by Cyril Hare
“Zbartorowski. I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
Pettigrew remembered the name, though he could not have guaranteed to pronounce it. This melancholy-looking fellow was the protégé of Mrs. Roberts who had been the subject of discussion at the committee meeting. He shook his hand and wondered what was the proper conversational gambit for an unmusical English lawyer when introduced to a Polish clarinettist. Mrs. Roberts, however, saved him the trouble of talking.
“You must feel very proud of her,” she said.
“Please?”
“Proud of Miss Carless. She is Polish, isn’t she? At least, I understood——”
“Yes, yes, that is true,” said Zbartorowski, looking more melancholy than ever. “At least, partly so.”
“Do you know her?” Mrs. Roberts went on.
“No, I do not precisely know her. I——”
“Oh, then you must let me introduce you to her. I am sure she would be so interested to meet a fellow countryman.”
“Indeed not, Mrs. Roberts. I assure you, there is no need. You will excuse me——”
It looked as though the bashful Zbartorowski was about to scramble back to his safe eyrie above, but at that moment he was hailed by Dixon from the stage.
“Ah, Zbartorowski,” he called. “I was looking for you. Just come here a moment, would you?”
In spite of his insignificant appearance Dixon could be quite masterful when he chose, and the Pole obeyed him quite meekly. He stepped down on to the platform and allowed Dixon to take him by the arm. Before he knew what had happened to him he found himself being steered between the violinists’ music desks right up to where Lucy Carless was taking her leave of Clayton Evans.
“Oh, Lucy,” said Dixon, breaking in on her a trifle brusquely, “before you go I’d like you to meet a compatriot of yours—a veteran of the old Warsaw Opera House—Mr. Zbartorowski.”
The words were hardly uttered before it was obvious that a horrible blunder had been made. At the mention of the name, Lucy’s hand, which she had automatically extended, dropped to her side, and her face suddenly lost its animation and became set and almost sullen.
“Zbartorowski?” she repeated, and added a question in Polish. Whatever the words meant, they brought a sudden touch of colour to the cheeks of the other. He replied in the same language. His words were few and, so far as his large and interested audience could gather, not particularly polite. There could certainly be no doubt of their effect on the person to whom they were addressed. Her next sentence, delivered in a low, clear, carrying voice, could have been nothing but a deadly insult in any language. At this point Dixon interjected something in Polish, apparently in an endeavour to act as a peacemaker, but his unfortunate effort only added fuel to the flames. Zbartorowski, his face convulsed with passion, began to hurl what must have been remarkably violent and picturesque aspersions at Lucy; Lucy, obviously keeping her hands off him with difficulty, punctuated his remarks with a selection of what were evidently the most wounding epithets in the Polish vocabulary. It was a shocking, if exhilarating, display of temperament, and fortunately for those who watched and listened, it ended as suddenly as it had started.
“It is enough!” cried Lucy, turning abruptly from her tormentor to Evans. “Either this man leaves the orchestra or I do not play tonight!”
Dixon made one more effort to repair the harm he had done.
“Have a heart, Lucy,” he said. “You needn’t look at him, you know. And God knows where we should get another clarinet from at this time of day.”
“I’ll trouble you to leave my wife alone. You’ve done quite enough harm already!” Lawrence Sefton was white with anger.
Dixon was about to reply when Zbartorowski broke in.
“You need not concern yourselves,” he answered. “I do not choose myself to perform.” And with a remarkable assumption of dignity he stalked off the platform amid a sudden silence.
Then Clayton Evans spoke. “We will continue the rehearsal,” he said sharply. “Kindly get back to your places, every one. Dixon, you will have to find a clarinettist for this evening. Be as quick as you can, please. Now, ladies and gentleman, the Mozart.”
He tapped his desk with his baton.
5
In Search of a Clarinettist
“This,” said Dixon gloomily, “is a pretty kettle of fish.”
Pettigrew, Ventry and he, the only members of the committee who were not at that moment rehearsing Mozart’s Prague Symphony, had adjourned to one of the offices opening out of the concert room to discuss the situation.
“I don’t suppose I ever made such a bloomer in my life,” he went on, with a crest-fallen expression quite foreign to his usually self-satisfied manner. “I feel a prize idiot. But how the hell was I to know?”
“What exactly happened?” asked Pettigrew.
“I rather gathered,” said Ventry with a heavy attempt at sarcasm, “that Mrs. Roberts’ boy friend and Miss Carless failed to hit it off. I may be wrong, but that was how it looked to me.”
Dixon disregarded him.
“What happened was this,” he said to Pettigrew. “Lucy’s father, old Count Ignacz, fell foul of Pilsudski, way back in the twenties. He lost his property, spent quite a bit of time in prison, and eventually, because he still wouldn’t behave like a good boy, died in a highly convenient accident. Lucy always maintains he was murdered, and I dare say she was right. I knew all about that, of course. What I didn’t know—and I could kick myself for not finding out—was that friend Zbartorowski had been mixed up in the affair.”
“Mixed up in what way?” Pettigrew asked.
“To judge from Lucy’s remarks just now, mixed up to the extent of being her father’s assassin—but I don’t know that that need necessarily be true. I gathered from what he said that his family were originally tenants on the Carlessoff estate, which in the Poland of that period was quite enough excuse for having a grudge against him. I rather think Zbartorowski had affiliations with the political police and took the opportunity to turn the old man in when he got the chance. But the details don’t matter.”
“No,” said Ventry. “All that matters now is that we are short of a clarinet.”
“That’s the position.” Dixon looked at his watch. “Good Lord! It’s nearly half-past four now. How the hell are we going to find one by eight?”
It would be difficult, Pettigrew felt, to find anyone in England less likely than himself to be able to answer such an appeal. Nevertheless, with a sudden effort of memory, he unexpectedly found himself able to contribute a suggestion.
“Hadn’t you a friend who played the clarinet, Ventry?” he said. “I seem to remember, at the first committee meeting——”
“Yes, of course,” said Ventry. “Silly of me to have forgotten. Young Clarkson is our man. I’ll pop round to him now. He’ll get an awful kick out of it, coming in at the last moment.”
“Young Clarkson be damned!” said Dixon, with surprising ferocity. “You know as well as I do that he’s quite hopeless, and the idea of his coming in at the last moment when he hasn’t so much as seen the music is quite ridiculous. He’d be enough to wreck the whole show. If you’ve got no better ideas than that, Ventry, you might as well go home and leave us to it.”
Ventry’s face went an angry red, and for a moment it looked as though he was about to lose his temper. After a short silence, however, he appeared to think better of it, and when he spoke it was in quiet, indifferent tones. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s what you feel about it, I’ll be off. I don’t care all that much for Clarkson, anyway. See you this evening.”
When he had gone Dixon turned to Pettigrew with a sigh of relief.
“Now perhaps we can get on with it,” he said. “All the same, I don’t know how we’re going to get a man from London at this time of day. I had quite a job finding even one clarinettist when I was fixing this up weeks ago—that was why I jumped at the Polish blighter when I got the chance. But I’ve got a few nam
es here, and their telephone numbers, and we’ll just have to see what we can do.”
The ensuing half-hour was, for Pettigrew at least, one of increasing boredom and frustration. The Markhampton telephone system was automatic, and commendably efficient for local calls. The exchange, however, was apt to be somewhat sluggish in answering when it was a question of putting through a trunk call, and the London line seemed to be exceptionally busy. One after another, with maddening delays, they tried the numbers suggested by Dixon, but without success. From two of them there was no reply. A third was answered by a deaf half-wit, who eventually disclosed that the number was that of a Bloomsbury boarding-house, where the musician in question had never been heard of. A fourth line proved to be out of order. And so it went on. Finally Dixon confessed himself beaten.
“I give it up,” he said. “Either my list is hopelessly out of date, or all the clarinettists in London are out of town.”
“It looks as though we’ll be driven back on Clarkson after all,” remarked Pettigrew.
“The hell we will!” retorted Dixon, stung to renewed energy by the suggestion. “We’re not beaten yet. I’ve just remembered, there’s a fellow over at Whitsea who would do the trick, if we can get hold of him.”
“It’s quite a distance from here to Whitsea,” said Pettigrew. “I’ve done the journey often enough on circuit. If we can find him, do you think he could get here in time for the concert?”
“I think so, yes. We could send a car to fetch him at Eastbury Junction. That’s on the main line, isn’t it?” Dixon was hunting through his dog-eared notebook. “Look here, can you do me a kindness? Get through to this chap on the telephone while I rake up a railway time-table. Here’s his number—Whitsea 0497. The name’s Jenkinson. Time’s getting on, and——”
The door closed behind him. Pettigrew, left alone in the office, looked at the telephone on the table with acute distaste. He felt that he had been pitchforked into a business which he did not in the least understand and about which he really cared nothing, merely through yielding to a fatal impulse of good nature. Why had he ever allowed himself to be connected with the confounded Orchestral Society? Why had he consented to come to the rehearsal, instead of staying quietly at home, reading the Prolegomena to Puffendorf? He was feeling distinctly allergic to clarinets, and didn’t care two hoots whether Mendelssohn’s violin concerto was played with one of them or two, or none. What was more, he was morally certain that nobody in the audience would notice the difference. Since, however, in this ridiculous world the matter did seem to have some importance, he supposed he might as well do what was expected of him. Resignedly he picked up the receiver and dialled the code number for a trunk call.
From his recent experience he had every reason to hope that the connection would be delayed long enough to enable Dixon to return and do his own dirty work, but he was disappointed. On this occasion the telephone service chose to function with unaccustomed speed, and within less than a minute a thin, precise voice was saying in Pettigrew’s ear, “This is Whitsea, 0497.”
“Can I speak to Mr. Jenkinson?”
“This is Jenkinson speaking. Who are you?”
“My name is Pettigrew, but you won’t know me.”
“No.” The voice was quite clear on that point. “I don’t know you.”
“Well, I’m speaking for Mr. Dixon, of Mark-hampton. I think you know him, all right.”
“I’m fairly positive I don’t know anyone called Dixon. What is his Christian name?”
“Robert.”
“Then I certainly don’t know him.”
Pettigrew felt inclined to giggle.
“We don’t seem to be getting on very well, do we?” he said weakly.
“No, we don’t. Have you got the wrong number, by any chance?”
“I don’t think so. You are Mr. Jenkinson, aren’t you?”
“I have said so already.”
“Do you play the thingummy?”
“The what?”
“I beg your pardon, the clarinet, I mean.”
“I do. And a number of other instruments besides, but not the one you mentioned first.”
“Never mind about that. The point is, we want a clarinet badly.”
“I have not one to spare, and if I had, I wouldn’t sell it.”
“I’m afraid I expressed myself badly. I mean, we want someone to play the clarinet.”
“I see. And who are ‘we’?”
“I’m so sorry, I ought to have mentioned that in the first place. The Markshire Orchestral Society.”
“Now that,” said the voice, with a distinct air of triumph, “I have heard of. Clayton Evans, is it not?”
“That’s right,” said Pettigrew, like an exhausted swimmer whose foot at last touches bottom. “Clayton Evans it is.”
“Why didn’t you mention him before? Of course I shall be only too glad to play for Evans at any time he wants me. Just let Potter and Fullbright know.”
“Potter and who?” With a sickening feeling Pettigrew realized that he was out of his depth again.
“Potter and Fullbright,” the voice repeated, with the air of one patiently addressing a very stupid child. “My agents. The agents. You must have heard of Potter and Fullbright, surely.”
“No, I don’t know Potter and Fullbright.” (I’m getting the hang of this game, thought Pettigrew. The score must be about thirty-all now.) The voice went on: “Well, they’re in the book. Just ring them up whenever you want me, and I’ll come, if I’m free. Is that understood?”
“No!” cried Pettigrew violently, just in time to prevent Jenkinson ringing off. From the corner of his eye he could see Dixon come in, flourishing a railway guide. “Just hold on a minute.” He thrust the instrument at Dixon. “For Heaven’s sake deal with this,” he said. “It’s beyond me.”
Feeling like a very junior clerk when the senior partner takes charge, he thankfully relinquished the conduct of affairs to the expert.
“This is Dixon here.”
“I don’t know——” With unholy pleasure Pettigrew heard the faint voice taking up its cue once more.
“No, of course, you don’t. I got your name from Potter and Fullbright.”
“The other man who was talking to me—Peter somebody or other—had never heard of Potter and Fullbright,” said the voice querulously.
“Oh, him,” said Dixon, brutally. The junior clerk felt more junior than ever. “Never mind about him. I am speaking for Clayton Evans from Markhampton.
He’s in a spot of bother. His first clarinet has walked out on him, and he must have one tonight. Can you come over straight away? It’s all routine stuff—Mendelssohn violin concerto, a spot of Handel, Mozart—nothing troublesome…. What? … Yes, yes, of course, union fees and all expenses. You can? Good. Now, look. There’s a six thirty-five train from Whitsea, due in at Eastbury Junction at seven twenty-nine. It’s not more than twenty minutes’ run from there to Markhampton and I’ll have a car to meet you. That’ll just give you time. Splendid. Many thanks. Goodbye.”
Dixon put down the receiver and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“That’s settled, thank goodness!” he said. “I say, Pettigrew, I’m very much obliged to you for helping me out.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Pettigrew, weakly.
“Now the only thing that’s left is to find a car to meet the train. That may be rather a job on a night like this. Everyone will be hiring cars to get to the concert.”
“Shall I ring up Farren’s?” asked Pettigrew, naming the largest firm of car-hirers in the city.
“Don’t bother. I’ll do it. Do you know their number, by any chance?”
“I’ve got it written down, as it happens,” said Pettigrew. “It’s 2203.”
“Thanks.” Dixon picked up the receiver once more, but as he did so there was an interruption. For the last few minutes Pettigrew had been aware of the fact that the office in which they were speaking had become noticeably quieter. T
his was due, he now realized, to the cessation of the half-heard strains of music which had formed the background to their conversation. Evidently the rehearsal had come to an end. Now Evans, with Mrs. Basset in dutiful attendance, came into the room. Evans looked tired, but quite calm and cheerful.
“You still here, Dixon?” he said. “Look here, I don’t think you need worry about that clarinet.”
“Not worry!” Dixon’s face was a study.
“No. I’ve worked it out in my mind. We can promote the second clarinet to first, of course, so that only leaves the second’s part to consider. Well, in the Mendelssohn there are only two or three passages of importance, and I can arrange with the second oboe to cover them. I don’t suppose anyone in the audience will notice the difference. The Handel doesn’t matter a damn—there aren’t any clarinets in the original scoring, anyway—and the Mozart——”
“My good Evans,” said Dixon, in tones that made Mrs. Basset blench. “You told me to get another clarinet. Pettigrew and I have been trying for the last forty minutes to find one. Now we have at last succeeded, you tell me not to worry. That is a bit too much!”
“Oh, you have found one? Good,” replied Evans, quite Unperturbed. “Who is he, by the way?”
“Jenkinson, of the Whitsea Philharmonic. I’m just about ringing up for a car to meet him at Eastbury. What did you say Farren’s number was, Pettigrew?”
“2203.”
“2203,” repeated Dixon as he spun the dial. “Hullo, hullo! Is that Farren’s? Have you a car free this evening to meet the seven twenty-nine at Eastbury? … Good. You’re to meet a gentleman called Jenkinson and bring him to the City Hall, stage entrance.
You’ll attend to that? Oh, and send the bill to Mr. Pettigrew…. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Dixon rang off with an air of triumph.
“Well,” observed Evans, “that saves me monkeying about with the oboe parts, anyway. Thank you, Dixon. I’m going home to change now. By the way,” he paused in the door, “I’m afraid Miss Carless was rather upset over that affair at rehearsal. You won’t be seeing her again before the performance, I suppose?”
