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“You have no equipment for playing music, not even a radio,” said my visitor, looking around my office critically.
“No,” I admitted, trying to seem ashamed. Somehow the idea of the “Ode to Joy” or “The Ride of the Valkyrie” echoing through an unused warehouse seemed ludicrous. The ring of my telephone was the most musical sound in my office and it was rare.
My visitor was Hans Humperdinck, the music teacher at Blandsville High School, now retired like me. His graying hair was thinning at the front, long at the back; his face was slightly wrinkled, his eyes dark and piercing. He had been a good music teacher, but he was not a team player. A few times I had had to cover one of his classes and he had left no instructions; as a result, for over half an hour each student played his or her own music on his or her instrument, vying with the others in volume, so that I left with head pounding and ears ringing.
“Remember,” I defended myself, “Keats wrote that ‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter’ and Sam Johnson said that music was ‘the least objectionable form of noise’.”
“Were they insane?”
“No, but Johnson was partly deaf. But you didn’t visit me to discuss esthetics.”
“You’re right. I have a problem which you may be able to help me with in your new rôle as detective. I’ve heard you’ve actually solved a couple of cases.” It was a fine example of “Damning with faint praise”, but he was an artist, so I tried not to take offense. I explained my rules and rates, to which he agreed.
“Every person wants to accomplish one outstanding thing in his field,” Hans said. “The writer wants to write one great novel or poem, the chef wants to create one great recipe…”
“The bank robber wants to pull one big heist.” My facetious sense of humour has got me into trouble more than once, but I’m a slow learner.
“Yes, I suppose,” said Hans doubtfully. “Anyway, I wanted to compose one outstanding piece of music and I may have done it. It’s called ‘Humperdinck’s Symphony in A Flat for Orchestra and Triangle.’ I’ve gathered a group of excellent local musicians and we’re rehearsing for the first performance in one week.”
I hoped that he was not going to ask me to handle security at the theatre which, I learned, was in the basement of St. Hortense’s Church of Perpetual Peace and Prayer. No, I thought, this is not a rock concert, complete with flashing lights and pot smoke.
“But,” Hans continued, “someone is trying to undermine our début. Sheet music is shuffled, instruments are damaged, my music stand was badly bent.” I had been through a similar incident with the Blandsville Little Theatre’s production of Macbeth. “I hope you can stop this devilish enemy of the arts. I’d like you to join the orchestra and investigate.”
“Join the orchestra in what rôle?” I asked apprehensively.
