Rex Stout: The Broken Vase

“You know damned well,” Adolph Koch said resentfully, staring at Pomfret, “that I drink bourbon sometimes!”

Hebe Heath giggled hysterically.

“So with Perry gone,” Fox resumed, “you were safe again. But things were piling up and your nerves began to squeak. There was the matter of the Wan Li vase. Garda had of course told you of Diego’s taking it, and you were no longer as cool and cunning as you had been. You became Mrs. Harriet Piscus again long enough to buy some nitrobenzene. Your breaking into Diego’s apartment to get the vase, and to set that trap for him, was worse than risky, it was idiotic; I won’t demonstrate that; think it over. For one thing, it didn’t work. There was also the matter of the second note left by Jan. That was vital. You got hold of a key to Perry’s apartment — when Mrs. Pomfret gave me one I noticed that there was a duplicate — got upstairs by a subterfuge, as Mrs. Piscus, and made a frantic search, but didn’t find the note.”

Mrs. Pomfret spoke. “My son told me that there was none. That there was only one. That Dora had been mistaken. My son never lied to me.”

“He did that once, Mrs. Pomfret. A fairly white lie, as lies go.” Fox maintained his gaze at Pomfret. “That note must have had you worried. I know it did me. After Perry made a grab for the violin when I left him alone with it that day, I had an idea the note might be inside it. If a glance at the note’s contents that evening in the dressing room had made him want to conceal it, and not on his person, he might easily have dropped it through one of the f-holes, and been unable to retrieve it later because the violin had disappeared. I shook the violin around, and there was nothing loose inside. I even looked inside with a pencil flash, and that was when I discovered the varnish, but no note was visible. It was dumb of me not to guess what had happened. The layer of varnish was so thick that it was still sticky after being in there six or seven hours, and the note had fluttered down to the end and adhered there. So it didn’t move when I shook the violin, and it couldn’t be seen through the f-hole. It’s still in there.”

“It— it—” A spasm ran over Pomfret’s face. “It—” That was all he could get out.

Fox nodded. “It’s there flat against the varnish.” His tone hardened. “It’s Jan’s vengeance, and his sister Garda disclosed it to us. It says, “To I.D.P. Goodbye. My death like this is an ugliness you do not deserve. Another is your husband and my sister. Stop them. I owe you this. Good-bye. Jan.’ ”

Garda’s head fell to the table and she shook with sobs.

“Give that to me,” Pomfret said in a constrained and horrible voice.

Fox made the mistake of turning his head toward her, and as he did so Pomfret sprang. He hurled himself against Fox, knocked him back in his chair, and clawed at the violin. But someone else moved too, from Pomfret’s other side, and came through the air at him like a big cat for prey. Pomfret missed his grab for the violin and went down, to the floor, at Fox’s feet, with Hebe Heath on top of him. Then Fox was there... and Felix Beck... and Adolph Koch...

Fox bobbed up to find Wells, the secretary, hugging the violin to his breast. Wells spoke for the first time, in a trembling voice:

“That telephone is connected, sir.”

“Thanks,” Fox said. “Get Spring 7-3100.”