Rex Stout_Tecumseh Fox 03 Read Free Page A

unpleasant and even mildly enjoyable; but toward the end he became aware of a feeling of uneasiness. Surely Diego’s breathless unrelenting rigidity was carrying good behavior to an extreme; and what was the little man on the right shaking his head about?
    But when the sound from the stage stopped and Tusar stood there erect with his face white and grim and drawn, and the sound from the audience’s hands was manifestly a perfunctory and embarrassed necessity empty of enthusiasm, Fox leaned over to demand of his companion’s ear, “What’s the matter? Did he play the wrong piece?”
    Diego shook his head and said nothing, but Fox heard the woman in front of him whispering to her escort, “I don’t understand it. I never heard so dead a tone, and I’ve heard plenty. If he goes on like that it’s a crime not to stop him.…”
    On the stage Tusar nodded at Dora Mowbray, and the second number began. It sounded to Fox much as it had before, only, after a few minutes, it seemed to him that there was a distinct increase in audible little noises from the audience. He began to feel uncomfortable, and his legs were crossed wrong and had to be changed. The little man at his right was openly fidgeting and let his program fall to the floor. At the end of the Lalo piece the applause was even more perfunctory than before. Fox forwent any glance at Diego; he merely changed legs again, and prayed that the remaining number before the intermission—according to the program, “Obertass” by Wieniawski—would be short. It was. So was the acclaim from the audience,but Tusar’s acknowledgment of it was even shorter. His face set and pale, he stood and stared straight front for one second, then pivoted on his heel and marched off. The audience buzzed and hummed and fluttered. Dora Mowbray, her face even whiter than Tusar’s had been, waited a moment on the piano bench, then jumped up and ran across to the door and was gone.
    “Come on, growled Diego, stooping for his hat and coat, and Fox got his own and followed up the aisle. In the lobby Diego growled again, “I’ve got to have a drink,” and, when Fox nodded agreement, led the way outside and down the sidewalk to a bar.
    Fox sipped a highball and watched the Spaniard down two double Scotches in succession, judging from the expression on the other’s face that conversation was not in order. For that matter, he was himself somewhat embarrassed and would not have known what to say. A year ago he had, at Diego’s solicitation, contributed two thousand dollars toward the purchase of a violin for a young virtuoso who, according to Diego, was or would be another Sarasate; and he had been brought here this evening to witness a triumph in which he might feel that he had a trifling share. So now he was not only embarrassed; he was somewhat irritated. He hadn’t wanted to come. He knew nothing about music. He had not invited the feeling that he had bought a right to share in another man’s triumph. He continued to sip his highball in silence, while his companion frowned gloomily at the row of bottles back of the bar.
    Suddenly Diego turned his head. “You don’t know what happened in there. Do you?”
    Fox put his empty glass down and said, “No.”
    “Neither do I.”
    “I suppose,” said Fox, trying not to sound annoyed, “he was so scared he couldn’t pull himself together. He certainly looked like it.”
    Diego shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that. His fingering was all right, even his portamento. I don’t understand it. It was the tone. Dead. Absolutely dead! That fiddle should sing! And he was fighting—his courage was incredible, he fought right up to the end! But did you hear it? It might have been a piece of junk from a pawnshop. I don’t understand it. I feel a little the way I did when this happened.” He displayed the hand with two fingers. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll walk a while and maybe drink a little. I don’t think I feel like talking.”
    “What