Rex Stout: The Broken Vase

“I will.”

“Thank you. Your name?”

“Beck. Felix Beck.” He stepped forward. His mouth opened without any sound emerging, and then he said loudly as though to establish for all time an important and immortal fact, “I am Tusar’s teacher. For years I am his teacher.”

“Good.” The captain handed him the paper. “Is that his handwriting?”

Beck took it and peered at it, in a complete silence except for muffled voices and sounds of activity that came from behind the closed door of the dressing room. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and looked again, his lips moving as he read the words. Then he looked up at the faces and spoke in a low quaver, “Do you know what he says to us?” He shook the paper at them. “I am one of them, am I not? His friends who believed in him? I ask you! Do you know—” Two tears rolled down his cheeks, and he couldn’t go on.

The captain said sharply, “Mr. Beck! I’m asking you. Is this Tusar’s writing?” He reached and got the paper.

Beck nodded, swiped at his eyes again, and shouted, “Yes! Of course it is!”

“Thank you.” The captain put the paper in his pocket. “Now a few questions, and that will be all. Were any of you in this room at the time Tusar left the stage and came to the dressing room?”

Felix Beck spoke again. “I was.”

“You saw him enter the dressing room?”

“Yes.” Beck’s voice was more controlled. “I was at the listening hole outside, but I came here after the Lalo. I couldn’t — I came away. I went in the dressing room and came out again, and was here when he came through.”

“What did you go in the dressing room for?”

“I wanted to look at the violin case.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see. I did not think it was his violin he was playing.” A stir and murmur sounded, and Beck looked around defiantly. “I still do not think so!”

The captain was frowning. “Why not?”

“Because the sound! Good God, I can hear, can’t I?”

“You mean it didn’t sound right? Was Tusar’s violin a specially good one?”

“It is a Stradivarius. Not only a Stradivarius, but the Oksmann. Is that sufficient?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t Tusar have it with him when he came here from the stage?”

“Of course he did. But he wouldn’t stop. I spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. He walked on by, not looking at me, and entered the dressing room and shut the door. I went and started to open it and spoke to him, but he called to me to keep out. I thought I would let him alone for a little, and then Miss Mowbray came, and Mr. Koch, and Mr. Dunham, and then others—”

“When you went in the dressing room to look at the violin case, was there anyone in there?”

Beck stared. “Anyone— Of course not!”

“Did you see a gun in the dressing room?”

“I didn’t see one, no. But it was in his overcoat — at least it always was. Since he played at a benefit for Czechoslovakia, and got threatening letters, he has always carried one. I told him it was foolish, but he did it.”

“I see.” The captain nodded. “So it was his own gun. You say Miss Mowbray was the first one to appear after Tusar. Who is she?”

“She is Tusar’s accompanist—”

“This is Miss Mowbray,” a voice snapped, “and it’s about time she was taken out of here. She’s in no condition to answer a lot of unnecessary questions.”

The young man who spoke — handsome, dark-eyed and dark-haired, fully as elegant in evening attire as Adolph Koch, and considerably more slender and athletic — had a hand on the back of Dora Mowbray’s chair. His tone, while not exactly supercilious, conveyed the impression that if he had the time and felt like it he might do his grandmother the favor of teaching her to suck eggs. The captain’s eyes took him in, as did others. The captain inquired:

“Your name, please?”

“My name’s Perry Dunham. There’s no need to question Miss Mowbray. She’s already passed out once. She and I both saw Jan shoot himself.”

“Oh. You did?”

“We did, as most of the people present can tell you. When I got back here Miss Mowbray and Mr. Koch were already here, and a lot of others came soon after. Everybody buzzed around, wondering what was wrong with Jan. Two or three of them started to go in the dressing room, but he yelled at them to stay out. Finally, when the intermission time was about up, Beck and Koch decided Miss Mowbray should go in, but I thought he might even throw something at her, so I went along. He was standing in front of the mirror with the pistol in his hand. I kept my head and told Miss Mowbray to shut the door and she did. I started talking to Jan, and getting closer to him, but when I was still ten feet away he stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Well.” The captain took a breath. “As I said, Mr. Dunham, I had already concluded that Tusar committed suicide. I never heard of a man holding his mouth open for someone to stick a gun in it pointing straight up. Of course this settles it, but as a matter of form I’ll ask Miss Mowbray a question. Did this thing occur as Mr. Dunham describes it, Miss Mowbray?”

Without looking at him, without lifting her head or eyes to look at anyone, she nodded.

“I’m sorry,” the captain persisted, “but if we get it clear now that ends it. You were present, with Mr. Dunham, when Tusar shot himself?”

“Yes.” She whispered it. Then her head came up and her eyes met the captain’s, and her voice was suddenly and surprisingly strong. “While we stood there — as Perry said. I was farther away than he was, keeping myself — trying not to scream at him. When he lifted the gun Perry jumped for him, but it was — he couldn’t—”

“He was too fast,” said Dunham curtly. “Or I was too slow. He went down and I stumbled and went down too. When I got up Miss Mowbray had backed up against the door and didn’t realize her weight was holding it against someone’s effort to open it. I didn’t think there ought to be a mob rushing in there, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I went and got her away from the door and opened it, and in they came.”

The captain grunted. He rubbed his chin, looked slowly around at the faces, and grunted again. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see any point in bothering you people. We have your names if we need them, but I don’t suppose we will. I understand that one of the officers phoned Tusar’s sister. Has she come?”

Shaken heads gave him a negative. He went on, “It would be a good idea if a couple of you who are friends of hers would wait here for her. The rest of you might as well go. Unless anyone has something to add to what has been said.”

His eyes made the round again. Silence seemed to be all he was to get, until a voice rumbled:

“There’s one little thing.”

It was Adolph Koch, who had left his chair and was standing in the middle of the room. The captain’s eyes settled on him.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where the other note went to.”

“The other?...”

“You say Tusar left a note addressed to his friends who believed in him. But soon after the shot was heard several of us entered the dressing room, and though there was a good deal of confusion I heard Mr. Gill say, ‘Here’s a note he left,’ and Miss Mowbray said, ‘There are two notes,’ and Mr. Gill said, ‘No, there’s only one,’ and Miss Mowbray said, “There are two, I saw them there together,’ ” Koch sighed. “I suppose it’s of no importance, but in case you think it desirable to search for the other note before we leave...”

The captain was scowling distastefully; this intrusion of a nasty little complication like a missing note in a perfectly straightforward suicide was most unwelcome. He addressed Dora Mowbray with a tone more aggressive than he had previously used: