Concerto in dead flat, p.26
Concerto in Dead Flat, page 26
Sitting in the front row was Sir Frans Tuttle, dressed impeccably. To his left was a Japanese man I took to be his guest by the way Tuttle fell all over the man. Lyel confirmed the man’s identity when he said, “Nice and sweet. The one next to Sir Frans is none other than Fujiami.”
“This could be a beautiful thing.”
“Yes,” Lyel agreed. He looked exhausted. We both needed time back in Idaho. Seeing me stretch my neck, he said, “Do you see her?” He meant Nicole; he knew that look of mine.
“She said she’d try to make it.”
“You know, Chris—even if she doesn’t, it doesn’t mean anything.”
Lyel never called me by my first name. “Chandler?” I said, driving home my point by using his first name. He always knew more about her than I did.
“She got cold feet,” he acknowledged. “On the bright side, I think that’s good news—she’s more and more comfortable with you, more and more convinced there’s something there, something between you two.”
I felt the pain down in my stomach, mistaking it for a leftover of the brawl in Cornwall. “How is it you always know more about her than I do?” I asked, expressing one of my greater concerns.
“She trusts me.”
“Oh, that certainly makes me feel better.”
He touched my arm. “Here we go,” he said, cutting me off.
I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Two Royals—a second cousin to the prince and his dignified looking Lady-Something-or-other with white hair and matching pearls—entered with a guest, a gentleman I took to be the bean-counter in charge of the National Archives whom I knew was slated to attend. Those already in seats watched their entrance and the buzz of conversation rose dramatically as the three took their chairs which had been set up in the front of the front row, partially blocking the view. No one complained.
Then I realized that Lyel was not referring to the Royals and their guest, but to Aiden Sinclair, who had not been on campus for the past several weeks. He saw us and stopped before entering, but I nodded at him and he walked right past us to the front as we had earlier instructed. He walked up to the edge of the platform stage and turned around, as if looking for a face in the crowd, when in fact it was so that his face could be seen by all in the crowd.
I took great joy as the line-up of Bradshaw and friends went into panic.
Sinclair stood there an inappropriately long amount of time before acknowledging Bradshaw and friends and smiling and nodding at them as if eager to join them. This put the team of three into a difficult and untenable situation. They did the only thing they could: cleared a space for him and signaled him over to join them.
But before approaching his associates, Sinclair walked over to Tuttle. Out of earshot, I could only see him extend his hand to both Tuttle and his Japanese guest. A moment later he reached into his pocket and handed the Japanese gentleman a small glass bottle—one of the artifacts recovered from the area that was now occupied by the foundation of the new dormitory. And I knew the words that would follow, for Lyel, Tim Binyon, and I had put them into his mouth—a threat for Tuttle and his present company to produce all of the artifacts, and for the Japanese industrialist to finance the complete excavation of the site; otherwise Sinclair and his American friends, along with Herbert Remmington, the distinguished archaeologist, would expose the kidnapping plot intended to keep Sinclair’s find under wraps. When Tuttle glanced back at Lyel at me, not with hate or vexation, but respect, I knew that we had scored a direct hit. Tuttle knew when the scrimmage was lost.
Sinclair then went through that uncomfortable act of slipping his way past those people already seated, everyone murmuring the mandatory apologies. He sat down next to Bradshaw, whispered into his ear, and then pointed toward Lyel and me. On cue, we waved and produced our best shit-eating grins. Bradshaw had just been told that Lyel and I knew everything there was to know about the forged manuscript page, and that without full cooperation, jail sentences and fines were certain to follow. Whether or not Bradshaw smelled the port on Sinclair’s breath, it seemed fairly apparent that the message had been properly delivered. When he looked over at us for a second time, he looked positively disease-stricken.
Seeing this, Lyel whispered over to me, “Nothing satisfies like satisfaction. I wish I had a beer.”
“Contain that urge,” I suggested. “But maintain it.”
The program that I was handed at the door was Xeroxed onto cheap paper folded in half. Shultz had the schedule wrong—and I wondered if he had wanted us caught. The first order of business was the PRESENTATION OF MANUSCRIPT by Julian Rasner, followed by THE PERFORMANCE with Stephan Shultz conducting. This first item was the moment that Lyel and I eagerly awaited. Fifteen minutes later, the orchestra assembled and ready, the crowd agitated and restless, it became readily apparent that we had encountered some kind of delay. A distraught face of Julian Rasner was twice seen briefly at the darkened door to the back room.
Finally, with little choice, Rasner clearly faced the music.
Sweating profusely, he showed himself, discouraged the resulting applause, and made a dash for the Royals. Here, he shook hands, head bowed, and then kneeled so that he could speak privately. He spoke for a long time, and the crowd hushed as if to eavesdrop. Impossible, of course. Next, the prince’s second cousin leaned over and evidently relayed the text of the message to the representative of the National Archives, who then summoned Rasner to his side. They spoke briefly. All this to an audience of two hundred curious. There were discussions all around, and Rasner finally presented himself to the audience at large.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome. I wish I could bring better news, but I’m afraid the news is nothing but bad.” This caused a ripple of speculation throughout and the crowd took a moment to settle. The British were not immune to a love of gossip. “I am terribly disappointed to say that the original Mozart manuscript page, which I had so hoped to present to the National Archives so that it might find a home at Oxford’s own Bodleian Library, has, this very evening, been stolen from my laboratory.” The subsequent roar was probably heard on the High Street. It took several minutes before the audience settled down. “It has been determined that we will go ahead with the performance, as scheduled,” he said with the pronunciation peculiar to the American ear. He looked up at the crowd imploringly, and seemed about to say what everyone understood—that without the original manuscript in hand, to be studied and restudied, its authenticity would always remain open to speculation by scholars, its legitimacy challenged. Only Rasner, who had discovered the document based on a hint planted by Lester Tilbert, and a scant handful of his assistants, had ever claimed to have seen the original. Within days the London press would begin suggesting that Rasner himself had been the author of a hoax, and that when push-came-to-shove he lacked the resolve and the confidence to present that hoax to the National Archives for further scrutiny. Rasner’s career was in flames—score one for the Fellows of Wadham.
The performance featured a brief, but stirring, solo by the lovely and extremely talented Allison Star. To my ear the performance was flawless, the unity of the piece seamless in its integrity. As author of the forgery, Shultz’s inventiveness and imagination briefly matched that of the great legend, and my guess was that only the most studied scholar had any idea where the missing piece fit into the whole.
Chapter 55
Sir Frans Tuttle’s resignation as Wadham’s Warden made all the London papers. There was no mention of the fact that three of Wadham’s most respected dons, Tilbert, Bradshaw, and Hagg, had been required to replenish Wadham’s cellar with a case of vintage port, estimated to cost each a term’s salary. These same dons would forfeit their High Table privileges for one academic year—the result of a vote by their peers. Ten days later, the night before our flight back to the US, Lyel and I were invited to dinner at a small but lovely cottage some ten miles out of town in the heart of Oxfordshire. The cottage was part of a former manor house that had been converted to five luxurious homes (the word condominium simply didn’t fit quarters this grand and historical). We were invited at “7:30 for 8” meaning dinner would be served promptly at eight, and if we wanted a cocktail, 7:30 was encouraged.
A car with a scratch on the fender was parked in the circular drive. I pointed it out to Lyel, reminding him of my kidnapping under Shultz’s instruction. As I entered the cottage, I recognized it immediately. I had this sinking feeling that Lyel and I had failed to dot all our i’s and cross our t’s. I didn’t trust Shultz one bit. I walked in with my muscles stiff, on alert.
He offered us his Smile In F-sharp Minor—one practiced for the audiences, certainly not born of any emotion he might have been experiencing. “Quite a brilliant stroke,” he said, greeting us with an outstretched hand. “All the time and effort put into it, annulled by a single theft.”
We shook hands. “We don’t know anything about any theft,” I said.
“I’m sure that you don’t,” he answered. “And I know nothing of any forgery.”
“It’s better that way,” Lyel said.
Shultz was intimidated by Lyel’s size. It’s the man’s forehead that does it to most people. It’s imposing. Like Rushmore. The maestro kept backing up away from him. “Quite a shake-up at Wadham,” Shultz said.
“Sir Frans couldn’t resist the joys of retirement,” I said. “I hear it happens that way sometimes in academia.”
Shultz squinted. “She left me, you know,” he said softly.
“No, I didn’t,” I answered, not terribly surprised.
“I don’t know who got to her. Until this moment, I thought it was one or the both of you, but I can read faces…” His voice trailed off. “One of the others. Or Tuttle, perhaps. He was plenty pissed we’d done such a thing. I think it was the Royals being in attendance that upset him the most. Embarrassing doesn’t begin to describe it. Not for a Brit. Humiliating is more like it. Julian Rasner’s name will never be the same.”
“What your team had in mind all along.”
“We all went to University with Rasner—the four of us. A real prick, he was. He deserved to be brought down a step on the ladder.”
“Some kind of adolescent revenge?” I asked. “Was that at the core of this?”
“Absolutely. It was man to man, you know? The challenge of it all. To fool Rasner—that’s how it began. When money became involved, it changed everyone for the worst. Myself included. Only Aiden didn’t seem to care. He refused to hear anything of trying to sell the piece—insisted that the game was to humiliate Rasner, nothing more. Once accomplished, we had to tell all and make a fuss about it. It would have gone down in the legends of the school, I can tell you that.”
“But for greed,” Lyel said.
“And Allison just didn’t see the joke.” He smiled. This one belonged to him, not some artifice. “Youth! So much is lost on youth.”
“And your wife?” I asked, turning the knife as sharply as I could. I admired Shultz, but I didn’t like him.
“That’s where you come in,” Shultz said.
Another car pulled up out front.
“Please stay after dessert,” Shultz said. “We’ll talk more.”
Tim Binyon’s wife was heavy and pale and charming. It was just the five of us for dinner. Shultz’s henchmen probably ate in the kitchen with the cook and our server. Binyon and Lyel and Shultz drank too much. I was feeling nervous and out of sorts. Nicole had told me over the phone that she wanted to come stay with me at Lyel’s guest cabin for a few weeks. I couldn’t get my mind on much else. I couldn’t wait for that plane.
After dessert, the pale Mrs. Binyon led her husband by the arm out the door and assisted him into the car. The word was, Shultz assured us at dinner, that Binyon was to be named Warden. It was extremely rare for a Warden to come out of a college—typically, they were appointed from some prestigious position in The City. The champagne at dessert was what finished off the man. If I had matched him drink for drink, I would have never made it past the salad course. Lyel had tried, and I knew him well enough to see that his eyes would not focus. Another thirty minutes and he would be snoring—regardless of where he fell at the time. I expressed a keen interest to Shultz that we do our business quickly, for instinctively I understood that this was to be business.
“I intend to follow your instructions to the letter,” he whispered to me, referring to Bruce’s fax. “Allison has agreed to cooperate in that regard, thank goodness. A Stradivarius. To be bought in London, sold in New York. Far easier than I had expected. Tina will have the money in a week or two. All is well. Almost. I need some of the royalty money to buy the cello.”
As we all sat down in his study, a glass of fine port in hand, the coal rolling in yellow flame, I offered him a hefty contract Bruce had prepared. “As per your royalty money.”
Shultz donned a pair of glasses and read the contract through, looking up at us occasionally, his brow furrowed curiously. “This is preposterous,” he mumbled, careful not to direct the comment directly to me, perhaps sensing my own impatience. I came to this meeting prepared to walk away; I had even discussed this possibility with Bruce, who, less than pleased with the idea, nonetheless granted me the latitude to do as I saw necessary.
He read it a second time. Lyel poured us both another glass of the port. It was delicious. We’d be leaving soon, and I thought I might miss the port most of all.
“You expect me to sign this?” Shultz complained.
“Only if you want enough money to buy the cello,” I suggested.
“Thirty-five percent to you and your partner?” he gasped. “Another twenty percent—that’s nearly forty thousand dollars!—to fund a musical scholarship at Wadham?”
“Plus expenses,” I reminded.
“It’s…” Shultz couldn’t find the word.
“Criminal?” Lyel asked, enjoying his port like a kid with a popsicle.
“I come away with less than forty-five percent of money that, in theory at least, is all mine.”
“Theory is better left to the university life,” I answered. “This is real world. We’re talking eighty-some-thousand dollars for one signature. The cash to be wired within twenty-four hours.”
Lyel told him, “We read about the offer of guest conductor in Minneapolis.”
“You know how cold it is up there?” Shultz complained. “The Midwest? Me? It’s unthinkable.”
“It’s a living,” I suggested. “One signature,” I reminded. “The US Embassy tomorrow morning.”
“You could always forge another Mozart,” Lyel contributed, a bit in his cups. “Maybe you’ll get a film offer.”
“The embassy opens at ten,” I informed him. “You have between ten and twelve noon to have this notarized. They close the notary office after noon.”
Shultz stared at the stapled contract.
“All you have to do is sign it,” I reminded.
Lyel told him, “There’s a pub two blocks east of the embassy—The Iron Pig. Klick and I will be waiting for you from ten to noon. Our plane is the next morning, so this is your only chance.”
I stood. Lyel pulled himself out of his chair with some difficulty. “If you don’t mind,” Lyel said, bending down and confiscating the bottle of port. “We could use a nightcap.” He corked the bottle and cradled it like a baby.
I shrugged at Shultz: I couldn’t be held responsible to stop a man Lyel’s size.
“Forty-five percent?” he complained one final time.
“The Iron Pig,” I reminded him.
Shultz nodded gravely. It was the first and only indication I had that he would keep the appointment.
Idaho
Chapter 56
In November the northern Pacific storms track south of the Aleutians and come barreling into Puget Sound and Seattle dumping feet of snow onto the Cascades, rain across eastern Washington, and snow again in the mountains of Idaho. Sometimes these storms line up like freight cars and follow one after the other for two weeks or more, burying the high desert terrain south of Snow Lake and preparing the town’s world famous ski mountain there for its Thanksgiving opening.
I had been expecting Nicole who was driving up from Los Angeles, but with the weather as it was my attention focused on the phone instead, fearing a cancellation. Lyel had snowshoed over to his guest cabin, my home away from home. He had beers open for both of us and was stabbing the fire in the hearth more out of boredom than necessity.
“Don’t be so glum,” he said. “If not this time, another. She said she’d visit; she will.”
“Unless she changes her mind,” I said.
“Glum! You see? It doesn’t suit you. Pull out of it.” He motioned toward the green beer bottle. “Man’s best friend,” he said.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
“Oxford?”
“I loved every minute,” I said.
“Is that why that typewriter is set up in the guest room?”
“I shut the door so you wouldn’t see.”
“I saw through the window as I passed by. Going to try for a research fellowship, are we?”
“Just writing out what happened,” I said. “Taking notes.”
“Uh huh,” he said skeptically. “I bet.”
We heard the front loader then. Heavy snow in Idaho isn’t moved with plows but with earth movers. The yellow creature with the two white eyes came down the long driveway that led to the guest house, its front bucket dumping a quarter ton of snow at a time into towering piles that lined the road. The machine groaned and jerked and backed-up, slowly cutting a route back to civilization. I had been holed up here for the better part of two days and was loving it. I only wished that it hadn’t been time spent alone.
Lyel was out on the front porch waving with his free hand, his breath a steady stream of white fog. “It’s Randy,” he told me. “Man’s an artist with a front loader.” A moment later he shouted, “Hey, Klick, come here. I think you’re going to want to see this.”
