He did look at the violin. He looked at it once, with an expression of disgust such as I never hope to see again. Then he picked up the loose lid of the case, and held it on his lap looking at the violin bow that was hooked onto it.
“François Tourte!” he said.
“The label is under that little doohicky that screws in and out,” Grandfather said.
“Under the frog. Yes. It really has a label?”
He unscrewed something of other, fished a magnifying glass out of his pocket, and said, speaking very softly, “This bow was made by François Tourte in 1822, aged seventy-five years. Splendid! Tourte never branded his bows, and rarely labeled them.”
“Is it genuine?” Grandfather asked.
“Unquestionably genuine.”
“I had no way of knowing. A label, of course, can be stuck onto anything.”
“Unfortunately true. Even a violin such as that one—” he made a face, “—could have a Stradivarius label. But craftsmanship cannot, as you say, be stuck on. One look at the shape of the head — Tourte. It still has the original frog — Tourte. The thickness of the shaft, the narrow ferrule — all unmistakably Tourte. And it’s in remarkably fine condition. The grip is a little worn. The slide, too, but not badly. The man who owned this bow knew its value. I stand by my offer. I’ll pay four thousand dollars for it.”
He looked at Mrs. Peterson, and for a long moment she couldn’t find her voice.
“You want to buy the violin?” she stammered.
Mr. Van winced. “Not the violin. The bow. This bow, Ma’am, was made by François Tourte, who was to the violin bow what Stradivarius was to the violin. And more. There were great violin makers before Stradivarius, but Tourte created the modem bow — its design, its materials, to some extent its mechanics. Without the Tourte bow, string instrument technique as we know it would be impossible, and the work of the great instrument makers would to a considerable extent be wasted. Will you sell the bow for four thousand dollars, Ma’am?”
“It’s a very good offer,” Grandfather said.
Mrs. Peterson still didn’t seem to understand. “You mean — the violin...”
Mr. Van clapped his hand to his forehead. “The violin I do not want, but I’ll buy it if I must. What is it worth? Five dollars? Ten? I’ll give you four thousand and ten dollars for the violin and the bow.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Peterson said. “You just want the bow. I’ll sell that, and keep the violin as a... a memento.”
“Splendid!” Mr. Van whipped out a check book and began to scribble. He presented the check, shook hands with everyone present, and walked back to his car carrying the lid of the case with the bow still hooked onto it. He carried it the way I’ve seen couples carry their first baby when they bring it home from the hospital.
Mrs. Peterson sat down and gazed at the check for a long time. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. Then she started to cry, and Ellie looked as if she wanted to cry, too, and it was as good a time as any for Grandfather and me to get out of there, which we did.
“Sheriff Pilkins will have a fit,” I said, when we got back to our porch.
“It’ll do him good,” Grandfather said.
“He’ll say anyone who stole something worth four thousand dollars belongs behind bars, and he’ll threaten to put you there if you don’t tell him who it was.”
“Let him threaten,” Grandfather said. “That was one crime that will stay unsolved permanently.”
“How’d you know the thing was valuable?”
“Something I remembered Old Eric saying. He played for Ole Bull, and he had a bow that was better than anything Ole Bull had. Ole Bull tried to buy it from him. I figured if the bow was good enough back in the eighteen sixties, or whenever it was, for a great violinist to want it, it might still be worth something. But none of these local experts thought to look at the bow. The violin was unbelievably bad, and it distracted their attention. So when I got the chance I looked at the bow, and I found that label. I told Professor Mueller, at Wiston College, and he said a Tourte bow might be worth a fair amount of money, and the person who’d pay the most for it would be a collector of old instruments.”
“Why not a violinist?” I asked.
“A bow can be made today that plays just as well as that one. Maybe a little better, for all I know. It’s the same as with postage stamps. An old stamp may be worth hundreds of dollars, but you can buy one at the post office for four cents that will do just as good a job of getting a letter through the mails. Professor Mueller got the word around to some collectors, and this man made the best offer, so I told him to come and see the bow.”
“Then Old Eric knew the bow was valuable, rather than the violin, but after he died the family legend got things twisted.”
“I suppose.”
“That still doesn’t explain who stole the violin.”
“Like I said, that’s one crime that won’t ever be solved,” Grandfather said.
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “I think I can figure it out myself. Someone thought the violin just might be worth something in spite of what Mr. Gardner said. So he went to Mr. Hanson, and said, ‘Look, we should get this violin to a genuine expert, but of course there’s a good chance that it really isn’t worth anything, so why not do it this way. You put up a thousand dollars, and I’ll steal the violin and leave the money. If it turns out to be worth more, we can give Mrs. Peterson the difference. If it turns out to be worthless, she’ll still have the thousand dollars for the wedding. She wouldn’t accept the money as a gift, and now that Mr. Gardner has said the violin is junk she wouldn’t sell it to us for a thousand dollars, because she’d figure that would be the same as a gift. But if we steal it, and leave the money, she’ll think the thief didn’t know it was junk and she’s made a good deal for herself.’ The only trouble was, Mrs. Peterson thought otherwise, and called in the Sheriff and messed everything up.”
“Not bad,” Grandfather said. “It only goes to show that you can’t figure out in advance how a woman will react to anything.”
“And of course there was only one person who had any reason to think the violin — or the bow — might be valuable even after Mr. Gardner said it was nothing but junk.”
Grandfather grinned. “Right again. I stole it myself.”
Brian W. Aldiss
The Lonely Habit
There are different types of British crime writing — as, of course, there should be. In contrast with the quiet, sedate type of crime story, here is an altogether different kettle of fish — a monstrous story, but so effectively told that you may find it strangely moving; an under-the-surface study that will disturb you, that will even give you the shudders...
People with my sort of interest in life are very isolated — that is, if they’re intelligent enough to feel that kind of thing. My mother always says I’m intelligent. She’s going to be annoyed when she hears I’m arrested for... well, no need to be afraid of the word — for murder.
We’ll have a good laugh about it when I get out of here. That’s one thing I do admire in myself. I may be intelligent, but I still have a sense of humor.
I dress well. Not too modern, to keep me apart from the younger set, but pretty expensive suits and a hat — I always wear a hat. Working for Grant Robinson’s, see. They expect it. I’m one of their star representatives, and popular too, you’d say, but I don’t mix with the others. And I would never — well, never do it to one of them. Or to anyone I know or am in any way connected with.
That’s what I mean about intelligence. Some of these... well, some of these murderers, if you must use the word, they don’t think. They do it to anyone. I do it only to strangers. Complete strangers.