MURDER TO MUSIC By GLEN BURNE In a New York concert hall—while five thousand people listened to a world-famous pianist and a great symphony orchestra—a shot was fired. That a murderer should choose such a place and such a time seemed incredible. But Sydney Bastion was dead and Douglas Blair, a young music critic with an acute interest in human nature, told the po- lice that at least seven persons present had reason to pull the trigger. Acting with Inspector Craig of the Detective Bureau, Douglas suddenly found himself enmeshed in a highly dramatic crime—with only forty-eight hours before he sailed for Europe in which to solve it. Glen Burne, who knows the business of crime de- tection and describes it with telling accuracy, has propounded in his first mystery novel a dramatic problem which we don't think you can solve. Yet the solution is eminently fair—and all the clues are lucidly presented. The plot is thrilling and intricate. The writing is fast, hard-packed and leavened with crisp humor. "The Dodd, Mead imprint has long been a pretty good hallmark in detective and mystery stories. When you see one with that publisher's name on the back, you can usually depend on it. Somewhere in the editorial offices of that firm is some hard-faced Legree who understands the rather exacting re- quirements." Saturday Review of Literature. Each year thousands of detective-story manu- scripts are submitted to American publishers. Only by the most careful selection can a standard such as Dodd, Mead has set be maintained. Now in order to aid the reader in choosing a mystery of whose merit he may be certain in advance, the "hard- faced" editors are placing a red badge on those de- tective stories which they are willing to recommend unreservedly to the most discriminating reader. Copyright, 1934 Bt DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y. To MY PARENTS CHAPTER I Concert On an early April evening, the Wilfred Bowmans, their daughter Elinor and their guest Miss Della Post, all encased in gleaming formal kit, rode forth in their super-wheel-based car to attend a murder. Had they known—but one seldom does. Rain, which had been sluicing down upon New York since early afternoon, swam across their wind- shields, to be licked away by the swinging arms which guarded twin crescent segments of glass. Through one of these appeared the upraised palm of a traffic policeman, halting their westward progress on Fifty- Ninth Street and sending Sixth Avenue's north-bound traffic streaming into Central Park. Had that officer realized that within twenty-four hours he would be "The Cop Who Couldn't Find the Body," he might have dived for the park himself and, while there was still time, plunged deep into some unflushable covert. Inside the Bowman tonneau, Mrs. Bowman ut- tered clipped and biting syllables. Their dinners dis- agree with some people, but Mrs. Bowman was dis- agreeing with her dinner. "—was positively raw, and the endive—heav- ens, the endive!" Mrs. Bowman had completed her analysis of the Guinea Hen Princesse, and com- menced on the salad course. CONCERT 3 ing muscles in action—something which arched her eyebrows toward the auburn hair curled low into the white nape of her neck, crinkled her grimace-proof nose, played about her mouth, relaxing it into a grouping of devastating multiple curves, and softened her chin, which no amount of softening could weaken. She was thinking of Douglas Blair. The car wormed westward and Mrs. Bowman found a beautiful brand new casus belli. "We'll be early for the concert—frightfully early." Mr. Bowman walked right into it. "That's why I wanted to stay longer in the restau- rant." "In that restaurant. Why I'd rather have waited in— That smoke and noise—and that waiter who looked just like poor Uncle Perry. Did you see him Wilfred? The same drooping mustache and watery eyes." On the south side of Fifty-Ninth Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, the granite faqade of the Civic Auditorium faces Central Park and dares any amount of spreading foliage to soften the grimness of its ancient architecture. A long and ill-propor- tioned porte-cochere juts above the narrow row of steps which leads to its doors. Inside the central door, to right and left, extends the shallow lobby. At the left, before the ticket office, a perennial line of would-be purchasers straggles. Tonight that line was short. The concert, one of a subscription series, was 4 MURDER TO MUSIC sold out. At the right a flight of steps rises to Second- Balcony and Family Circle. Another flight, a brief one, stretching the length of the lobby's rear, leads through three doors, guarded by ticket takers. Beyond that barrier a corridor, dark and long, paral- lels at once the lobby and the rear of the house. The Bowman party came through the left-hand door, Mr. Bowman turned over his tickets, accepted the stubs and followed the women toward the left. They passed a sweepingly balconaded stair which led to the upper boxes, glimpsed the red plush seats of the orchestra and a corner of the proscenium bor- dered by gilt angels clutching tarnished gilt lutes and harps, then turned down a corridor, a broad one. On the right of this was the left side of the hall, separated from them by a wall punctured occasion- ally by closed doors. Under foot was a faded green carpet which had long deserved pensioning. Forty yards down the corridor, the wall ceased to be a solid barrier. Here there were faded green velvet curtains, hanging dejectedly from heavy brass rods —three sets of them—and on the other side of each set was one of the three boxes which flanked the left of the auditorium. On its other side ran a similar corridor, stood similar boxes. The Bowmans paused at the end of the corridor, just outside the box which they held for this concert series, given annually in New York by the Mid-West Symphony. The corridor ended here—terminating in a pair of swinging doors. Behind these was backstage territory. CONCERT 5 Two men stood in the corridor, their backs to the swinging doors, watching the Bowmans' approach. Both were in dinner jackets. One was short and per- haps forty-five. His slim physique suggested chipper vitality, but his features were deep-set, resigned, tired. The second man was paunchy, a bit red-faced, a bit mussed, a bit embarrassed. He advanced timor- ously. "Mr. Bowman, I believe?" "Why—yes." "I'm Evers, the house manager here." "Ah." Mr. Bowman accepted the fact as a matter of cheeriest interest. "I wonder if you would do me a very great favor?" Mr. Bowman made an unclassifiable noise in his throat which might have been "glad to" or "damned if I will!". Evers, failing to interpret its significance, con- tinued: "This gentleman," and he motioned to the smaller man who shifted forward, "is Mr. Sidney Bastion. You may remember him as one-time music critic of the Transcript. He's no longer on our critics' list for complimentary tickets—and the house is sold out tonight. He was anxious to hear the concert, and I thought perhaps—I've noticed that you seldom use all six of your box chairs—" At first Mrs. Bowman had considered the whole matter an impertinence; but, upon learning that the little man was by way of being a celebrity, even 6 MURDER TO MUSIC though both minor and "ex," she stepped forward. "Of course, Mr. Bastion." She ignored Evers com- pletely. "We would be delighted to share our box." And then, with bewildering change of pace, "My daughter is going to marry your successor. My daughter, Mr. Bastion; Miss Post, Mr. Bowman— Wilfred!" Mr. Bowman paused, his hand on the velvet drapes of their box. "Eh?" he queried startled. "You weren't going into that box were you?" "Why—er—why as a matter of fact I was." "Well please don't. We're early enough as it is, and we're not going in there until the concert starts." Mr. Bowman stepped back. Della Post snorted impatiently. "We can't stay out here for ten minutes." "Why not? Anyhow, Della, I simply won't set foot in there till the concert starts." "Oh Lord, Margaret, this isn't the opera." Evers sensed the need of a tactful rescue. "Perhaps," he said, "I can return your courtesy. Would you care to come to the Green Room and meet Stromberg?" "Who's Stromberg?" asked Mr. Bowman. Mrs. Bowman forced a laugh. "My husband is—so absent-minded. Stromberg is the great pianist—he's the soloist on tonight's pro- gram." "Oh." Mr. Bowman was unimpressed. She went on quickly: CONCERT 7 "We'd love to meet him. Come Elinor." "No, Mother, you and Dad and Della go. I'll stay here, I promised Douglas I would. Anyhow, I met Stromberg at a tea yesterday." For the first time, Bastion spoke. "I think I'll wait also. I'd rather like to see Douglas again. It's been quite a while—" The others departed through the swinging doors. Elinor and Bastion, smoking, slowly paced the corridor. "Funny we haven't met before," said Elinor, "in- asmuch as you're Doug's former boss." "Former is right. Now I'm a has-been and he's just about the number-one critic in town." "You helped him plenty." Elinor had a way of saying things which somehow conveyed that she meant what she said. "He didn't need much help. Evertwhen he was my assistant I had to admit that he had more innate musical sense than I. You know, he used to write poems to you." "Poems! I don't believe it." "Fact. Of course, you never saw them—he'd tear them up fast as they were written. Said they weren't worthy of you. They weren't. I know—I looked over his shoulder." Elinor laughed. "That wasn't nice of you. You must be an awful person." Bastion's grin was wry. "I rather think there are a number of people who 8 MURDER TO MUSIC believe I am. I know that Douglas used to think I was pretty terrible. He kept begging to be my assistant—but I insisted that he stick to straight reporting for a healthy period. Covering fires and stick-ups and shootings was good training. Everyone on a paper should go through it." "Did you?" "No—I—I married the publisher's niece." "But I thought your wife played the harp in this orchestra." "She does. Same woman." "That's funny. Somehow women who play the harp seem different. It never occurred to me that they might have uncles." "Oh she's quite human. She can cook." "Great heavens! That's more than I can do. I suppose when she leaves the concert tonight she'll go home and fix sandwiches for you—from—from Strauss to sturgeon!" Bastion grinned. Again it seemed wry. "Splendid idea. You know I haven't seen her for nearly a month, that is—not really. The Mid-West Orchestra only got into town yesterday and of course there were rehearsals today." They had been walking toward the lobby end of the corridor. Now they turned to retrace their steps and nearly ran into a woman who must have come up the corridor behind them, perhaps had been fol- lowing them closely. She was -mall, slim and possibly thirty-five. She wore a tailored black evening dress discreetly touched with silver, selected no doubt to CONCERT 9 harmonize with an occasional streak of gray in her hair. Her face was not quite so pretty as it once must have been. Her chin was dominant, characterful. The woman stopped. Bastion and Elinor stopped. There was a strained pause. Then Bastion spoke. "Hello dear." "Hello." "Miss Bowman, my wife." Elinor didn't know why she was a trifle startled. "This is really a coincidence. We were just speak- ing of you." "Were you? How nice!" Mrs. Bastion smiled evenly. "What were you saying?" Her voice was pleasant, but Elinor sensed in it a puzzling over- tone. Bastion answered his wife. "Oh, nothing—nothing at all." "I was just saying," Elinor began, "that after the concert you'd probably—" "It really was nothing." Bastion's interruption was almost frantic. Mrs. Bastion smiled that even smile again. "I suppose it wasn't." Then, to Elinor: "You'll pardon me, won't you? I'm expected backstage." They watched her walk rapidly down the corridor, slip through the swinging doors. Elinor was thought- ful. "It must be lonely for her out on tour." She spoke almost to herself. Bastion's reply was effortfully casual. "Not so lonely. She has company—her brother's f MURDER TO MUSIC in the orchestra. He's a tympanist. And she really likes traveling." Elinor brightened. "So do I. You know, I sail Thursday." "With Douglas? I mean—of course not—I'm sorry. Where are you going?" "Yes, with Douglas—and Mother and Dad. All quite proper." She was surprised at Bastion's embar- rassment. He of all people! Perhaps she shouldn't have believed everything she'd heard about him. "You're lucky," he was saying. "Paris first, or London?" "Oh, London first. It's just the proper prelude to Paris. After a while, when you're just beginning to get fed up with quaintness and dignity, you dash across the Channel—and well, there you are— Paris! Then a while in Germany, and after that, Vienna. Lord, how I'm looking forward to Vienna! I've never been there, have you?" Elinor paused and glanced at her companion. He was staring fixedly down the corridor at the double doors which a moment before had opened sufficiently to reveal a tall, dark-haired woman. The woman had seen Bastion. Bastion had seen her. When Elinor turned to follow his gaze only the doors were there, closed. "I beg your pardon." Bastion returned his atten- tion to her. "You were asking me something." "I was asking you if you knew Vienna." Again his gaze riveted on the closed doors. When he spoke it was with an effort. CONCERT 11 "Yes—I know Vienna—I once knew it very well." Elinor shook herself. "You act as if you'd seen a ghost." "Perhaps." Bastion looked at her quizzically for a moment, then he touched her arm and they recom- menced their promenade. "You'll have to pardon me," he said, "my thoughts were miles—years away." Elinor's upward glance was puzzled. "You're a romantic sort of person. I rather like you." "Do you? You shouldn't—I'm a damned fool. A damned fool who believes in premonitions." "What premonitions?" "Never mind—forget it. Here comes your fam- ily." Mrs. Bowman was flushed and thrilled. "Oh Elinor! Stromberg is simply wonderful! I always thought musicians were rather—rather—but he isn't at all." "Isn't what dear?" Mr. Bowman inquired. "Oh Wilfred, can't you appreciate subtlety?" Mr. Bowman gazed mournfully at the dingy walls. Bastion addressed him. "Do you come to the concert often, Mr. Bow- man?" Mr. Bowman nodded a bit ruefully. "Oh yes." "There's a rather nice bit of modern tonight— Muckman's Angular Concerto—they're playing it after the intermission." 12 MURDER TO MUSIC "Muckman eh? Well, well." Mr. Bowman looked unhappily vague. "Rather novel ideas Muckman has. First he com- poses and then he discards the major melody and uses the accompaniment as his main theme; then the melody shows up in the percussion section, translated into pure rhythm. Of course, it's all syncopation against the beat, you know." Mr. Bowman nodded emphatically. "Oh yes. Yes, yes—against the beat, eh? Well, well, what do you know about that! Damned inter- esting." Della Post interrupted. "Oh, no. You see Muckman's whole philosophy is built around the idea of keeping the audience disin- terested. He feels that if listeners get too interested in his music they won't be able to understand it. He's a neo-externalist, isn't he Mr. Bastion?" Bastion answered gravely: "He says he is." "Oh !" was Mr. Bowman's contribution. Elinor, looking for Douglas, had heard only bits of the conversation. "Were you discussing Muckman?" she asked. Mr. Bowman sallied forth armed with his brand- new information. "Yes," he said, "chap that discards the melody and that sort of thing." "I remember seeing him once." Mrs. Bowman squealed delightedly. "Elinor, how thrilling! Where?" CONCERT 13 "He was watching some boys play ball on Lexing- ton Avenue. Just as I passed he turned to me—and I swear I'd never seen him before—and said, 'I'm Muckman. I'm absorbing the rhythm.'" "Why?" inquired Mr. Bowman. "Oh, how beautiful," breathed Mrs. Bowman. "I'm sure I'm going to love his piece. Small boys are so fascinating to watch." Mrs. Bowman selected her moments for enthusiastic display. Elinor looked impatiently up the corridor. "I do wonder what's keeping Doug." "It's a shame he couldn't dine with us," said her father, affectionately putting his arm around her. "I think he was exceedingly fortunate." Mrs. Bow- man turned to Bastion. "Don't you miss your work on the Transcript? What was that play I once saw— once a newspaper man always a newspaper man? It was so sad." From the body of the house beyond the curtains, rose a burst of applause. "There's Loescher now," said Bastion. After six concerts Mr. Bowman was sure of him- self. "He's the conductor, isn't he ? Shall we go in now?" "Wait," commanded Mrs. Bowman. Through the curtains penetrated the first notes of the Lenore Third Overture. She patted her hair, rearranged her wrap, parted the curtains of the box. All but Elinor followed her in. "I'll wait here for Douglas," she whispered. "I promised him—" Slowly she paced the corridor, lit CONCERT 15 "It's there—just a quarter-tone under those flutes." "I was hearing about your ear tonight." "From whom?" "Mr. Bastion is in Mother's box." "Not really." "Yes, really. He's awfully nice. We had quite a long chat. But a funny thing happened. We were talk- ing about his wife, and then suddenly she came along and he seemed frightfully put out, didn't want her to know we had been discussing her. And that's not all. A few minutes later, while I was talking to him, he suddenly stared at those swinging doors as though he were hypnotized by the ugly things, and he scarcely heard what I was saying. I thought he'd seen a couple of ghosts." "That's funny—although I think I understand part of it. But I've got to dash out front before some constant reader reports my absence to the Editor. 'Bye darling—see you during intermission." He kissed her quickly. "Good-by dear. I want to hear more about Bastion later." "Forget it—it's scarcely important." They kissed again. Elinor watched him hasten out. He walked with a flat, space-eating stride which somehow scarcely seemed to move his hips. She half smiled and hunched her arms and shoulders in a bit as though she were being hugged; then, flattening her cigarette under her toe, she turned and entered the box. CHAPTER II Backstage The Victorian decorator who designed the Civic Au- ditorium's Green Room was an admirer of plush. Plush furniture, plush hangings, plush carpet had long since reached and passed the merely soiled and threadbare stage and were well on the way to positive decay. It was apparently the intention of the man- agement that the Auditorium should equal in musti- ness the worst conditioned buildings of Europe—and that the Green Room should surpass their dreariest interiors. It was doubtful that anyone could have named the color of the walls. Above the six feet of dark wood paneling, row upon row of photographs combined to form a portrait-history of New York's musical life from 1870. Most were autographed with careful carelessness. At the far end of the room, three heavily draped windows, recessed perhaps six or eight feet, were partly concealed by potted palms, no doubt intended as suitable background to the fig- ures and temperaments of artists holding court. It was here that the greatest musicians of many dec- ades had received the handshakes, flowery compli- ments and occasional bold kisses of their admirers. When the opening bars of the Lenore Overture floated dully into the Green Room, only one pair of 16 BACKSTAGE 17 ears remained to catch them—very pretty ears set on a well-shaped feminine head and, by an attractive bob, completely exposed. Their owner was a dark- skinned, dark-haired woman in the early thirties. She wore a white satin evening dress edged in sable and matched by a short jacket. The white against the olive skin was striking, as was everything else about her—her strange Latin features, the feline grace of her body. Her legs crossed, she sat trying to achieve com- fort upon an uncomfortably overstuffed sofa. Occa- sionally her right hand swung out to flick a cigarette ash to the floor, where her right foot slowly twisted it into the carpet. She looked bored. She was. The life of a great pianist's wife was dully complex. The night of each recital found her backstage, in Green Room and dressing room, offering her presence as soothing ointment to the unconquerable nervousness of Stromberg, the genius. At all times she had to be Madame Stromberg, fascinating, beautifully gowned, the worshiping wife who never missed a sin- gle one of her husband's performances; always stand- ing in the wings ready to receive him with a fresh collar and words of encouragement when he left the stage. In private she permitted herself the luxury of wearying a bit of her role. This was Madame Stromberg. This was the woman who had appeared to Bastion, her head so fleetingly framed in the double doors. The heat of the still smoke-filled room was oppres- sive. She rose and with a graceful twist of her shoul- 18 MURDER TO MUSIC ders removed her jacket. At the sound of a step in the corridor that led from the dressing rooms, she turned her head alertly. But it was not her husband. It was Mrs. Bastion. "Good-evening, Madame Stromberg." "Ah, Mrs. Bastion." Mrs. Stromberg nodded to her. "Aren't you playing truant?" "No, there's no harp part in this overture. Heavens, it's hot backstage tonight. I believe I'll go out on the fire escape for a breath of air and a ciga- rette." Mrs. Bastion nodded toward a door marked Exit Nine. Mrs. Stromberg extended her cigarette case. "May I join you ? Perhaps we can have a little chat, you and I—just for a few minutes, until my husband has completed his silent meditations." "Don't you find talking to me a bit embarrassing?" Mrs. Bastion asked softly. "Embarrassing?" Mrs. Stromberg fell into step beside her. "I believe this is what is called a situation." "I don't think I understand." Mrs. Bastion threw her weight upon the right side of the exit doors. "Three years ago my husband visited Vienna—" she held the door open for Mrs. Stromberg— "alone." "Yes?" Mrs. Stromberg lifted her skirts as she stepped down onto the covered fire escape beside Mrs. Bastion. The door swung closed behind them. A coping shielded them from the rain. BACKSTAGE 19 "You were there, Madame Stromberg." "Yes?" "Your husband wasn't." "Who told you that?" "My husband." "The beast!" "I see your point. In your position I'd probably feel the same. Only I don't think I would be in your position." "You don't think you would— You mean you've never had—" "Never." "Good Lord! But then you can't understand." "You may think me a bit old-fashioned, but annex- ing another woman's husband has always seemed to me—er—just a little beyond the pale." "Why don't you hate me then?" Mrs. Stromberg asked a little curiously. "Or perhaps you do." "I did. But somehow I don't seem to care now. Only I would if it began again—a matter of pride chiefly." "You needn't concern yourself. The matter is closed." "Entirely?" Mrs. Bastion looked at her steadily. "Entirely." Mrs. Bastion carefully dropped her cigarette stub upon the floor of the platform and carefully stepped on it. Mrs. Stromberg tossed hers over the rail and down to the ground. There was a pause. The heavy downpour had slack- ened to a drizzle. The air was fresh, and unexpect- MURDER TO MUSIC edly warm for an early April evening. Then Mrs. Bastion said softly: "I expect my brother will join me here any moment. He's not on the stage now, either. I think, perhaps—you see he isn't so—so understand- ing. "Ah, yes. Er—perhaps I'll see you later. Good- evening." Mrs. Stromberg turned and, pushing open the door, found herself facing a tall young man, dark hair standing on end and dark eyes glowering. "Your brother, I think, Mrs. Bastion." "Madame Stromberg, Mr. Hartson," Mrs. Bas- tion murmured. Arthur Hartson acknowledged the introduction with a sulky nod. Mrs. Stromberg smiled brittlely. "I must return to the Green Room," she said. "Again, good-evening." The door closed behind her. "Why the command to meet you here, Arthur? When you're not going on till after the intermission, I don't see why—" Arthur Hartson cut his sister short, ignoring her question, and said: "So that was Madame Stromberg, Myra?" "Ah, you caught the name after all." "You talked with her?" "Yes." "What did she say?" "That the matter is closed." "Liar! He visited her yesterday, Myra." "He what? Are you certain? No, he—he visited her husband—he's going to do some publicity work for him, you know." BACKSTAGE 21 "That's his story. Anyhow, I know he was there." "Playing the detective? You want me to divorce him, don't you Arthur?" "You've every right to." "You mean that I've every right to now that he's lost his money in speculation, and you won't be able to borrow from him any more." "That's not fair—trust a woman to hit below the belt." "It's true, Arthur. Anyhow, I'm tired of your in- terference. You'll have to let me handle this my own way. It's really my affair, you know." "All right—the devil with it! Do as you please, but—" angrily he jabbed a cigarette into his mouth, "if you had any pride—" "Oh I have pride—lots of it. I don't expect he'll make a fool of me again." "Damn right, he won't. I'll see to that." "Now don't quarrel with him any more, Arthur. It only makes it more difficult for me." "To hell with the whole business. You ought to be going in." Savagely, he shoved the door open for her. "Yes. And you'd better cool off out here alone. See you later—and in a pleasanter mood, I hope." Mrs. Stromberg completed her eavesdropping upon Mrs. Bastion and Arthur Hartson. She strolled back into the Green Room and resumed her seat on the uncomfortable sofa. Cigarette in mouth, she fished about in her handbag for a lighter. She heard a match scratched. Looking up, she saw Evers com- MURDER TO MUSIC ing toward her. "May I, Madame Stromberg?" He bowed cere- moniously over her, the flame cupped in his palms. "Thank you." "This is quite an occasion—the New York debut of your husband. The house is packed." "Tell me, are there many critics out front to- night?" Mrs. Stromberg seemed particularly inter- ested in the point. "The usual ones. Your husband would naturally bring them all." "Which are here? Can you name them?" "Well there are Williams, Lewisohn, Ebbert, Blair, Borgson—" Evers paused, wrinkling his damp forehead. "Are you sure that's all?" "Now let me see. There's Bastion—but he's re- tired." "Sidney Bastion?" "Yes, that's right." "I—I thought I recognized him." "You know him then?" "We've met. Is he in the audience now?" "That's funny. I just placed him. He's in the Bow- man box. The one nearest the stage, right down this side." He swung around and pointed toward the cor- ridor which led to the boxes. "Oh—I see." Mrs. Stromberg stared at his out- stretched hand. "Yes, yes." Evers rubbed his hands together vig- orously. "I managed to get him into the Bowman box. BACKSTAGE 23 She's an old harridan, is Mrs.—well, there's a seat left in her box, and you'll find an empty chair in the second, too. I know you'll want to go out for the Concerto." "Yes, of course. Thank you." Mrs. Stromberg nodded thoughtfully. An usher appeared in the doorway. "You're wanted on the phone, Mr. Evers." "Okay, right away. You'll excuse me Mrs. Strom- berg." He bowed and hurried out. Mrs. Stromberg glanced at her watch and rose. The overture was almost at an end now. Where could Stromberg be? She paced up and down the room, staring unseeingly at the photographs. She heard a light step behind her and whirled about. "Ah, there you are, my dear." Stromberg dropped into a chair and brushed the palm of his broad, flat hand across the heavy gray mustache which concealed the weakness, or perhaps the sensitiveness, of a short upper lip. Seated, he was a man of broad shoulders and seeming height. It was only when he stood that his shortness was apparent. A mass of hair like ham- mered silver rippled back from a forehead both broad and high. Mrs. Stromberg bent over him.