2. The Science of Strings

“. . . hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellowmen.”

— Dr. John H. Watson.

“The Adventure of the Five Orange Pips.”

My dear Watson,

Six days bereft of a violin led me to a modest adventure. As you are fundamentally aware, my supercharged, highly prepared, and specialized mind requires engagement in criminal cases, chiefly murder. Music involves my mind differently and occasionally unveils the answer.

My alias is ebullient but not always welcoming, wild, vociferous, and experienced with all manner of human discourse, even if merely hand gestures and tongue clicking. Sigerson is an intelligent and shrewd negotiator, with the ability to quickly categorize and analyse the society he has chosen to study and its apparent danger. In some ways I am an anthropological detective of the species “Human.” It is a good alias, and comfortable, with many parallels to my more prevalent endeavours. Yet, as you will see there are times when Sigerson fails me.

Without you at my side, more focus on my well-being is required. As you know, danger can lurk anywhere, even in an enterprising music store in this boomtown. Though you may chuckle at my venture into the land of celebrity, I rather asked for it. It is deucedly ironic that I am famous for being someone else. Although I fear if I let down my alias, the mobs would increase, as you and I are legendary in the States, through the diligence of your literary agent no doubt.

Old man, you are supremely missed. Thank your beautiful wife Mary for watching over my dearest friend.

As you know me to be, dear partner,

Very sincerely yours,

S. H.

For the delight of their clientele, Chas. H. Hickok Music Company played music on a gramophone, and today was a Strauss day. The shopkeeper showed me two violins. I had heard this man’s superb talents involved both the pistol and the violin. I approached my selection as I would a case. The clues were already there in the instrument, it merely required human interaction to differentiate them. I picked up the Cremona and played drills. Then I improvised along with Strauss, as I stretched its range, checked for articulation, how fast the notes died away, its balance in a range, overall tone. “I’ll try the Blanchard and your best bow?” The salesman turned off the gramophone. A small black bird smashed into the window like a gunshot. The proprietor produced the instrument, then gently picked up the starling and carried it out to his garden.

I began again. This time every test passed the scrutiny of my astute musical perception, and fingers that were sensitive enough to play a Stradivarius. It was in fine condition, a rich tone with no overt weak spots, excellent workmanship, as was the first-class black horse-hair bow. I enjoyed this violin. Eyes closed, I saturated the empty music store with a performance of the “Demon Dance” from Faust.

As I began, someone quietly entered the store, another came in and perched in the window, a couple arrived, another, they stood quietly. A gaggle pushed in and more filled the dance floor, or lounged on the pianos. The door was held open and a swarm flew in and joined those quietly waiting. I could hear the occasional rustle of petticoats. When I opened my eyes, the store was filled to capacity and they applauded my performance while I bowed. Then one woman fluttered forward and asked for Sigerson’s autograph and I signed it. It was then they rushed to surround me, threw questions, and demanded autographs. In an instant, it changed from amusement to disputation. Repeated calling of that name became the sound of carrion crows. My jacket sleeves and hands stabbed frequently by their quills, my clothes pulled apart, ripped, pants torn, waistcoat unbuttoned, and my hat lost. One woman slashed my forehead to cut a lock of my hair. When the shop owner arrived I was smashed against an upright piano scrawling someone else’s name.

True to my expectation, Herr Lutz shoved his way into the crowd. “What is this? This is no way to act! Where is your Poughkeepsie pride? What kind of welcome is this to our fair city?” He pushed a large gentleman out the door. “Get out, all of you!” He brought me back to a lounge, and treated my cuts.

“Well, well, such is fame.” I said to him as I buttoned my waistcoat. “Thank you for that. When they disperse, I’d like to finish appraising the Blanchard. You are Lutz?”

“Yes. Would you like tea? It’s steeped and ready.”

We shook hands. “I am delighted to meet you, Lutz. Thank you, yes, no milk.”

“And you, Sigerson.” He poured the tea. “I put a nocturne on the gramophone, so things should calm down.”

I added a sugar cube. “In Harold’s barber shop yesterday I learned that you are one of the shop owners recently threated by Mr. Pinto?” Calmly stirred and tasted my tea.

He looked dubious and I quickly put him at ease. “It is laudable the way the town business owners stick together on this score.” I patted him on the back. “And your handling of that unruly crowd shows how very capable you are. It is the way to success.”

Lutz nodded. “Oh, he said he’d smash my violins, including the one you are interested in, if I didn’t pay his insurance fee. I told him to get out of my store.”

“And did he?”

“No he pushed me around a bit, but I boxed in my youth so I’m not afraid of him. Then Hyams stepped inside and he left.”

“Safety in numbers is the way to advance. Did he say anything about his business or his plans?” If Lutz can handle a gun, my search for a rough and ready partner may be over.

“Only that if I didn’t pay him, next time he’d bring his axe.”

We exchanged cards. “Let me know of any further developments. And do you own a gun?”

“Yes. Do you really think it is so dangerous?”

“If he was dispatched here to initiate this business, the danger is considerable, and would require outside assistance.” After I had refreshed myself, I asked Lutz. “Do you play?”

“A little.”

“Would you mind advancing to the far end of the piano studio to demonstrate the Blanchard for me? It is one thing to auscultate an instrument playing at your chin, but quite another to trumpet it from the stage.”

I savoured his presentation. “A man with such talent must share it, somewhere!”

“Here and there, there are many opportunities in Poughkeepsie. And there’s a piece for two violins I have been interested in.”

I began to play the “Mozart–Duo No. 2” with a smile on my face.

His eyes lit up. “How did you know?”

I laughed. “I caught a glimpse of the music in your bin, when we were having tea. We would be most suited to play it. Vassar has marvellous practice rooms. I’d like the Blanchard, the black horse-hair bow with a travel case, fresh rosin, and an extra set of first-rate strings.”