The Lost Chord: Chapter 34

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, the conclusion of an excerpt from Harrison Harty's 1880 Schweinwald Journal, Harty recounts the continuing adventures he and his friends Mahler, Rott and Ethel Smyth experienced that summer, thinking about what might have gotten his roommate Gutknaben killed and about the polarization of music between Brahms and the Conservatives and Liszt and the Modernists. Dean Bezsmyertnikov, in his seminar, "Nuance and Mockery in the Critique of New Music," throws down a challenge. Overhearing a conversation between Brahms and the counterpoint professor, Emilio Fabbro, Ethel discovered there's a dinner at the Count's home which struck her as suspicious: she and the others follow Brahms' coach in a wagon at a discreet distance, but things do not go according to plan. Meanwhile, the present-day narrative resumes at Zenn's alpine chalet after the disastrous episode pitting SHMRG agents against the IMP when LauraLynn Harty was abducted.

= = = = = = =

Chapter 34

"I go out for an evening and leave him alone for just a couple hours and look what happens!"

Will Schegel shook his head, stopping occasionally to massage his aching wrists. He'd been in the kitchen preparing tea for Uncle Howard's unexpected visitors – decaf, given the hour – when they returned.

He didn't know what to call them – they weren't really the police – but he'd already told them what happened. In fact, he wasn't even sure he could really trust them, either.

The one who's dressed up like a Goth chick was pretty strange, not like any of his uncle's usual visitors. Hiding by the van before it exploded, she's lucky to be alive.

Then there was that short, ugly one, the guy in the trenchcoat, plus all these agents dressed in black.

It was the ones dressed in white who'd come out of nowhere, a scene that kept replaying inside his head. It had been so frightening, he explained, like something from a movie. He had no idea who they were or why they were there, much less why they wanted his uncle.

And now the dungeon was a shambles, so many things hopelessly ruined, huge holes blasted through two side walls. But then, walls can always be repaired. Thankfully, Uncle Howard was unharmed.

Fictitia LaMouche, for her part, sat there sulking, saying nothing to anyone, annoyed they had taken away her phone. Weren't these the guys who'd arrested Cameron? She would tell them nothing. Dressed in gothic black right down to the bruises around her head, she quietly soaked up everything she heard.

She'd taken a much needed cigarette break, after escaping from the van, watching this dude open the garage door when all these guys in white come from nowhere and grabbed him.

Next, these guys in black grabbed her, snooping around in the garage – the door'd been left open, she insisted – so she figured she needed a diversion, blowing up the van. Oops...

Fictitia looked up as the door opened and seemed surprised.

"Cameron!"

"Fictitia...?"

Then simultaneously, "What are you doing here?"

"So I take it you two know each other," Leahy-Hu nodded, skipping over unnecessary introductions. "May I ask, how?"

Fictitia remained silent but nodded at Cameron, glad, at least, he's okay.

"We're friends on Facebook," he said cautiously. "We'd met at the fountain on the plaza after BandanaMan fell in."

"So now, I suppose," she sighed, "you're life-long 'buds,' is that it?" She pulled out her phone and dialed.

Will helped his uncle to the table and gave him some tea.

"Yes, Agent Lott," Leahy-Hu started, sounding imperiously official. "I'll need a forensic team to mop up after the SHMRG agents. Any word from those who are trailing Mr. Widor and his hostage? And while you're at it, I'll need return transport to Hotel Schweinwald, including the good professor and his wingman."

Leahy-Hu tried to explain, checking her watch, how they've been tracking Widor, a henchman of SHMRG's CEO, N. Ron Steele, over a period of years with no luck at catching him red-handed.

"And in all that time," she concluded, "we've never had evidence of alter-egos or other disguises like you've mentioned!"

"But don't forget," I insisted, "LauraLynn, Cameron and I saw Dhabbodhú at the banquet the night Rob was killed, and also how he'd left the table before the murder was discovered."

Though we hadn't actually seen the man LauraLynn was calling Rothbart Girdlestone, D'Arcy and I agreed her description matched BandanaMan and the old woman – as well, I added, as Dr. Dhabbodhú.

Leahy-Hu held up Fictitia's phone showing us a photo posted on Facebook, this snarling hulk before a smoking fissure.

"Yes!" I shouted, "that could easily be another of Dhabbodhú's ingenious disguises."

Slapping the phone back in her pocket, Leahy-Hu explained how Fictitia followed him out to the old Schweinwald Castle.

"That's the original site of the statue, isn't it?" I asked D'Arcy.

"Yes," he said, "on the old fountain before it was moved inside and got stuck in the castle's foyer."

Losing patience, Leahy-Hu pulled out her phone and called Agent Lott again.

"That helicopter can't get here fast enough!"

While Leahy-Hu made her call, I put the statue on the table, plunking it down in front of Howard Zenn.

"It's not very large, considering," I said, "barely eight inches tall, maybe?"

"Made of bronze," D'Arcy said, lifting it, "but not all that heavy."

Cameron wondered if there's another statue inside.

"It must be the model," I suggested, "used to create the large statue that's now on the Festspielhaus Plaza."

D'Arcy noted one slight difference: "there, Beethoven's a little more hunched forward."

Dismissing Cameron's not unlikely idea for now, I wondered what Beethoven's statue had been doing inside the Maltese Mozart, the clue on the medallion more pertinent to Beethoven's love-life than Mozart's.

"But," Zenn pointed, "have you noticed this?" His finger ran along some tiny marks which appeared to be texture.

I leaned forward, looking over his shoulder at the statue's broad back but couldn't see what he was pointing at. It amazed me at his age he could see that at all.

"I'm not sure," he said, "but it looks like it's a text – here, five lines... can't you see it?"

"Would it be easier to read on the actual statue," Cameron wondered, "once we get back to the Festspielhaus?"

"It's probably been inscribed only on this... Fetch me a magnifying glass?"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

"Where am I?" kept floating through her cotton-stuffed head like a mantra, feeling too weak to open her eyes. LauraLynn was looking around but couldn't see, assuming she must be blindfolded. "Yes, that's probably it," feeling somewhat better until it occurred to her, "so why the hell am I blindfolded?"

She could hear talking but couldn't make out what anyone was saying, bits of information floating to the surface like she was coming up from a deep sleep, too far away.

Thinking she should lie still and let it happen on its own, she began to realize she wasn't exactly floating. She was sitting in a chair – no, strapped to one – but why?

Was this what it was like to come back from a near-death experience or come out of a coma?

She had this vague recollection there'd been an intense amount of noise – perhaps that's why she could barely hear now. She'd never been shell-shocked before, unless the blindfold was covering her ears. Didn't gunfire make that kind of noise, she remembered from watching TV, but where'd she get caught in gunfire?

She tried to remember where she'd been, urging herself to think calmly: "What was the last thing you recall?" Considering the images flashing across her eyelids, she had to be hallucinating.

She had been huddling in the darkness with Rob and Terry, laughing – was it the corner of the attic – why did she feel like she was coming out of a coma? No, those were two different things – one was then; the other, now – even if she's unsure which was which.

It wasn't a laughing matter, more like... wait a minute, what did Cousin Maurie have to do with it? Yes, in Maine that summer, hiding from Maurie who never forgave them.

Rob looked so young then, but wait – hadn't he died recently – murdered?

There was an image of a horribly disfigured face floating past her, seeing, hearing, speaking nothing – she tried screaming.

And poor old Terry – kind, geeky Terry – "but wasn't he gray-haired with a beard, now?" No, too far back...

It was like someone – or something – had gone and hijacked her mind, thoughts coming and going in any order. "This is your brain on quantum theory." It was kind of scary.

"Hijacked?" Maybe she was flying, strapped to a chair on a plane, but moving – or more like being transported.

"Oh, I just want to go back to sleep – so peaceful, there," but then she started thing about struggling. "What if sinking into unconsciousness means death?" She didn't want to die.

"Not exactly hijacked," it occurred to her, "more like abducted, that's it." At first, she felt a tiny bit relieved. But again, there was no connection that made any sense: "by whom?"

She found herself running wildly through dark hallways with lots of turns – and a naked man – "Wait – harem pants...?"

Like that made any sense! What was going on in her brain? What kind of drugs had somebody slipped her?

"That's it – Great-Grandpa Harrison's journal! That guy'd been after the old journal!"

But was that the same guy who grabbed her at the castle then dragged her off down the mountain?

No, he was fully clothed – his face, not as nasty-looking, but still...

The blindfold was ripped from her eyes.

Whump whump whump.

"I'm in a helicopter...?"

Squinting, she saw that face!

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Lionel still wasn't sure why he was wandering around these secret passageways, considering his deep-seated fear of even moderate darkness, glad enough that these walls were unable to talk – or scream. The room he saw looked like it had been carved into rock, round like some sub-basement of the tower. Had Dhabbodhú somehow transformed this space into a monstrous sound-proofed recording studio? What about those speakers and miles of cables and huge color wheel, as if they'd been installed by Nibelungs?

"It must've cost him a fortune, setting up this studio," Lionel thought, looking through two pinpricks in the wall, no doubt eyes in some creepy portrait following you around the room. And this room certainly looked like a refurbished if long abandoned dungeon, never ridding itself of that evil aftertaste.

After putting the CD into a player, Dhabbodhú – whoever he really was – picked up a white garment of some kind which he pulled over his naked frame like a medieval knight's tunic. It was long, sleeveless and pure white but in place of a red cross was a red treble clef.

Then, holding aloft a belt from which hung a surprisingly small scabbard, he cinched it ceremoniously around his waist. Too small for all but a dagger, it held, instead, a baton!

Beyond the mixer board's top, Lionel could see a three-branched silver candelabra with its three white candles burning brightly. On both sides of the square table stood ornately tall columnar candlesticks.

"They would bring in a fortune on the antique market," Lionel thought. "Even those candles must be 17th Century..."

It was an odd mix, the modern technology of a recording studio inside a space that was pure medieval. The oddest thing was this huge color wheel from some '80s disco.

It was divided into twelve pie-shaped wedges done in such an ornate way, it all looked like stained glass. Imagine if it's some kind of color-clock! Green was at high noon...

Looking around, Lionel had no clear idea what its purpose might be before noticing Dhabbodhú began to move again.

The man he thought was Dr. Dhabbodhú placed two objects before him, evenly spaced across the front of the table: the letter Lionel had stolen for him; and a dusty apothecary jar.

"A sealed letter in Beethoven's own hand so far unread by anyone. And this," he smiled, "Beethoven's dying breath."

He held the jar aloft as if elevating the host, "a steal," he added, "at only $2,577.27 on eBay. The only thing lacking, now, is water from the Fountain of Inspiration."

Clasping his hands prayerfully to his chest, Dhabbodhú bowed in three directions before picking up something from the table, kissing it, placing it around his neck – a locket of some sort.

The man Lionel considered his savior mumbled something he couldn't quite hear, as if cursing someone under his breath.

"Since they want to play childish games, I'll destroy their little symposium and blow up all their famous guest composers."

Lionel was horrified at what he'd heard: he'd wanted to attend that.

"Didn't I see boxes of dynamite in one of the storage rooms? Ah, but there is never enough time..."

Stepping up to the microphone, he cleared his throat and paused briefly before pushing a button on the board. The on-air light glowed softly above him as he adjusted the slider.

"We interrupt your local programming to bring you this special internet broadcast. Good evening and welcome to this history-making concert. Tonight, we'll hear the exciting world premiere of a major new work."

His deep voice sounded modulated and professional, the kind people would say, "Great pipes! You should work in radio!"

Had Dr. Dhabbodhú – or whoever he was – set up a radio broadcasting station in the castle's dungeon, Lionel wondered, or was he a frustrated radio announcer playing a game of pretend?

"I call it Symphonie pour celui dont le temps est venu, the 'Symphony for One Whose Time Has Come.' For the next six hours you will sit there and be amazed."

Dhabbodhú pushed a yellow button and the wheel rose up into place, covering the vast room's sole electric light.

"The composer may not be known to you, no household name – yet – but he is one you will quickly acclaim!"

Like anyone listening, no doubt, Lionel held his breath, awaiting the discovery.

"Bach, Beethoven and Brahms have long waited for the revelation of one greater than they to make his appearance!"

He drew the baton from its scabbard with a magnificent sweeping gesture, ascending a small podium before the table. He prayerfully lifted the ivory baton heavenward before again addressing the microphone.

"So listen to me now, ye millions, this premiere of my masterpiece, to which I have appended this sacred epigram:

Holy Triad,
Mighty Trichord,
Immortal Ternary Form.
Find me three times worthy...

He intoned this twice more, facing to the left, then the right. After a pause, he resumed his incantation.

"Three, a sacred number to most religions. The number of sharps in A Major and flats in E-flat Major. A and E-flat – forming the interval of three whole steps – a tritone!

"I... am... Tr'iTone the Great, the Great, the Great – Tr'iTone Trismégistos! I am the thrice-great DIABOLUS IN MUSICA," he shouted, raising his arms with a roaring, indeed even diabolical laugh.

As Tr'iTone triumphantly hit the play button, equally diabolical music started immediately.

Back into the darkness, Lionel ran screaming.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The curtain rises on the corporate office of a major investment firm, Manhattan's JTI Associates, formerly Jott & Tittle, where it is almost midnight and one lone cubicle still remains lit. Adrian Faust is a 50-something mid-level manager who hasn't seen a promotion in over eight years despite dedicated work. Working late at night and alone in his cubicle, fraught with despair, he can sense his impending, inevitable demise, laid off after 24 years of service ("well, so much for loyalty"). 

Adrian imagines receiving a congratulatory plaque for 25 years with the company in his opening aria, 'Just One More Year,' looking forward in a few more years to a comfortable, well-earned retirement. Instead he's wondering when some innocent-looking e-mail, late on a Friday afternoon, will summon him to his supervisor's office. 

Such news, delivered carelessly and lacking any sympathy, will only make him feel less than human, as human resources go. "Coal or wood," he sings, "are resources, and humans quickly burn out." 

Adrian Faust, a dying ember, will be discarded like buckets of ash, the spent remains of a human resource.
 
Unfortunately, he comes to understand, as he looks back on his career, his whole life has been a failure, how he's never had the necessary spark, rising above the merely ordinary.
 
Realizing at this stage of life he lacks that reputation for success to make the transition into another company, too old now to find another job with comparable salary or self-worth. Never rising above "merely ordinary," he sings, "I would give anything to live my years here over again – anything!"
 
Then unexpectedly, a woman dressed in black Prada appears from the darkness, tall, statuesque, very stylish but thoroughly intimidating. Her name is Arachne Webb, the CEO and President of JTI Associates.
 
She offers to grant that very wish in return for one thing: his unquestioning loyalty – and his immortal soul. Adrian instantly agrees, quickly signing the contract, ignoring the usual fine print.
With a puff of smoke, he's suddenly transformed into a handsome 20-Something and almost immediately begins to earn promotions.
 
Young Faust soon occupies a top-floor office, leaving his cubicle in the middle of their headquarter's middle floor behind, earning huge bonuses and a reputation as a specialist in hostile take-overs. Next to Ms. Webb's lavish presidential suite, Adrian's windows give him a spectacular to-die-for view of the city below. And he moves from his efficiency apartment on the Upper West Side that looked out into an unsightly air-shaft into an East Side penthouse with a commanding view of Central Park.
 
He is sent on delicate, often clandestine missions to their European offices and single-handedly brings rival corporations to their knees. He buys companies and sells their assets, firing people and ruining careers. Whenever colleagues meet over lunch and discuss the career of Adrian Faust, they agree he's the quintessential heartless executive.
 
Aside from his sprawling weekend get-away in the woods of Pennsylvania’s Poconos, he owns luxurious vacation homes near San Francisco, Miami (though he hates beaches), and most recently, now, just outside Paris. He and Arachne maintain an impersonal relationship, the sex powerful and exhausting, the question who's screwing whom left unanswered.
 
Best of all, with his off-shore accounts, he hardly pays any taxes, future career advancements guaranteed to eliminate them. He grows immune to the misery of those people he's ruined financially.
 
But after such a meteoric rise with all his fame and wealth, despite having Arachne constantly at his side, Adrian discovers he's being haunted by the ghost of his girlfriend Daisy. She's the only woman he'd ever loved, a simple girl from Iowa who could type 120 words a minute.

She died in a horrible accident several years before Adrian's miraculous transformation, falling in front of a subway train, conveniently leaving little of the body behind – plus there were no witnesses.

Daisy, complaining about her work, often repeated nasty rumors about the CEO, not knowing upper management kept a firm control, monitoring everything workers said and did at work and probably at home: the 'Surveillance Quintet,' stretching from Webb's office to the lowly janitor's closet, was one of the opera's musical highlights.

Daisy's ghost says she hadn't committed suicide, even if the corporate culture ate away at her self-respect and tattered dignity. "I was unworthy of success, they'd complain, not part of the team."

The rest unsaid, Adrian soon finds her spectral visits wearing him down, awakening the conscience he'd thought he'd lost.

"Guilt is the bane of corporate greed," the newly self-knowing Adrian sings, "but what can one do about it?"

This soliloquy ends Act II which is where the incomplete opera stops.

Armin Schreiber could well relate to that, reading over the plot synopsis he'd been working on for Faustus, Inc., a small-time drudge in the festival's machine – "lots of work, little reward." It used to be fun, he thought, before everything became more Americanized, as if the Germans weren't efficient enough.

Wondering how the opera should end, he's sorry he'd agreed to prepare Moonbeam's Powerpoint presentation for tomorrow morning's symposium.

What ghostly apparition would come haunt him tonight, working well past midnight?

When Peter Moonbeam told him earlier about his skype interview with Sullivan though he had not yet listened to it, Schreiber argued it needed to be included in the symposium, without question.

Curious what information he'd find, Schreiber impatiently waited for it to open.

There was Sullivan, smiling: "Hello, testing... Peter?"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Peter Moonbeam opened the door to his hotel room to see the fetchingly clad security officer named Kunegunde Nacht striking a bosomy pose and purring voluptuously, a welcome change from before. Whatever made her reconsider her previous indifference wasn't something to be questioned: he was just delighted to see her.

"Well, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I'd stop by, if you're still thinking about that drink?" Her left hand smoothed down her dress, resting seductively over her thigh.

The trenchcoat aside, she seemed dressed for a night on the town as she sashayed her way into the room. Looking around, she took in her surroundings, then focused on his face.

"Have you been enjoying your visit to Schweinwald so far, Dr. Moonbeam?" she asked with her lips slightly pouting.

"Mmm, 'Doctor' – love the sound of that but please call me Peter," he told her, "I'm not really a doctor." Instead of the hotel bar, he suggested the Mobius Club in Memmingen.

Closing up the laptop, he explained, "I was just finishing up the day's work, so I'm ready to roll."

"Great – I just got off duty myself," she said, stretching her arms, "and I'm positively dying for a drink."

"Alrighty then," he said, "let me just pop into the bathroom, here..."

Moonbeam kept up a constant patter of small talk from the bathroom which Kunegunde acknowledged with the occasional grunt, too busy checking the laptop to see where he kept that interview. Depending on what Sullivan might've told him, there might be enough information to convince people the opera'd been finished.

There were enough rumors going around that not only was it complete, there could be back-up copies as well. Let conspiracy theorists think what they want, but rumor cannot become fact.

"So, Kunegunde – may I call you Kunegunde? – how was your day today," Peter called out cheerily from the bathroom.

"Fine – it was fine," she grunted back, locating the file easily enough.

"And no doubt getting better," she thought, quickly hitting the delete key. Then she discovered something annoying: an e-mail.

"I have this feeling it's going to get a whole lot better," he chirped while letting the water run. He continued in a similar lighthearted vein, nearly inaudible over the faucet.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, "another copy of the interview. How many of these things are there?"

There was also one in the memory stick, she noticed, increasingly annoyed, especially since her time was running out. She ripped it out and pocketed it, knowing what must be done.

Peter Moonbeam bounced out from behind the bathroom door just as Kunegunde pulled a sub-machinegun out from under her trench-coat, raking the room with sprays of bullets, his laptop exploding into fragments.

The look of horror on his face as he fell was priceless, collapsing on the floor, so much dead-weight.

After checking his left wrist, she dialed up Heller Rache and waited.

"Hello, sweetie, Momma's got a job for you."

She found no discernible pulse on Moonbeam, stepping over his lifeless form.

"Yeah, Moonbeam just sent that file to some guy named Armin Schreiber, that sap who works in Festival Programs?

"It would seem both Moonbeam's computer and Moonbeam himself have now crashed," she said, opening the door very quietly. "You'd better eliminate Schreiber and the file: no telling what he'll discover."

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 33 (Part 2)

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, which begins with the first portion of Harrison Harty's journal to be written in code, the idea that the possible murder of Gottlieb Gutknaben could put Harty and his friends at risk. Questions abound as to who might have done this and why, not to mention why it was covered up, but investigations only lead them to further questions. Harty's lesson with Professor Böhm in which he describes how a composer's nerves are like piano wires which vibrate to an 'inner chord,' feeding our creativity. "Losing that, you can lose everything."

= = = = = = =

Chapter 33 (conclusion: a continuation of an excerpt from Harrison Harty's Schweinwald Journal)

It was difficult applying Böhm's helpful words after I left his office – I did not feel "up to the task": if any chord vibrated inside of me, it was tuned to fear. I nearly jumped out of my chair when I'd seen Porlock's face pushing itself forward with an insinuating smile.

"Sorry to bother you, Herr Director, in the midst of a lesson," Dr. Porlock said while ignoring me completely, "but I wonder if you could join me in Dean Bezsmyertnikov's office?"

Nothing more had been said between them, setting my "Inner Chord" jangling. Böhm sighed and stood up, looking tired, and nodded an apology in my direction before he scooted me out, suggesting that I check with Frau Steindreher about finding an empty hour to reschedule my lesson, perhaps for tomorrow.

"Considering the time you were already tardy plus the time already spent," she said as she considered what was available, "it looks like Director Böhm has an unscheduled forty-seven minutes tomorrow afternoon." She wrote me in – in pencil, naturally – as my schedule was accommodating, then urged me not to be late.

"Honestly, Percival," Böhm mumbled as he straightened his tie under his beard, "what is the need for all this?" Porlock said nothing but strode on ahead, officious, stiff and ominously portentous.

As I headed toward the practice rooms to work on some counterpoint or at least write in my journal, I noticed two figures walking toward me, both of them immediately recognizable. Lost in conversation and shrouded by cigar smoke, the skinny, angular form of Professor Fabbro gesticulated with evident enthusiasm. The rotund and comparatively laconic figure of Dr. Johannes Brahms listened intently, his hands tightly clasped behind his back. Fabbro nodded almost imperceptibly as they passed, but Brahms remained completely oblivious.

"So, I'm working on this E-flat Major Piano Trio and completely stuck," Brahms was muttering half under his breath, "but you say these numbers of yours will help me get... unstuck?"

I lost Fabbro's whispered response as they moved further down the hall, wondering what foul-smelling bat-shit they were smoking.

It was a shame Liszt had left so precipitously after his recital, not even bothering to appear at the reception. Was it animosity at the little minds who booed those startling improvisations? Though I didn't like them at first – they made my skin crawl – I would have liked hearing them again. Or, since they were improvisations, after all, what more he would offer, following in the same vein as those. They were the complete opposite of anything in his usual populist vein. It would have been a good experience for a student to hear how he explained what he was thinking: how did he achieve those unusual sonorities; what was in his mind? Also interesting would have been to hear a debate with Dr. Brahms even if it became nothing but posturing.

Music was becoming so thoroughly polarized between the Modernists and the Traditionalists, there was little civil discourse between both factions, screaming and calling each other silly names in a most childish manner. Whatever constructive arguments flew amongst the students, rather than help the situation various members of the faculty worsened it. Fabbro had stood precariously on his chair and shouted imprecations at Liszt, how this "ignominious moment" marked music's death; Bezsmyertnikov whistled and stomped his approval of this "music of the future."

Later, then, today, Mahler, Rott and I sat waiting in Bezsmyertnikov's seminar, the only class he would offer this summer, which he called "Nuance and Mockery in the Critique of New Music." As this would be our first class meeting held since Liszt's recital, there was considerable anticipation in the room. It was even rumoured he extended an invitation to Brahms and Professor Fabbro to join him for today's discussion, so it was generally assumed his lateness was intentionally for dramatic effect. Rott had suggested we divide ourselves according to our own critical reactions, considering almost everyone committed themselves quite readily: those in favour sitting on the left; opposed, sitting on the right. It seemed anyone who might be uncommitted, hooted down as spineless moderates, should occupy the dangerous no-man's-land in between.

While this blustering swept back and forth, I wondered about these meetings, the ones Bezsmyertnikov was holding in his office: in addition to Porlock, were others involved than Knussbaum and Professor Böhm? Could they have been addressing this crisis for and against Liszt's recital and not discussing Gutknaben's death after all? It gave me my first opportunity to feel calmer about the day, considering how Knussbaum's paranoia ignited my own. I took out my journal and continued writing down some personal observations.

The increasingly rowdy students immediately became quiet when the door opened suddenly, all eyes turning in anticipation and curiosity but only to release an immediate and deep sigh of universal disappointment when it turned out to be merely Carmilla Varné, Bezsmyertnikov's erstwhile assistant, who apologized that the Dean was delayed. She explained he had been involved in a series of important meetings on a particularly egregious and contentious subject but chose to say nothing more as she strode about the room.

Carmilla no sooner paused beside me and looked at my journal than her long finger stabbed at the page.

"Herr Harty, please explain what exactly it is that you are writing?"

I said, "to discourage others copying my notes, I write in codes."

"Would not English be sufficient?" she scoffed.

When Bezsmyertnikov finally swept into the room, all eyes continued to wait, looking intently towards the door in eager anticipation even as the Dean stood at the podium and opened his notes. Looking up with a somewhat bemused expression, he called for our attention, coughing nervously one or two more times.

"I apologize for my delay," he said, "but it was unavoidable, unfortunately. Let us speak no more about it." This struck me as odd as nobody had spoken about it yet.

Bezsmyertnikov was, despite his clearly Russian physiognomy, a bit of a dandy, a dapper-looking gentleman compared to bearded Germans, with his pointed goatee, slicked-back hair and a penchant for French cigarettes. Like Carmilla's, the eloquent German he spoke was heavily accented in French, typical of most Russians on the Continent.

The unofficial joke about this seminar's subject – teaching composers to become critics – turned it into a thinly veiled "membership campaign," one designed to swell the ranks of critics with otherwise failed composers. A critic himself who once studied composition, Bezsmyertnikov trained primarily in Paris, most Russians being merely dilettantes until recently. But there was so little need for so many composers, he said, that even with all our advanced training it was not always possible everyone who studied would accomplish his dream.

He stressed at every class how very few of us would succeed – one, with any luck, among the near-great – though naturally each of us were convinced we would be that One. The usual comment was we must not make enemies amongst our colleagues: who might someday become an influential critic? It is always good to have such critics firmly on our side. Even if we failed to make our mark on music as composers, we might manage to influence its future.

These lectures never failed to bring me down a peg or two, directly following my confidence-boosting lessons with Böhm. Bezsmyertnikov struck me as the perpetual siren song of the Dark Side, imbuing ingrained failure with an unacceptable compromise, which I resolved to try my best to combat through prodigious application.

This lecture would not become a discussion about Liszt's strange new music nor about what he'd called its "ineluctable modality," fighting for the future of music by pitting one side against another. The professor, after taking a deep breath, perhaps remembering some distant pleasure, picked up where he'd left off before.

"I ended our last meeting," he reminisced, "talking about our poor Schumann, famous critic but composer struggling for recognition, likely otherwise forgotten but for his wife or his famous protege, Brahms.

"Herr Mahler, if you please," he said, "say you become a critic after no one will perform your compositions: you are forced to review performances of music other than your own. No doubt, you would have your own agenda regarding music and aesthetics, but how would you feel about that?"

He continued looking around the room again, not waiting for Mahler's response, and asked Herr Rott what he would do, reviewing a famous conductor who'd already refused to play his unplayable symphony. Rott, already sweating, squirmed in his seat and twisted his legs together, stammering unintelligibly before Bezsmyertnikov cut him off.

Looking at me, he scowled at length before asking a similar question, though with more edge to his voice. "Harty, someone gives you a bad review: would you resort... to murder?"

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

I remember nothing of what happened during the rest of the class after everyone desperately tried to hide their amusement. Of course, to my way of thinking, this was no idle joke. Bezsmyertnikov was letting each of us know he was 'on' to us and threatening us to be very careful. When the end of class finally arrived, he dismissed us with nothing beyond an airy wave of his hand, but reserved for the three of us a haughty yet malevolent glance. As we wandered out of the classroom, Ethel waited impatiently for us, barely able to contain her intense excitement. She looked as if she swallowed something and was about to erupt. We didn't want the explosion to happen within the hearing of Bezsmyertnikov, so we hurried her down the hall.

"Whatever is the matter," she kept muttering, "have you lost your minds," highly incensed by our brusque and ungentlemanly behaviour. We managed to get her further away before Bezsmyertnikov left the classroom. "Stop pushing me this instant," she cried until we had to stop or risk creating a possibly worse scene.

"Come," I said in a conspiratorial whisper, "we need to have privacy! Someone could easily overhear anything we say." We dodged into the first practice room that we could find empty.

What had so excited her, in fact, she began breathlessly to explain, was overhearing something she probably shouldn't have.

"There I was, standing in the hall, minding my own business, naturally."

Rott was about to make some sarcastic comment she would find annoying but I stopped him before he could.

"Then I heard their voices from around the corner where I stood. I was sure they couldn't see me."

When she paused as if for effect, I blurted out impatiently, "and...?"

Despite the noise from a near-by pianist, she crouched down and whispered, "It was Brahms talking quietly with Fabbro. Apparently there's a special dinner party at the Falkenstein's tonight, very private."

"And they immediately invited you," Rott complained. He desperately wanted to arrange a meeting with Brahms about his symphony.

To make a long story slightly shorter, given the limited time available, she reminded us she'd met Brahms in Leipzig while she was staying with his friends the Herzogenbergs, also her teachers, and it bothered her that the whole time she'd been at Schweinwald he's done nothing but completely ignore her. Regardless, he and Fabbro were talking about something very secretively, something "clandestine," but something Fabbro would "reveal" to Brahms which, for reasons of "personal security" had been "hidden in Falkenstein's basement."

That reminded me that I, too, had overheard both of them talking, probably only minutes before or after this, how Brahms, finding himself stuck, thought this would help him become unstuck.

"Something special in the basement," Mahler smiled, "like maybe a wine cellar?"

"Or water from the Fountain of Inspiration?"

Of the four of us, Rott was always the one most likely to come up with the least likely solution, an imagination completely unencumbered by the rigors of ingrained craftsmanship and training. His was a mind with only slight connections between fantasy and reality, something at times Mahler may have envied. We knew that Fabbro was the strictest disciplinarian on the Schweinwald faculty and such a fountain was entirely ludicrous. But considering the secrecy that was involved, it must be something momentous.

Since I could see no obvious connection between this and Gutknaben's murder, I had no idea why I went along with Ethel's sneaking over to the Falkensteins to spy on this dinner, but clearly something was going on beneath the Academy's placid surface implying, perhaps, in some odd way, it did. Was Gutknaben killed because he'd found out something inappropriate was going on and someone thought he should be eliminated? And wasn't it possible, I reminded her, we'd meet the same fate? Nonetheless, nothing would stop her and of course we three followed suit, standing by the front parlor's window, waiting. She had made her own arrangements and packed us a light supper. Before long, Brahms, Fabbro and the Hammerschlags got into the Director's fiacre and headed downhill in a stately manner.

We then hurried out a side door, walking quickly to the stable where the groom Hannes, apparently sweet on Ethel, waited with a rickety phaeton pulled by an old mare named Grimgerde. We were careful not to be seen – everyone else was at dinner – since we'd be breaking several significant regulations. Ethel immediately leaned over and yanked the reins out of Mahler's hands though he knew enough not to argue: her bounding over chairs, backs and all, made her an intimidating presence.

The wagon, such as it was, took off at a leisurely pace, trotting modestly down the path toward the village, our presumed goal should anyone catch us and wonder where we're going. However, it wasn't too long before we'd arrive at the Falkenstein's gate where we'd hide Grimgerde in the bushes. But something apparently spooked the horse because, no sooner under the trees, I realized the carriage was aptly named, considering Phaeton, Apollo's son, nearly crashed the Sun Chariot into the earth.

It was all I could do to keep Rott from falling out as we careened from side to side. We would soon pass Brahms in the stately fiacre, at this rate. It wouldn't surprise me that somehow HWIDNWTN knew what we were doing and we'd all fall to our demise.

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Act III, Chapter 33 (Part 1)

(you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, the brief conclusion to Act II, Zenn's sanctuary has been invaded by agents from both SHMRG and the International Music Police. As the smoke clears and it's discovered LauraLynn has been abducted, IMP Special Forces director Leahy-Hu explains what her investigation has so far discovered. But that doesn't answer the question: if that wasn't Dhabbodhú, then who is he and why is he after what now turns out to be a statue of Beethoven?

*** ***** ******** ***** ***
ACT III
*** ***** ******** ***** ***

Chapter 33

...being the 2nd installment of Master Harrison Harty's Journal, Summer of 1880
(which, for some reason, suddenly continues in code)

...that I should proceed cautiously, holding a mirror to Brahms and Mahler before finding myself reflected in its circumstances: if in fact Gutknaben had been murdered, was I also in danger? My new friends seemed more than distressed by these sudden possibilities thrown into our anxious if otherwise happy midst. What peril had Gutknaben found himself in; how would it affect us? As it was, none of us could sleep after discovering the body and sat up long into the night discussing various possibilities about what had happened but especially why it happened and why in particular practically everyone on the faculty seemed so quick to dismiss it as an unfortunate accident. We four friends sat in Mahler and Rott's room talking about it until long after the sun had come up and we heard the bell announcing it was now time for breakfast. Ethel was the lone voice of reason while Mahler sank into silence and Rott ran wild with numerous theories. He seemed to be obsessively focused on the mysterious appearance of Brahms, despite no one else having seen him, until I also pointed out how Knussbaum had shown up almost immediately.

Once everyone settled down to their breakfast after Knussbaum improvised his fugue, this morning based on "Vor deinen Thron," Dean Bezsmyertnikov stepped up to the podium and spoke solemnly to everyone, confirming rather matter-of-factly that news then circulating throughout the school was true, that young Gottlieb Gutknaben was found dead.

"It was, and I stress this," he continued quietly, "an unfortunate accident, a most tragic accident, considering all that, that a student so talented should have died so uselessly so young."

It made me wonder what a useful death would have been like, how that could have been any better, when Bezsmyertnikov announced that, while avoiding details, local police had already arrived, thoroughly examined the scene and its particulars and agreed with the assessment already reached by the faculty: "an accident."

While everyone else, clearly stunned by the announcement, was watching Bezsmyertnikov closely, I instead watched the face of Director Böhm and noticed he in turn was watching Knussbaum, seated by the organ, whose face was turned downward, a frown barely hidden by the beard he constantly stroked apparently with considerable misgivings. I sensed the students' sudden restraint in not shouting out their approval when Bezsmyertnikov announced morning classes were canceled, despite my never finishing Fabbro's counterpoint assignment meant this was welcome news. The chapel would be open if we needed a place to meditate, something he strongly urged us to consider, and Percival Porlock, Schweinwald's chaplain, was available for anyone needing spiritual guidance. Like many fellow students, we four friends chose to stand in contemplation by the statue where Gutknaben had died.

By the time we managed to arrive at the castle's Great Landing, a considerable crowd had already begun to gather around a traditional mourning wreath placed there with white lilies and edelweiss. Several students, including many I didn't know, came over to express condolences, a few adding, "find who did this." It surprised me that, given the circumstances, there were others who believed this had not been a simple accident. It made me feel even more resolved to figure out what happened.

We continued standing, well after everyone else had left or passed by, then looked at each other before looking around to make sure we were, by this time, completely alone and unobserved. Mahler, stroking his beard again, had been getting increasingly impatient with everyone, dropping hints we wanted to be alone. As the deep furrows in his brow darkened over his intense stare, I could see him concentrating on something. His habitual foot-tapping now became less noticeable despite his clearly increasing annoyance. A head shorter than Rott or myself, Mahler was still a presence except when 'the tic' was upon him, this irritating tapping of his right foot or his uneven, unrhythmical walk. We all, perhaps, had our little idiosyncrasies but given his ill-proportioned stature, these were without doubt difficult to ignore.

"There is nothing to show it was even an accident," Mahler said, "if it weren't for this one small bloodstain. Otherwise he could have simply dropped dead – as if his heart stopped."

"Are you thinking he might have been..." Rott paused, "...scared to death?"

"That," I considered, "sounds a little far-fetched."

I'd read enough 'penny-dreadfuls' in my day, particularly Matthew Lewis' The Monk, to know one could open secret passageways that would lead to a hidden room where someone might be imprisoned.

But no sooner had Mahler noticed a fragment of a bloody fingerprint than we heard the echo of footsteps coming quickly toward us down the steps from the faculty residences above. Mahler showed me how someone, pushing against the statue's base just there, had gotten their finger in Gutknaben's blood.

It was Ethel who first saw who was coming and went to distract him with a bit of conversation.

"Dr. Porlock," she said, coughing, "what a horrid day this has been!"

"Just so, my dear," Porlock said impatiently, not slowing down his pace while producing a rag wreaking of carbolic. "And these rumours I hear of murder? Most dreadful," he said, clucking. "Who first would be suspected of such? Those who find the body!" He laughed, wiping away the bloody stain.

"Do you think Old Porlock was trying to frighten us," Rott asked, raking his fingers through his thick hair.

"He apparently did a good job of frightening you," Ethel told him.

We were hurrying back to my room, sitting anywhere while avoiding the bed Gutknaben would never sleep in again.

"But what did he mean by that," I wondered aloud, twisting uncomfortably, trying not to look at Gutknaben's things. Ethel, with obvious superiority, sat right down at his desk, totally unconcerned.

"You don't think one of our professors could've killed Gutknaben, do you?" Rott looked uncomfortable at the thought of it. "I mean, what would be the point? Why would they do that?"

"Why would anyone commit murder," Mahler mumbled, "except for some specific reason? Very likely, someone has to gain something."

"But it makes no sense with Gutknaben," Ethel said, sounding very methodical. "Who was going to gain from killing him?" She began mindlessly poking around his desk and left her question hang.

"Perhaps he had a composition," Mahler suggested, "that someone wanted to steal, maybe pass it off as his own?"

Rott continued to twist his legs nervously. "I've got a symphony – maybe..."

"Yes, Hans, we know," Ethel chided him.

"The difference is, Rott, nobody'd want to steal your symphony," I joked.

Ethel sat drumming her fingers over some papers on Gutknaben's desk in a gesture that began to annoy me; then she stared up toward the ceiling as if lost in thought.

"Did either of you notice anything about the body," she asked casually, "anything that was – well, different or unexpected?"

"Nothing beyond the wound on his forehead," I said, looking somewhat confused. "It hadn't struck me as that serious."

"It was a jagged wound, wasn't it," Rott said, "not a bump?"

"Right, because a jagged wound would have been from a sharp corner, not a smooth surface, am I right?"

"So, the bloodstain marks the corner of some opening on the pedestal?"

"And the fingerprint would belong to whoever closed it later," Mahler assumed, "except that Old Porlock's wiped it away."

Ethel, now quiet, was reading a paper she'd found on the desk, having lost any interest in our conversation.

"More to the point," Rott continued, "is who opened it and why?"

I still thought it might be the opening to some secret passage leading to some place underneath the statue.

"You think it's a secret Gutknaben knew, somebody else wanted to know but yet it was worth killing for?"

Rott sounded like he didn't believe me but he suggested no alternatives.

"But remember, nobody else had been there after we sounded the alarm except," I pointed out, "either faculty or administration."

"So it's someone who's on the staff?"

"Or maybe Brahms," Rott suggested.

"What I'm still wondering about," I added, "is what Professor Böhm said right before Gutknaben disappeared from the reception."

"But this doesn't make the least sense," Ethel muttered, slowly turning around, like it was something we didn't already know. "This piece of paper on Gutknaben's desk – Harty, is this his handwriting?"

She handed me some old manuscript paper with strange symbols on it which clearly were not written by Gutknaben.

"Perhaps it was one of his assignments," I pondered, shrugging my shoulders. The bell sounded for classes to resume.

"You haven't seen this before?" she asked. "A fine detective you'd make!"

After Ethel pocketed the paper and left, we went about our day though it was difficult for us to concentrate, after sitting through a fairly somber lunch, then attending our afternoon classes. The rest of my schedule was light, just Old Hammerschlag's harmony class and my piano lesson with Frau Hammerschlag. I wanted to talk to Professor Böhm, but according to his secretary, the suitably hatchet-faced gorgon, Frau Medusa Steindreher, he was unfortunately involved in meetings all afternoon and was otherwise unavailable.

Much of my time was spent day-dreaming, reminiscing about Lewis' The Monk which I had read as a child and which kept coming back to me, especially one particularly dramatic scene where the heroine's rescued after having been imprisoned in a secret vault, left to die beneath a cemetery statue.

Whenever I managed to walk through the Great Landing past Sechter's monument, there were always several other students standing about, so I never got to check the pedestal for a secret panel when I noticed someone removed all the flowers placed in Gutknaben's memory that had been piling up all day. Returning to my room before dinner, then, I found an official notice which had been posted on my door: my things were taken to another room and Gutknaben's had been removed.

My new location, in a different hall far distant from Mahler's room, had previously been occupied by an Italian who, quite predictably, had already left Schweinwald for lack of any progress. My new roommate, a taciturn Russian named Ivan Nakyablokhoff, spoke no English and possessed a most intimidatingly churlish attitude. When I reported that some of my notebooks seemed to be missing, one of the proctors apologized rather lamely they must've been jumbled with Gutknaben's things and returned to his family. So instead, I spent the night trying to sleep on Mahler's couch after an unsatisfactory dinner with guarded conversation until our curiosity, newly revived, managed to get the better of us. We then decided, under cover of darkness, to steal down the hallway and examine the statue's pedestal more thoroughly.

We had no sooner reached our goal, aided by our dim candles, and started pushing and prodding around the statue when we all simultaneously became aware we were not in fact alone. Watching us from the shadows was someone tall, dressed all in black and accompanied by a large black cat. I immediately recognized Bezsmyertnikov's assistant, Carmilla Varné, and her cat Czerny (one assumed he'd been named after Beethoven's pupil). She also edited Dunkle Welle – 'Dark Wave' – a periodical espousing modernist aesthetics.

Stepping forward into our pool of light, she was wearing dark make-up that accentuated the paleness of her face, diaphanous sleeves of black gauze giving her the appearance of having wings. In her insinuating hiss of a voice, she threatened to tell Bezsmyertnikov – "if you know what I mean, Werner!"

Once we stopped running and reached safety, locking the door behind us, Mahler accused Rott of rhapsodizing over the occult, seeing vampires when there was nothing to suggest it beyond over-stimulated nerves. Rott and I both read a great deal about such unsavory things, unable to disregard them quite so easily.

"The problem," I argued, "is there is too much to suggest it but not enough one could prove it." Nonetheless, the three of us spent an uncomfortable night unable to sleep.

The next morning after breakfast, we found Professor Knussbaum in his studio, a space little more than a massive clutter surrounding a score-laden grand piano topped by a huge bust of Beethoven. The inner room, if one could navigate the numerous piles of manuscripts, was where an assistant could copy parts.

"You know, boys, I've never been backward about coming forward," he muttered, "even when I've said more than enough, but you know how everything can be traced back to the Master."

We knew how Old Knussbaum (who must by now be over eighty) never failed to mention he'd met Beethoven, a spindly teen-aged dance-band musician at Teplitz the summer Beethoven was there. Friends for the rest of his life, he ran errands for him, especially regarding a close lady-friend outside Vienna.

Now when the Master died, Knussbaum cut a lock of Beethoven's hair and secretly left it with this special friend. In turn, she gave him their letters which, as requested, he burned.

"It pained me so to do that," he said, wiping his brow, "but he wanted her to have it."

He'd placed the hair in a locket, silver and beautiful, easily recognizable, which returned one summer, addressed to him. This locket was passed on to Sechter and eventually to Professor Böhm.

"Was that the locket I'd seen Gottlieb Gutknaben wearing after Liszt's recital? Böhm had placed it around his neck. Now I remember – he wasn't wearing it when we found his body!"

Before I could ask him, "But why," Knussbaum nodded toward the door with a cautionary finger to his lips.

After hiding us in the copyist's room, he opened his studio door to find Dr. Porlock ready to knock. Summoned to a special meeting with Bezsmyertnikov, Knussbaum at first excused himself.

"I'm sorry," Porlock said, "but your presence is urgently required. Please hurry."

Knussbaum said he must first clean his pens.

"Then join us as soon as you've put things away," Porlock sniffed.

Knussbaum hurried us into the fireplace, telling us to make no turns. We found ourselves in a dark passageway.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

The biggest problem, perhaps, with trying to write regularly in this journal is that writing regularly is not so easy, the time available being what it is, compared to the time required. No sooner had I gotten around to finally recording this climactic moment than it was time for another class. It occurred to me to wait until we had achieved our goal before writing out a complete, detailed account, except it's like taking notes in class to prepare for the exam. So, if I failed to keep up with events as they happened, I am sure I would forget things: who knows what tiny item, in hindsight, might prove to have significance? What matter of detail or strange turn, at the moment seemingly minor, would later turn out to be monumental? It seemed odd that I and my friends should feel so strongly about what had happened to my poor roommate in the face of almost universal opposition regarding his most unfortunate death. It was as if some inexplicable conspiracy arose to keep the truth from making any sense of the tragedy. Every time I pondered some new question, it wasn't answers I found but a whole new array of questions. By working these out in my journal, perhaps some conclusion is possible.

It had not occurred to me before that we would find ourselves involved in some enterprise that was dangerous, but why did we have to hide when Porlock interrupted our visit? Why was Knussbaum concerned Porlock would see him talking with some students unless we were unwittingly breaking some rules? Why was the Dean of Students' assistant roaming the halls enforcing curfew, something usually left to the upperclass proctors, unless Carmilla was specifically on the look-out only at one specific location? What if it wasn't just some students Knussbaum was seen talking to but it was we four in particular, if rumours of our quest to find Gutknaben's murderer were unwelcome ones? If students knew there were too many unanswered questions regarding Gutknaben's death, who would find such skepticism a threat?

And so I find myself sitting at my desk late at night, "studying" by the guttering light of my candle, listening to the implacable snores of my roommate, the menacing bully Nokyablokhoff, a mindful presence even when fast asleep, a nosy one when awake, always looking over my shoulder, ever vigilant. The code seemed like a double safety since he understood no English, except that I was writing everything backwards: would that give my secret purpose away more than by writing normally? Yet this wasn't just protection from him or anyone he reported to, assuming he was another spy for Bezsmyertnikov, but protection against any other prying eye who'd wonder what I'm writing. The code was difficult enough to familiarize myself with, writing al rovescio, but I soon mastered it quite naturally.

And yet I see I have just written "another spy for Bezsmyertnikov." Why did that suddenly pop into my head? Both he and Nokyablokhoff are Russians, true, and Carmilla is Bezsmyertnikov's assistant. Am I somehow assuming the Dean is the one behind Gutknaben's murder and he is trying to protect himself? Considering other notebooks of mine had 'disappeared' when my belongings were moved, this journal cannot attract attention to itself: so I'll start taking all my notes for every class in code.

Could that mean that Bezsmyertnikov – how I hate even writing his name – might perceive us as a danger to himself and that we need to be eliminated as, perhaps, he eliminated Gutknaben? Here we are, running down a dark passageway through ancient castle walls, keeping ourselves hidden from... whom – and why? Why couldn't we have just remained out of sight in Knussbaum's study until it would be safe to leave? Was Porlock spying for Him Whom I Do Not Wish to Name? If HWIDNWTN had killed Gutknaben because the boy knew something he shouldn't, it stood to reason he'd kill us to protect himself regarding whatever Gutknaben knew which we might now uncover. Which led us to yet another question which needed to be answered: "what the hell was going on, here?"

I should beg any future reader's pardon for using such salubrious language unbecoming to those on the verge of gentlemanhood but I am only quoting Ethel who never considered herself a gentleman. She wondered what was behind Knussbaum's concern, what other meanings there were, while Mahler tried looking behind the metaphor. Rott dismissed Knussbaum as a batty antique – "he must be close sixty!" – with all his talk of secret letters, then shoving us off through his fireplace into some dark secret passage.

Shoving a well-spent candlestick into my hand, Knussbaum said, "Make no turns," his hand meanwhile weaving back and forth, "until you reach a kind of 'T,' then press the stone gingerly." In fact, we found ourselves in a tunnel making nothing but turns, a tunnel made of nothing but stone. Where this path would eventually lead us, none of us could say, nor who might greet us upon arrival. One thing was abundantly clear: this tunnel was clean and frequently used.

I can only hope in the future, should anything happen to us, someone follows this journal to the end and discovers what perhaps we have not or only come close to; because quite clearly all is not well this summer at Castle Schweinwald, that there is more beneath the surface.

Another break, quickly overcome by sleep before I could finish this entry, desperately trying to keep myself abreast of events: soon, I will be so hopelessly behind, catching up will be impossible. Anyway, we'd reached the 'T' Knussbaum mentioned but there seemed many stones, all of which we tried pushing against. Rott pointed out Knussbaum had said 'gingerly' and, being red-haired, he thought it meant he should do the pushing. He was also the tallest, though not nearly as tall as Knussbaum. I suggested he reach up and try the keystone of this archway with two small holes just beneath it. Peering through the holes, Rott saw nothing but a poorly lit space. When the wall gave way, gliding open, a draft extinguished our candle, leaving just enough room to squeeze through.

We found ourselves on the Great Landing not far from Sechter's statue, having walked through the portrait of Director Böhm which now, with equal silence, proceeded to glide effortlessly back into place. So this was how Knussbaum mysteriously appeared the night of the murder – and perhaps explained Herr Brahms' mysterious disappearance. Opposite us, I saw my roommate standing with his back to us: I doubt he noticed our sudden arrival. The bell had already rung: I was late for my composition lesson.

When Frau Secretary Steindreher looked up and croaked "You're tardy, Herr Harty," I apologized I'd been lost in thought. "Contemplating another compositional conundrum, I wouldn't doubt," she sighed in mild exasperation. "I'm convinced composers are all the same with all the same excuses, the most disorganized creatures in the world."

"That's not entirely fair, Ma'am," I stuttered. "I'm sure Professor Fabbro's different. I've never met anyone quite so organized."

"And thank Heaven for that," she sniffed. "But Professor Böhm is waiting."

It was reassuring to think Frau Steindreher, usually so efficient and brusque, could take even two seconds to chat, that someone behind such a foreboding exterior could like anyone, especially me. But once past the gorgon's fearsome gate, inside was warmth and ease: Professor Böhm looked up and smiled welcomingly.

He apologized for having only just returned from a meeting with Bezsmyertnikov, frowning a little at the taste it left, glad that I was only later still and didn't have to wait. "Otherwise," he said, nodding toward the door, "she would still be complaining if I had kept a student waiting."

As we seated ourselves at the piano, he held out his hand and closed my sketchbook with a smile. "How have you been taking all this? You seem a bit preoccupied."

Without getting into any of the details or mentioning Gutknaben by name, he said how 'this' had affected everyone, sitting back comfortably, a tall thin man with an expansive graying beard. His gray eyes were deep with concern as he nodded his head, listening to me as I unburdened myself.

Böhm began quietly at first, how "a composer is a bundle of nerves pulled taut like piano wires" – he chuckled – "how, in order to resonate, composers must feel up to the task. If we are in tune with ourselves, then," he added, "we succeed. If not..." He left the statement hang.

"We each have this 'Inner Chord' that vibrates to our own frequency. It is this which feeds our creativity. Remember – losing that, you can lose everything!"

Someone knocked at the door.


= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapter 32

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, Lionel Roth, shocked by what he has witnessed (and you think you know a person...), discovers a secret passage leading from his room to an undisclosed location in the depths of Castle Schweinwald where a man he thought was his friend Dhabbodhú but is now apparently Tr'iTone is performing some strange ritual. In another castle, Dr. Kerr realizes the newly revealed artifact-within-the-artifact may lead to whatever Rob's killer is looking for when they are interrupted by yet another explosion. Peter Moonbeam prepares to e-mail a file - Rob Sullivan's final interview - just as he receives a visit from that sexy security agent he'd met earlier. Meanwhile, things are getting even more dangerous at Zenn's chalet as gunfire erupts and LauraLynn is abducted by... well, who, exactly?


= = = = = = =
Chapter 32

"He had said the next time it would be real," I remembered, thinking back to that distant summer in Maine when we were hiding in the attic from Rob's obnoxious cousin Maurie. But that was years ago and we've all grown up since then: how had the years changed Maurie Harty?

But this guy wasn't Maurie – could not have been Maurie, could he? – way too big, too tall, for Maurie. Even steroids and a hellacious exercise program couldn't turn Maurie into that!

The man I thought was Dhabbodhú but who, briefly, could've been Cousin Maurie – well, that would explain a motive – took off down the mountain toward the Zugspitze and the Austrian border.

Special Forces Director Yoda Leahy-Hu strode toward the center of the room and the table where we'd been hiding.

I'd scrambled to my feet, glad to find myself among the living, glancing around at the number of dead bodies then, ascertaining Cameron wasn't one of them, grabbing the statue from Zenn. Momentarily distracted by tallying the body count, Leahy-Hu didn't seem to notice that I stuffed it into my tote-bag.

Howard Zenn was, miraculously, also not wounded, sitting there contemplative as before, off in some trance-like state, no doubt, where his mind continued to work feverishly until I had interrupted him.

Snapping out of it, Zenn looked around amazed at what had happened during what appeared to be his absence: two considerable holes in the dungeon's walls, bodies all over the floor, not to mention bullet holes and shattered objets d'art everywhere in between, just like in the proverbial war zone.

"Our apologies," Leahy-Hu said with a condescending nod, "for what happened here, but I'm afraid it couldn't be helped. Now that these two are in custody, there's some explaining to do."

Tucking back several stray wisps of hair, she began by telling Cameron how his friend Fictitia helped locate them. "All we had to do was follow her tweets," she smiled.

"Fictitia...?"

"But we hadn't thought you'd kidnap her as part of your scheme: yet another charge to be considered."

"Kidnapped...?"

Stepping forward, her hand held out menacingly, she demanded the Maltese Mozart.

"Though it's not officially registered as an antiquity, your interest in it proved suspicious, especially your actions after we met."

Naturally, I was thinking her sudden appearance at that moment and her interest in it were also highly suspicious.

"My actions were to protect something I thought the killer was after," not wanting to take it any further. Considering everything I was thinking, what if she were the real mastermind?

Looking at the fragments strewn before her, Yoda Leahy-Hu couldn't figure out why anyone would even remotely want this: not me, not Robertson Sullivan, not, for that matter, even the killer.

"So, what does all this have to do with Robertson Sullivan's murder?" Leahy-Hu cocked her head expectantly and frowned.

"If Dr. Dhabbodhú was after this artifact for whatever reason," I wondered, "wouldn't that've been sufficient motive to murder Rob? Dhabbodhú was there when Rob was killed and wasn't that him just...?"

"Dhabbo-who!?" Leahy-Hu blurted out skeptically, mumbling something about the hulk Fictitia saw, that photo she'd posted following the explosion.

"No," she said, "the man we're after is Garth Widor – of SHMRG. Like you, Dhabbodhú is merely a distraction."

Through the rubble of the one hole stepped a familiar figure.

"D'Arcy!"

"I now realize," D'Arcy began, "that Festival Director Robertson Sullivan was murdered to stop us from premiering his new opera."

"That seems a bit extreme to me," Zenn said, with considerable alarm.

"We also think," he continued, "that the opera had already been completed, the full score copied to a CD-Rom."

I didn't let on that I knew it was and the CD had also been stolen by the killer.

"Whoever has a copy," D'Arcy mentioned, "may find themselves in real danger."

"SHMRG is unrelentingly intent on controlling the world's music industry," Leahy-Hu explained.

"Yes," I mentioned, "I've... heard of them."

"I'm afraid I've never been on SHMRG's good side," Zenn whispered proudly.

"Apparently," Leahy-Hu said, "something Robertson Sullivan had done must've crossed the line: sabotaging his opera was to punish him."

"But what did that have to do with trying to kill him? Canceling the opera would certainly be one thing..." The artifact and its clues made for a much more compelling case.

"It turns out," D'Arcy continued, "this is part of some larger plot, fueled by the premiere of his opera."

"Franz-Dieter Zeitgeist, Schweinwald's former director, did not die in a skiing accident," the Special Forces Director began to explain.

"Yes, I know," I said. "I'd already told Mr. D'Arcy that earlier."

"It had been made to look like an accident," D'Arcy told me, "and not even the police suspected anything different."

"But didn't Rob say anything," I asked.

Leahy-Hu leaned forward. "About what?"

"Rob told me Zeitgeist mentioned death threats he'd received," I replied uncomfortably. "He never told the police about that?"

"I know we both thought Leahy-Hu was after Rob's artifact," D'Arcy said with a deferential nod in her direction.

Looking at her uncomfortably, I also nodded as she scrunched her brows.

"The person suspected of Robertson Sullivan's murder," she said, "already murdered Zeitgeist – now he's succeeded in kidnapping Ms. Harty."

"You see, Professor," D'Arcy continued to explain, "Director Leahy-Hu isn't the villain."

"So if that wasn't Dhabbodhú just now, who the hell is he – and why the hell's he after this?"

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014

The Lost Chord: Chapters 30 & 31

The Lost Chord

(a classical music appreciation comedy thriller by Richard Alan Strawser: you can read it from the beginning, here.)

In the previous installment, Zenn helps Dr. Kerr, Cameron and LauraLynn figure out some important details about the mysterious artifact they found in Rob Sullivan's office, but when more unexpected visitors show up, Zenn leads them to a hiding place. Once secure in the safety of an old dungeon, Zenn produces another surprise - the missing head from the porcelain figurine. When reattached, it has an even more surprising effect on the artifact. 

= = = = = = =
Chapter 30

"Dhabbodhú couldn't have known I was there! Did he see me watching...?" It was minutes before he could breathe again.

Lionel continued hiding for several more minutes once Dhabbodhú lumbered away, muttering.

"Dr. Dhabbodhú," he thought, shuddering, "my agent, if that's his real name – if he's, like, even a real agent..."

Perhaps the man called Dhabbodhú hadn't actually been responsible for Sullivan's murder, but Lionel saw who killed this man.

"But could this person, this... – this monster – still be the same guy?"

Maybe this is like Jekyll and Hyde, where Dr. Dhabbodhú becomes this... "What'd he call himself? Tritone, was it?" Lionel couldn't remember what created the monster in Robert Louis Stevenson's story.

Maybe Dhabbodhú was running experiments on himself, studying split personalities, clinical schizophrenia – like a therapist, he thought, into self-medicating.

And what was all this talk about a fountain and some gizmo, stuff playing over and over in his mind? Dhabbodhú sounded absolutely obsessed with finding them yet it made no sense. If he was an acclaimed publishing agent, giving up music years ago, what possible rivalry was there with Sullivan?

Lionel wasn't able to figure it out, whether this guy was OCD, schizophrenic, bipolar or maybe just plain delusional, and he'd been reading a great deal about many such disorders on-line.

After several years with therapists as respected (and expensive) as Dr. deMento, it's possible this brief association with Dhabbodhú has set him back decades of treatment, wiping away any real improvement.

“If my bedrock foundation's shattered,” Lionel worried, “what help can Dhabbodhú be? I must somehow get away from him.”

Highlights of his recent years in therapy flashed disappointingly before his eyes, then since his first meeting with Dhabbodhú, when Lionel had one of those epiphanies he found intense and frightening.

Had Dhabbodhú brought him here to Germany to keep him from talking, because he thought he knew too much? Would Lionel just quietly disappear, completely unnoticed, into this spooky, remote castle?

"If Dhabbodhú planned on silencing me permanently, I must never talk again. He must never know what I know."

Lionel cursed the boredom which made him want to explore the castle: what harm could there have been in that? Otherwise, there'd be nothing to do but wait till he fell sleep. He decided maybe improvising at the piano would help calm his nerves.

"Huh – this one has a middle pedal."

Since most pianos he'd played only had two pedals – damper and soft – he started to press down on it only to discover, not surprisingly, it didn't work, so he tried again.

Then the strangest thing happened: he saw the wall start sliding open, revealing a narrow dark hallway behind it and he heard his own voice echoing through his head, "no, don't...!"

Rather than running to hide, his curiosity got the better of him and he disappeared, stepping into the darkness.

He figured he could yell or scream but who would hear him? So he kept going toward a flickering light. That was when he found an opening looking out into the parlor.

There, he saw the man he thought was Dhabbodhú attack a stranger, then drag the body into the room.

It was some time before he realized he'd been wandering around aimlessly, still lost in a labyrinth of passageways.

He snapped out of it when he thought he heard Dhabbodhú's voice.

"Time cannot be rushed, cannot be cheated – only when it is ready: my Symphony for One Whose Time Has Come!"

Someone was roaring from deep inside the castle, a vast hollow-sounding room.

Lionel found two pin-pricks of light, holes, probably eyes in some painting, but looking out he could see everything.

It was like a vast recording studio, electronic equipment and computers everywhere, including a mixer board with twenty-four channels. Tr'itone stood naked, arms aloft, consecrating a CD like a communion wafer.

Arsin, thesin – cantillation.
Frottola, fauxbourdon – mensuration.
Angels of Lucifer, find me worthy:
Prepare me for my Revelation.

Then Tr'iTone mumbled about receiving no response, some inconsiderate woman, his threat...

Lionel didn't remember the colorful CD jacket sitting beside the mixer board, but recognized the old letter he'd delivered.

Tr'iTone was concentrating intently on his plan, his great project, his debut, the premiere of his newest and greatest work, the critical response positively explosive, his reputation spreading rapidly, an uncontrolled flame! But first, he must find this fountain to ensure his unconditional success or he'd kill anyone who disliked it.

"They are being difficult," he grumbled, trying not to lose his focus. "Does he think he can ignore me? They will pay dearly for this affront! Perfection is the only option!"

Some of the greatest names would be attending this conference tomorrow morning, a tribute to their fallen colleague, Robertson Sullivan. Tr'iTone knew when they heard his masterpiece, they'd immediately comprehend his genius. Only recently had this become his obsession, despite not having been invited, showing them he would outshine his teacher.

"My Symphonie pour celui dont le temps est venu will be revealed, bursting upon them in its celestial glory! It will explode in all its brilliance and everyone will be awestruck!"

But when it would all be over, tipping his head back triumphantly, once all the dust had eventually settled, there was only one name everyone would talk about: not Sullivan's.

"Mine!"

He broke out in what could only be called a diabolical laugh then turned his attention to the table.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

"OMG," we all gasped, sitting back astounded: "It breaks my heart," indeed, afraid at first the artifact had been ruined. Instead, it split open along the cracks, peeling away like a banana. Or more to the point, I reconsidered, like some exotic lotus blossom, revealing inside it some new, unexpected treasure.

There, inside a porcelain statue of Mozart lay hidden yet another statue, a smaller one, apparently made of bronze, this one clearly of Ludwig van Beethoven peering outward, deep in thought.

"No wonder we'd thought the Maltese Mozart was heavier than it looked. Amazing – Mozart was only the outer casing." But what possible significance could this have, interpreting any of the clues?

On the other hand, if Beethoven was supposed to be the focus, the concept of heart-break made more sense.

"Does this look familiar, anyone?" Zenn asked, handing it over to me, pausing to take a closer look at it. Even in the dim light, I could tell Zenn's hands were shaking.

Carefully, I took the statue from him, feeling its heft and substance. Why did it seem heavier than before?

"Recognize? You mean, like, the Beethoven statue at the Festspielhaus?" Cameron asked.

LauraLynn recognized it. "Originally from Schweinwald Castle."

"Part of a fountain there," I recalled, "and Dhabbodhú's seeking a fountain!"

The castle had been deteriorating for generations, no longer the stately academy it had been over a century ago, when Beethoven's statue was unveiled during the stewardship of headmaster Simon Sechter. The crowning glory of a small fountain, for years the courtyard's centerpiece, which Harrison Harty mentioned in his journal!

The statue, removed and stored for safe-keeping inside the castle's grand foyer, spent some seventy years wrapped in muslin until it had been rediscovered when Franz-Dieter Zeitgeist considered resurrecting the school.

Instead of rebuilding the original fountain, though, it was eventually decided to relocate the impressive statue to the Festspielhaus, placed between the new and old wings, facing the plaza's modern fountain.

"If that one wasn't the fountain Dhabbodhú was looking for," I wondered, "maybe it's the castle's fountain he's after?

"Speaking of whom, there's this," LauraLynn said, passing her phone to me. "Just noticed I'd gotten this a bit ago..."

It was another message intended for me and coming from Rob's phone.

“Since you haven't responded to earlier texts, DO NOT, Doctor, IGNORE ME! Maybe now I will have your attention?”

What he quickly described was the first mention of any real threat: fail and he would bomb the symposium. We'd now be working under a deadline with an automatic 'or else.'

I explained to Zenn we'd gotten texts before through Rob Sullivan's phone which must've been stolen by his killer but those came in on Cameron's phone, lost back at the Festspielhaus. If additional texts went to that phone, they were all in limbo which may help explain his increased impatience.

"But can we figure this out before the morning symposium," LauraLynn asked, wandering over to one of the narrow windows. "What if he's serious about setting off another bomb at the Festspielhaus?"

I doubted he'd be seriously considering that, trying the same thing again. "But it'd certainly kill many famous composers..."

At the table, Zenn sat very still, looking over the Beethoven statue, paying no attention to what we said.

Then an explosion rocked the castle's foundation with a fiery, percussive blast.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Chapter 31

Peter Moonbeam knew there wasn't much time, leaving Schweinwald's opening-night party early, everybody delighted at the outcome despite the blast which nobody had yet managed to explain – was it caused by terrorists? Everyone wanted to meet those six 'spear-carriers' from the production's first finale, but unfortunately they remained a collective absence. He'd had some drinks, paying his respects to members of the cast, especially to his old friend Cora diLetto, waiting for the hot babes in futuristic military costumes who never showed.

"They'd probably all changed out of costume during intermission, anyway" he imagined as he looked around among the choristers, none of them as hot as that security agent he'd flirted with. "Yeah, that bosomy red-head from before the opera – what was her name?" But he would never forget that... face.

Even though he'd managed to bump into her in the crowded lobby, she hadn't seem interested in him at first. But since he was already running late, he figured what the heck. Telling her how ravishingly miraculous she looked, doing her low-cut gown proud, he politely offered her his business card.

"I'm just a big guy," he began, "with a big heart and..." but she interrupted him before he finished.

"Okay, big boy," she said, stuffing his card into her ample cleavage.

She'd been ready to leave almost immediately, saying she's an undercover cop, when he suggested he might need protection, whatever was causing this heightened security presence and considering Sullivan's recent murder, plus how he'd run into this professor accused of stealing something significant, not to mention collaborating with Sullivan's cousin.

She'd seemed quite interested in LauraLynn Harty, his stock apparently rising significantly, asking him if he knew her whereabouts. He didn't, he apologized, then mentioned his interview recorded with Rob Sullivan.

("What was her name – started with R...") When he told her they had taped it right before his death, she seemed more interested, now – ("Or was it an M?" he wondered) – his parting words, "so, call me, maybe!" a tape-loop in his memory. ("That was her name – of course! Kunegunde!)

Moonbeam settled his ample frame in front of the narrow little desk which such hotels universally provided its skinnier patrons and tried to refocus his energies on the urgent task at hand: finishing his notes for tomorrow morning's conference and prepping that video interview, the last one Robertson Sullivan ever gave. They'd recorded it from Benninghurst via Skype a day before his death, having put it off several times already, but so close to the festival's opening, recording it then seemed unnecessary.

Nothing special, just one of many interviews Moonbeam had recorded that week, he hadn't even started editing it yet, adding it to the conference's program only because of its sentimental value: since it was Robertson Sullivan's final interview, it served a different purpose in the context of a memorial service.

Calling up the file in his laptop, making sure it still worked, he opened it in his new editing software, a recently upgraded version of 'Captain Pyque' he used for simple projects. Clipping off the introductory testing and the silence after they signed off, he decided to leave the rest untouched.

He dialed a number into his cell-phone as he prepared the attachment, calling the guy helping with the conference.

"Okay, Herr Schreiber," Moonbeam said, leaning forward, "I'm going to hit 'send'..."

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

"What the hell!?" may not have been even the least offensive accounting of the various expletives voiced at that moment, under the circumstances it will be sufficient, given our state of mind.

Cameron and I quickly scrambled to pick ourselves up off the floor, LauraLynn having been slammed into the wall.

Zenn, for his part, sat unfazed at the table in trance-like contemplation, turning the Beethoven statue in his hands, despite a bomb having just blown a hole in his castle's wall.

A half-dozen heavily armed warriors rushed in, dressed in black storm-trooper uniforms, terror-inducing images I remembered well from before, having chased us through the Festspielhaus' basement and then across its stage.

"We have the situation firmly under control," the one in front said. "He's not going to escape this time!"

There was a squawk from her radio as she menacingly stepped forward, the others aiming their rifles directly at me. I put my hands in the air hoping they wouldn't open fire.

"We have the professor, his unidentified lady-friend and – well, well – guess what? Even Paul Meary has turned up, too."

Then LauraLynn remembered the figures she'd seen outside the living room window had all been dressed in white uniforms.

"If you're agents from the IMP," she asked hesitantly, "then who are...?"

Following a deafening burst of frantic sub-machinegun fire, the secret panel we'd recently entered through collapsed with a resounding blast, shards of stone, iron and mortar crashing to the ground flying everywhere.

Once again, Cameron and I were thrown sprawling unceremoniously across the floor as LauraLynn again slammed into the wall.

Behind the clouds of dust and smoke, several figures began to materialize, all but one dressed in white uniforms.

The biggest one, dressed in dust-covered black, stepped forward.

It was him!

I was positive this was The Man, the one I saw everywhere, the guy who'd been on the train, BandanaMan who had fallen in the fountain, the suspected killer from Benninghurst.

"Dhabbodhú!" I shouted at him, "don't shoot!"

"Dhabba-who!?" the man shouted back.

Raising his right arm, guns were drawn.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Schreiber answered his phone, surprised Moonbeam was working so late at night, not surprised there was more to be done, commiserating about burning the post-midnight oil the night before a big event. After Schreiber acknowledged he'd received the file, he said he'd upload it into Moonbeam's PowerPoint presentation for the morning.

Moonbeam apologized for another call coming in, adding he'd see him tomorrow, sometime around 8:00 to start setting up. He figured the call was another composer getting ready to bail out.

"The news must be getting out about the bomb blast," he figured, several composers already there expressing their concern. "Seriously, the blast occurred just down the hall from the conference room." Philip Glass and John Adams already decided to Skype from New York until they had realized the time difference.

"At this rate, it'll just be me and the late Rob Sullivan," he sniffed as he answered the in-coming call.

"Hello, big boy," said a sultry voice, "did I wake you up?"

It's that hot security babe named Kunegunde he'd met before the opera.

"Why, no, not at all," Moonbeam smiled.

"Good, so if you'd want to go out for that drink, now, the wine we drink with the eyes...?" She made a noise between a cat's purr and a tiger's growl.

"...flows nightly from the moon," Moonbeam continued, "in springtime flooding the horizon," humming in a trance-like, half-sung, half-spoken voice as sparkling music filtered through delicate pinpricks of light inside his brain.

She suggested she stop by his room. "I could be there in three-times-seven seconds – you're in Room 21, right?"

"The poet, ecstatic, drinks from the holy fountain," he moaned, saying good-bye, "this wine we drink with the eyes..."

Moonbeam called the front desk. "Have the valet bring my car 'round..."

He knew there was still work to be done for tomorrow's conference but then he also knew his material. Schreiber had everything necessary for the presentation plus his CDs were ready.

He'd be back in plenty of time: there's nothing to worry about.

Besides, she's already knocking at the door.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

As the first shots pounded the air, ricocheting wildly around Zenn's dungeon, it felt like a whole string of explosions that would continue reverberating in my brain the rest of my life: whether I lived to be a hundred or just another few seconds, this was a sound I'd never forget.

Logic aside, it also occurred to me, in one unfortunately lucid moment, the fact these latest guys wore white did nothing to reassure the hope they must be the good guys.

"Why would the killer text us about solving this puzzle for him, threatening us with a deadline," I thought, "then burst in to wipe us off the face of the earth?"

Diving for whatever cover the table offered, I noticed Zenn sitting there, staring at the Beethoven statue, perfectly calm.

After what seemed like minutes of constant bombardment, I was amazed to find myself alive and Zenn still sitting there, assuming I'd gone instantly and completely deaf when the shooting suddenly stopped.

LauraLynn fainted as the killer grabbed her, carrying her off with him then dashing through the wall's gaping hole.

As several black-clad agents pursued the escapee, running off down the mountainside, a tiny figure appeared through the smoke - Leahy-Hu! - lips pursed, shaking her head disapprovingly: "Now, professor – come with me..."

= = = = = = =
To be continued...

posted by Dick Strawser

The novel, The Lost Chord, is a classical music appreciation comedy thriller completed in 2013, and is the sole supposedly intellectual property of its author, Richard Alan Strawser.
© 2014