Rex Stout: The Broken Vase

“It is written,” she went on, “on a sheet torn from the telephone memo pad there in the dressing room, and this is what it says:

“ ‘To my friends who believed in me. I have failed you, and I have no courage to try again. I used up all my courage during that terrible hour. That terrible sound — I tried with all my heart to make it sing and I couldn’t. Dora, I don’t want to say you could have made it sing if you would, but you will understand — anyway, forgive me. All of you forgive me. Really I am not going to kill myself, for I am already dead. I leave my violin to those to whom it really belongs — those who gave it to me — I had no right to it. There is nothing else for me to leave to anyone. Jan.’ ”

Tears started down Mrs. Pomfret’s cheeks as she finished with her voice trembling. Diego growled. Felix Beck groaned, and Dora Mowbray buried her face in her hands. Garda Tusar said in a strained high-pitched voice:

“I want that paper! I want it! It’s mine!”

Mrs. Pomfret, using her handkerchief on the tears, ignored her.

“I want it and I intend to have it! My brother — that was the last thing he did and I have a right to it—”

“No,” said Mrs. Pomfret sharply. “You may speak to me about it later.” She used her handkerchief again. “The only one mentioned by name is Dora, and if she wants to claim it she may.”

“But I—”

“That will do, Garda — I’m surprised all of you don’t cry. I can’t read it without crying. I felt that you were entitled to know its contents, but I’m sure you will agree that they should not be publicly disclosed, especially the reference to Dora. That is a — very intimate — matter. Now — the list, Wells?”

The secretary produced another paper.

“This,” Mrs. Pomfret continued, “is a list of those who contributed to the fund for the purchase of the violin:

“Which makes the total $36,000, and it was possible, as you know, to get the Oksmann Stradivarius so cheaply only by a lucky chance.”

“I don’t see—” Adolph Koch began.

“Please, Mr. Koch. When I am through— All of you here did not contribute to that fund. I invited Dora because she is mentioned in the note, and also to represent her father’s interest. If after discussion it is decided to sell the violin — I’m sure we could get what we paid for it — and return the amounts to the contributors, the $1,500 will be of great help to Dora, who is too proud and silly to accept favors from friends. I invited Garda because she is Jan’s sister, Felix because he was Jan’s teacher, and Diego because he was Jan’s friend and was responsible for the contribution from Mr. Fox. Mr. Gill came to represent Miss Heath, who said she would be unable to come, but apparently she changed her mind.”

“The urgent appointment I had with important—”

“I understand, Miss Heath.” Mrs. Pomfret’s voice suddenly had vinegar in it. “There are some things I would like to say but can’t because this is my home. I will only suggest — it will be a relief if you will leave your share of the discussion to Mr. Gill. However, before we enter upon any discussion I must tell you of a surprising—”

“What discussion?” Adolph Koch demanded. “What is there to discuss? If you mean the violin, what’s the use discussing it when we don’t know where it is?”

“But we do. It’s here. It came this morning by parcel post, addressed to me.”

Everyone stared at her except Tecumseh Fox. His eyes moved to take them all in. He saw varying degrees of surprise, interest, and the shock of the unexpected; and Hebe Heath, across the table from him, with the back of her hand pressed dramatically against her mouth, gazed in wide-eyed incredulity at her hostess.

“No!” she gasped. “You mean — Jan’s violin—”

“I mean what I said,” Mrs. Pomfret told her shortly.

“This is interesting,” Koch murmured.

“You say it’s here?” Diego rumbled. “Let’s see it.”

“Wells,” said Mrs. Pomfret.

The secretary disappeared behind a screen, and emerged carrying a cardboard shipping carton some three feet long, which he deposited on the table in front of Mrs. Pomfret. She flipped back the folding covers and inserted her hand. Fox, shoving back his chair and starting for her, called:

“Excuse me! I wouldn’t handle it.”

He was at her side and met a twinkle in her eye “You mean fingerprints,” she said, as to one who should be humored. “There aren’t any. I asked the police commissioner to send up an expert — confidentially, of course. He wanted to take it away, but I wouldn’t let him.” Carefully and gently, her hand was raised from the nest of tissue paper in the carton, with all eyes staring at what it held.

“It’s a violin,” Koch said dryly, “but how do you know it’s Jan’s?”

“That’s another reason I invited Felix. Felix, will you—”

Beck, already there, was reaching for it with both hands, as a woman reaches for a baby. Fox retreated a step and watched the faces; the others were watching Beck.

“It looks like it from here,” Adolph Koch said to himself but audibly. He was the only one who had not left his chair; Mrs. Pomfret had stood up first, to reach into the carton. The others were stretching their necks to see, except Perry Dunham, who was so close he didn’t need to, and Hebe Heath, who, her breast heaving, was clutching her throat as though to strangle intolerable suspense.

For three long minutes Felix Beck was oblivious of them. His peering intent eyes went over every inch of the beautiful golden red-brown instrument, its ancient patina now glowing, now dull, in changing angles of the light, as it was tenderly shifted in his hands. Then he held it against him, in his arms, looked at Mrs. Pomfret, and nodded.

“Well?” voices demanded in chorus.

“It’s the Oksmann Stradivarius,” Beck said.

A moment of complete silence was followed by noises. Perry Dunham said, “Let me see it,” and stretched out a hand, but Beck continued to hug the violin. Koch muttered, “So there’s something to discuss after all.” Hebe Heath flopped limply into her chair. Henry Pomfret nodded his head like a man who has had surmise verified. Dora Mowbray sat down again, unsteadily, and Ted Gill followed her example if not her manner and said something to her ear. Mrs. Pomfret grasped the neck of the violin near the pegs and Beck released it, and she returned it to the nest of tissue paper.

“We may as well sit down,” she said, and waited until all were back in their seats. “I think you’ll agree that before we consider the question of what is to be done with it, there are one or two other points to be discussed.”

“Such as,” said Diego Zorilla determinedly, “whether Jan was playing on it Monday evening.”

“And” put in Ted Gill, “such as who mailed it to you.”

Mrs. Pomfret nodded at him. “That, I should think, comes first, but there is something else to consider even before that. The police are inclined to be interested in this — development. The man they sent here this morning wanted to take not only the violin, but also the carton and wrapper. At my request Commissioner Hombert kindly instructed him not to press the matter. After all, no crime is involved — that is, Jan did it of his own volition, if the poor boy—”

“He didn’t!” The fierce exclamation was from Jan’s sister. “I don’t believe it! Jan didn’t kill himself! And you all know it! Some of you know it!”

“You’re a fool, Garda.” Perry Dunham was glaring across at her. “I was right there and saw him. So was Dora—”