young woman from a distance, felt more and more troubled.
The musicians started the first measure and again plunged the listeners into rapture.
When the piece was finished, silence reigned for several seconds, then the composer was applauded. Some of Rinehart’s colleagues came to beg his forgiveness for having misjudged him until then. They assured him that from that time on, they would count him among the number of great masters and that his name would soon be as famous in the new world as well as in the old.
Finally, people were going to sit down again, and James Rinehart bowed to make a new announcement. At that moment, Ethel King rose from her chair and said in a firm and loud voice:
“You’re now going to play for us a Spanish dance entitled, ‘Normida,’ aren’t you, Mr. Rinehart?”
The professor trembled and turned pale. He stared at Ethel King suspiciously and asked, after an uncomfortable look:
“How did you know that, Miss Walthour?”
“I have it from a reliable source.”
“But…I, I had my notebooks locked in the armoire! You weren’t able to…”
“No, Mr. Rinehart. I wasn’t able to look into the armoire,” the young woma
n answered.
The professor had to hold onto the piano. He was livid. All those present were anxious. They thought something terrible was about to happen. They looked with astonishment at the young woman who was standing up very straight and whose features seemed cut from marble. Ethel King walked obliquely across the drawing room to the door to the terrace. She opened it and turned back to Rinehart.
“Go outside with me for a moment, Mr. Rinehart. I’ll tell you how I know.”
The professor hesitated. His forehead had big drops of sweat like pearls and his hands were trembling. However, he followed the detective. He crossed the waxed drawing room floor unsteadily, in the midst of a devastating silence.
Ethel King was waiting for Rinehart on the terrace. She had left the door open so that everyone present could hear. She said in a loud voice:
“You wonder how I know the title of the piece that you’re going to play, Mr. Rinehart?”
He didn’t answer; he leaned heavily on the balustrade.
“I’m going to tell you,” she said. “These compositions aren’t by you, but by someone else, from whose secretary you stole them.”
The professor moaned deeply, then he tried to protest.
“That’s a lie,” he exclaimed in a strangled voice. “How…how can you say such a thing?”
“I say it because it’s the truth. You have stolen his works and you falsely claim to be the author of them.”
Murmurs, whispers, began to circulate among the spectators of that scene.
“That’s not true,” Rinehart stammered.
“Do you want to see the man you stole them from…that you struck in the heart with a homicidal knife? Look there, in front of you.”
She pointed to the rock face. At the same instant, a gigantic ghostly apparition was projected onto the cliff. The glassy eyes of the bleeding head seemed to be fixed on Rinehart. He cried out in fear and stepped back, shaking.
“Do you recognize that head?” Ethel King asked, measuring her words. “The admission of your crime can be read on your face. The murderer of this poor man, was you!”
James Rinehart then covered his face with his hands. Mad with terror, he cried out:
The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter Page 24