“Damn it!” he shouted. “What’s the matter?”
Ann appeared in the doorway, her face white.
“Darling, what’s wrong? Is anything the matter?”
Peter clasped his fist to his forehead with a moan.
“Is anything the matter?” he shouted. “No, everything’s dandy! Everything’s fine!”
Waving the crumpled sheets of music over his head he strode to the middle of the room, his face flushed with helpless rage.
“It isn’t necessary to shout at me,” Ann said quietly. “Maybe you’d better lie down awhile. You’re upset.”
“That’s it,” Peter said breathing heavily, “I’m just upset. The whole damned score is a stinking mess and Hummert would have to be a mad man to think of using it, so I’m upset. That’s all, upset. I discover after eight years of work that I can’t write music that makes sense, so I’m upset. I’m not irritated, I’m not angry, I’m not going stark raving mad, I’m just a little bit upset. You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Please, Peter,” Ann said. Her lower lip trembled. “You’ve never talked like this to me before.”
“That,” Peter said in a strangled voice, “was because I was never upset before. Now, as you have pointed out so brilliantly, I’m upset. I’m liable to say anything.”
Ann stared at him wordlessly for an instant, then with a muffled sob she turned and ran into the tiny bedroom. She returned a moment later with her hat and coat on.
Peter looked at her and the color suddenly drained from his face.
“So you’re walking out,” he said bitterly. “All right, go ahead. You’re doing the smartest thing in the world. I’m not worth sticking to.”
With a sudden vicious gesture he tore the sheets of music in two and flung them into the air.
“There goes nothing,” he said. “Just the remains of the final flop effort of my illustrious career as a composer of rotten music.”
Ann looked at him steadily for an instant as if she were trying to memorize his features. Then she turned and left the room.
Peter glared helplessly after her and viciously kicked a torn sheet of music into the air. It settled quietly, forlornly to the carpet.
With an oath he grabbed a bottle of Scotch from a table and strode into the bedroom, kicking the door shut with an angry bang.
After an idyllic hour in the park, sunning themselves on a toadstool and chummily discussing life and its problems, Tink and Jing returned to the apartment.
The appalling scene that met their eyes completely shocked them from their complacently contented mood.
Torn sheets of music were strewn about the floor and over the entire apartment brooded a dismal silence.
The three chord girls were crouched in terror on top of the mantel clock, their eyes wide with fright. Nastee was stretched comfortably on the keys of the piano, his impish face adorned with a sly, mischievous smile.
“Oh!” Jing gasped faintly. “Something terrible has happened.”
Tink stared apprehensively at Nastee’s recumbent figure. There was something in his smirking, triumphant smile that caused him considerable uneasiness.
“Oh,” Jing wailed, “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”
Her three companions crouched together on top of the clock, and in fearful, drama-charged whispers, related all that had occurred while Tink and Jing had been away.
Jing turned white.
“Oh, this is terrible,” she whispered. Turning impulsively to Tink, she cried, “You must do something. You simply must!”
Tink patted her shoulder and glared accusingly at Nastee.
“You see the trouble you’ve caused,” he said.
“Sure,” Nastee said smugly. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. Boy!”
“Oh!” Jing cried. “Did you cause all this trouble on purpose?”
Nastee stretched luxuriously. He was enjoying himself thoroughly.
“Certainly,” he replied. “It wasn’t hard either. All I had to do was trip the girls when they’d dance past me. It sure played the devil with the music.”
“Oh,” Jing said faintly. The magnitude and callousness of Nastee’s prank left her breathless. She turned imploringly to Tink.
“What are you going to do?”
Tink scratched his head. What a fine mess!
“I’ll think of something,” he promised. But his voice was lacking its customary cheery assurance.
“You’ve got to,” Jing said frantically. “If this work isn’t finished on time it’ll be all my fault. I’ll never be given another chance.”
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Tink shifted uneasily from one foot to another, appalled by this emotional outburst.
“All right, I’ll do something,” he said.
He sat down and screwed his forehead into a frown. This situation was a lulu. He racked his brain for several minutes before he reached two conclusions. The composition would never be finished unless the composer was prompted to return to work. The composer would never return to work unless his wife returned to him, and domestic harmony was restored. Those two things were obvious. Therefore it only remained to get the composer and his wife back together.
That was all, but that was plenty!
He stood up and nervously chewed on a piece of thread. The first thing that had to be done was to prevent the composer’s wife from leaving the apartment house and disappearing into the trackless maze of Manhattan. If she got out of the immediate vicinity they might never be able to get her back on time.
He turned grimly to Nastee and pointed a determined finger at him.
“You’re going to stop the girl from leaving this building. She can’t have gotten out of the lobby yet. You’re responsible for this entire mess and I intend to see that you help undo some of the damage.”
Nastee grinned wickedly at him. “I’ll stop her,” he said, “but that don’t do any good. I’ve got things scrambled to the point where you can never straighten them out.”
With a satisfied chortle he swung himself down from the keyboard and scampered across the floor to the door.
“That’s the first step,” Tink said. He turned to Jing. “You get your girls together and pick up these torn sheets of music. Then find some glue and put it all back into shape.”
“All right,” Jing said, “but what are we going to do about the composer?”
“That,” said Tink, “is my job.” One of the girls from the clock said:
“He took a bottle of whisky with him to the bedroom.”
Tink looked nervously at the closed bedroom door, then he squared his shoulders.
“I’ll handle him, all right,” he said. Jing smiled tremulously at him.
“I know you will,” she said.
Tink wished that he shared her confidence. Intervening in the affairs of humans was ticklish enough, but when a quart of whisky had to be considered in his calculations, the situation assumed the precarious qualities of a juggled box of dynamite.
Drawing a deep breath he slid down the lamp to the floor and advanced toward the bedroom. Jing, on the window-sill, waved encouragement to him as he sallied forth to battle.
He entered the room by the simple expedient of rolling under the half inch crack provided by the slightly warped door. Inside he studied the scene carefully, and what he saw did not particularly encourage him.
The young composer was sprawled in a chair beside the bed with the bottle of Scotch within convenient reach. It was apparent from the opened bottle, and his flushed face that he was seeking the solace of Bacchus.
Tink sat down on the floor and cupped his chin in his hands. This situation required delicacy and tact. He studied the composer carefully and thoughtfully for several minutes.