Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Clever, Watson, eh?”

I rushed over in the hope that some life might be left in the man.

“Don’t touch, Watson. It’s not quite what you think it is.”

He grinned, as he pointed to two pillows stuffed inside the soldier’s uniform, which had given the whole the thick look of a rather stout human figure. The wire was hooked onto the back of the coat collar just below where a large ball of white wool acted as a head. A military cap hid most of the latter.

Holmes went into the bedroom. There the piano that Miss Morel had played so lovingly had had its legs removed and was sitting on the floor, the legs in the corner.

“Good lord, Holmes,” I said, “this is an insanity.”

“Quite, my dear Watson, and a bit of a mystery as well.”

While we still had light, Holmes quickly looked over the flat.

“For what it’s worth, Watson, the wire from which the figure hangs is the low A string plus a piece of the C tied to it. The pillows are from the bedroom, and the uniform, if I judge correctly from the epaulettes, that of a colonel in the Italian army. Let us leave it in place.”

“Poor Miss Morel. This was meant to scare her out of her wits,” said I, thinking of our innocent client.

“Indeed, this would have shaken her a bit. I think it was put there more for the Colonel’s benefit than for Miss Morel’s. It is an ominous warning,” replied Holmes.

Holmes glanced about the room and then asked, “Watson, are you feeling sufficiently strong to help me put the legs back on the piano and place it upright?

“Of course. It should be easy enough.”

“Then let us bring the legs over and see what we can manage.”

With great effort we moved the piano onto its straight side, put two legs in place and while Holmes held it up at its narrow end, I screwed in the last leg. Holmes let it down with a bit of a grunt.

“Now let us see what this instrument is about,” he said, lifting the lid.

“A beautifully made instrument,” said I. “Why on earth would one want to destroy it?”

“When we learn that, dear Watson, we will have solved our little mystery. . . . Ah, here we go. Most interesting.”

Holmes had taken out a rule and measured the side of the case.

“Fully three inches deeper . . .” he muttered to himself. As he spoke, he crawled under the instrument to examine the sound board.

“There are deep holes drilled into the case, where screws have been removed,” he said as he stood up.

Holmes moved his hand and fingers over the sound board.

“A fine dust, Watson. Most interesting. Come, let us go and visit La Casa Sanzio, the supplier of pianos to all of Italy. And there is time to stop at our embassy to meet Mr. Spenser.”

As we left, I saw Holmes looking at a photograph on Santoro’s desk.

“Three people—Miss Morel, Colonel Santoro, and presumably Mr. Herbert Spenser. Odd, is it not, dear Watson, that our Englishman has the same name as an illustrious personage? Hasn’t that occurred before?”

“Indeed,” said I, “there was Mr. Arthur Wellesley, who passed himself off as the son of Wellington. Terrible fellow, that one.”

Holmes said nothing as he wiped the dust off his hands with a handkerchief, and we were off. Our route took us to the British Embassy to meet our vice consul. Holmes was in and out in seconds.

“As I suspected, Watson, there is no Herbert Spenser at the Embassy. The post has not been filled for several months. Mr. ‘Spenser,’ whoever he is, is a liar and a fraud. We shall catch up with him soon, I hope.”

I sat quietly as Holmes reflected. I knew nothing of the Sanzio establishment, which was involved not only in supplying pianos but also was one of Europe’s leading music publishers.

“The case is a remarkable one, Holmes,” I said finally. “I must say that I am more than a bit mystified. The mock death of the colonel, the destroyed piano . . . to what end?”

“I have some ideas, old fellow, but I too am still in the dark.”

Holmes was silent and then began to hum a tune to himself, something I did not recognize.

“Puccini, Watson, from the third act of La Bohème .”

“Never heard of him,” I retorted.

Holmes smiled. As we approached the Sanzio establishment, he broke his silence.

“Without Sanzio, Watson, there would be almost no music in Italy, especially new music. Leoncavallo, Puccini, Mascagni, and many others must give credit to Amilcare Sanzio for his support and interest in their work.”

“I know nothing of Italian opera, my dear Holmes,” said I. “I am, dear fellow, a musical ignoramus. A tin ear, as they say.”

“Then you will learn while we are here. By the by, old fellow, I am sure now that this case has nothing to do with opera, music in general, or pianos, for that matter, except incidentally. Ah, but here we are da Sanzio. Come along, we are about to meet one of the great publishers of Europe.”

The Sanzio establishment, I noted, was located in an ornate palazzo, not far from the Piazza Venezia. Arrigo Sanzio, a tall, handsome man of about fifty, greeted us warmly in Italian, but once he realized that I knew little of his language, he spoke to me in French.

“Forgive me, please, dottore , but we Italians know almost no English.”

“And we English are quite stubborn about foreign languages. French is the only language we know.”

“Except for the languages of our colonies,” said Holmes sardonically.

“We Italians are late in building an empire, caro dottore , but someday perhaps we shall establish a new order in the Mediterranean and bring back the glory of ancient Rome. Ma , basta , you are here because of Miss Morel and her piano.”

“Yes, indeed, but most importantly, I have some questions that you may be able to answer for us,” said Holmes.

“ Dica , signore ,” said Sanzio.

“Miss Morel was given a Vulsin, I think, a piano presumably made in Austria. I confess to ignorance of the Vulsin piano. Could you enlighten us as to the history of the company?”

“The Vulsin, caro ingeniere , is, as Miss Morel has put it, a fine instrument. I would go further, however, and describe it as the best piano ever made. The company is new and makes very few, no more than twenty or thirty each year, and we must fight to get our share. The company is now owned by Colonel Santoro’s wife, the Baroness Horvath, of Budapest. She has turned the small company founded by her father into a musical giant. Our competitors sometimes offer outlandish prices. This year, I have received an order for twenty grand pianos all destined for Egypt, and I am happy to say that the director of the Vulsin factory has agreed. We have almost all of them now.”

“Isn’t that rather odd?” asked Holmes incredulously. “Who on earth ordered twenty pianos?”

Sanzio smiled. “The Khedive himself. Ever since the success of Verdi’s Aida , the Khedive has decided to make Cairo the foremost musical city of the world. Unfortunately, Signor Holmes, by mistake, one of the pianos was given to Miss Morel as a practise piano. I am told by my tuner that the piano has been severely damaged, perhaps by one of our rivals, or by one of hers. In any case, you need not worry, I have sent Miss Morel an excellent piano for her use. For her trouble, I have given it to her gratis, for as long as she needs it. The piano is a Blüthner, designed and played by Liszt himself.”

“That is most kind of you. Tell me, Signore, by what route do your Vulsin pianos go to Cairo?” asked Holmes.

“To Lecce via rail, and then to Cairo on a ship provided by the Egyptian government.”

“And are they inspected before they leave here?” asked Holmes.