Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 03 Read Free

here.”
    “Who—for God’s sake, coming out of the dressing room! They were in there too! Who is it?”
    “You know her.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Look again. You go to movies.”
    “Not often. Is she one of them?”
    “Yes, indeed. It’s Hebe Heath. I don’t know who that young fellow is with her. Look at her pulling at Jan, and look at Koch watching her.”
    “I don’t want to.” Fox sounded disgusted. “Some one with a little sense ought to wade into that. Let’s go out to our seats.”
    Diego nodded. “It’s nearly time. Only a minute or two.” His black eyes were aimed across at Jan Tusar, still at the dressing-room door, surrounded by confusion and clamor. “It’s a terrible thing for a boy, that long walk onto that stage, with your fingers hot and moist on the strings—or cold and dry is even worse. Come on, Fox, this way.”
    At their seats, on the aisle in the tenth row, orchestra, of the vast auditorium, Diego, after disposing of his hat and coat, stood for a moment to survey the house. It was crowded, with the few remaining seats being rapidly filled by last-minute arrivals, but that, as he well knew, was without significance; any competent manager undertaking a Carnegie Hall debut would know how to provide for that. Besides, there was Mrs. Pomfret, not to mention lesser luminaries busily brightening the path of young artists to fame and fortune. Diego, noting faces here and there, especially in the boxes above, saw that they had done a good job for Jan Tusar.
    Or, rather, there had been, not there was, Mrs. Pomfret, for she was not to be seen. Sitting down, Diego murmured to Fox’s ear, “Mystery. Case for you. No Mrs. Pomfret. She always has Box FF, and it’s empty.”
    Fox nodded absently and continued to look at his program. Dora Mowbray at the piano. “Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso, Op. 28, Saint-Saens.” “Pastorale and Scherzo, Op. 8, Lalo.” That meant nothing to him. He turned a page. Program notes by Philip Turner.His habit of buying things at odd moments and stuffing them in his pockets might really be better controlled; on the other hand, if he felt like taking a carton of Dixies home to Crocker who would smoke no other brand, why shouldn’t he? He glanced at his watch; it was eight-forty.
It was one of Sarasate’s favorite program numbers, and he played it with a sprightliness and charm.…
    The lights dimmed, a rustle of expectation rippled over the audience and subsided, the door at the left of the stage opened, and a young woman in an apricot-colored gown appeared and walked across to the piano. There were a few scattered handclaps, to which she paid no attention. Her face was so pale that it was no better than a vague blur above the apricot dress, and Fox thought it was ridiculous that no one had had gumption enough to put some make-up on her. He was admiring the neat unity of her brow and nose and chin in profile as she sat motionless on the bench, her head bowed, when the door opened again and a burst of applause greeted the hero of the evening. Jan Tusar walked with stiff but not ungraceful strides to the middle of all that space and a little beyond, bowed to the greeting with no smile, bowed again, waited a moment, and, before the hands had become completely quiet, turned his head for a glance at Dora Mowbray. Her hands moved, a tinkle came, and Tusar raised his violin and tucked its heel into its nest under his chin.
    From the corner of his eye Fox saw Diego’s left hand, the one with two fingers gone, taking a convulsive grip on his right wrist, just as Tusar’s bow danced into the opening which, according to the program notes, was “an adorable andante malinconico.”
    Nothing happened. That is, nothing exploded. The audience listened politely and quietly, there was onlythe normal amount of coughing and program rustling, and melodious and harmonious sounds came from the violin and piano. To Tecumseh Fox, who never went to concerts, it seemed not at all