# The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 22/Number 2/A Bull Market in Fiddles

​A BULL MARKET IN FIDDLES
BY J. BERNARD LYNCH
In which a couple of Bulls break loose in the fiddle market. Prices soar, and Uncle Myer hitches his wagon to a "Strad."
NCLE MYER, first aid to the financially afflicted, displayed unwonted interest as he mentally inventoried a customer, while leaning patronizingly across the glass showcase.
That customer was tall, gaunt, emaciated; his hair long and straggly, the chalky color of his face accentuated by bright, sparkling light in big brown eyes. The age advertised by plentiful streaks of gray strands was repudiated by a youthful figure and nervous energy evidenced in every movement.
With apparent effort, he raised a violin case from the floor and laid it across the counter. Then after a sigh he relaxed his grip and, with a gesture of despair, allowed his gaze to travel questioningly toward the pawnbroker.
"Well," asked the keeper, "do you want a loan or is it for sale?"
"A loan," answered the man, wearily. "It's my all, but soul hunger must wait until human need is satisfied."
The pawnbroker, with business-like brusqueness, snapped open the catch and made ready to uncover the offering.
"Pardon me," interposed the man, "this is an instrument of delicate and artistic construction, and must be handled with care. In fact—it is an old master!"
Slowly, as if drawing forth a precious treasure, the man laid the violin on the counter. He then looked toward the pawnbroker, as if anticipating that the exhibition would enforce enthusiastic admiration.
The pawnbroker, to whom all instruments perhaps looked alike, blinked disinterestedly and asked, "How much do you want?"
"Listen," said the man, impressively, as he raised the instrument from the counter and tucked it, in a peculiar manner, under his chin. "You fail to value this treasure, but the violin will make you understand."
He drew the bow across the strings slowly, and the eulogy he could not convey in words he put into tones and half tones. A merry lilting waltz enlivened the sombre atmosphere and regaled the varied collection of misfortune's trophies. The man and melody bespoke mastery in the medium of expression and the pawnbroker's grim look softened as he felt the appeal dominating the strains.
The music ceased with soft plaintiveness and the player laid the instrument oh the counter.
"You see," he offered, indulgently, "it bespeaks the mellowness of bygone years; it is a heritage of master workmanship. But even though it's ​my soul, my heart, my life, we must part for a while. Although the value of such an instrument as this should be counted by thousands, I ask but a trifle. To get too much might keep us apart too long, for genius is often hungry and fortune is a fickle jade. Let me have three dollars until the ghost walks."
With an expression of relief the pawnbroker, after a causual examination, turned to the desk and, securing his customer's name and address, passed money and pawn ticket across the counter.
The grotesque customer moved slowly toward the door and then stopped. "Pardon me," he said, as he retraced his steps, "I trust you appreciate how important the safe keeping of that violin is. Being delicate it is extremely sensitive to heat and cold. It is also affected by darkness. It must have light and air. Would you mind hanging it up somewhere?"
"I will store it in the back room," answered the pawnbroker. "It is both sunny and airy there."'
The violin owner shook his head protestingly, as if doubting the character of the back room. "There's a good place right above the counter," he said; "would you mind hanging it up?"
"All right," answered the pawnbroker, impatiently, and after placing the case under the counter he hung the violin where designated, while the man looked on approvingly. Then, after profuse thanks, the odd customer departed.
And with the service lubricated by demands of other customers, Uncle Myer forgot the violin and its strange-looking owner.
Two days later he smiled a welcome to a gentleman whose personal appearance breathed money begetting confidence. As the demands for loans had been unusually large during the day, the pawnbroker beamed pleasantly when his customer requested to see a diamond ring from the window display.
The man studied the ring reflectively, and with the aid of a pocket microscope viewed the sparkling gem.
"The stone is good," he admitted, "but I find, on closer examination, the setting is an inferior copy of one I already have in my collection, for that reason it does not interest me."
"Don't be in a hurry, mister," said the pawnbroker, in an agony at the prospect of losing a sale. "Look around. Possibly you'll see something else you'll like."
The man paused, rather bored, and sent his glances wandering indifferently over the many pledged articles in evidence. The pawnbroker could see that nothing really attracted him. What a pity the ring had not been salable. Uncle Myer thrust it back into the window with a peevish sniff. At the same time he made up his mind not to let that customer escape without buying something. He felt his mercantile honor was involved in the affair.
"At any rate," he told himself, "he didn't go out. What is it he looks at now?"
The stranger's gaze had come to a halt above the counter. It remained there while Uncle Myer turned and looked at the same object.
​No word was spoken for so long a while that the spirit of the pawnshop, always lying in wait for a moment when human influence ceases to dominate, had a chance for expression. Uncle Myer feared these moments. When he was there by himself he tried to avoid them by whistling, 'phone talks, or strolls to the door, whence he could overhear the busy street. The pledges were now in full power. Each clock ticked its loudest, each bit of bric-a-brac rang true to a vibration, a mandolin string snapped, an antique cabinet creaked as if to say "I could a tale unfold—"
And then a word was spoken—one word, no more.
"Stradivarius!"
Myer's heart thumped. (Did the stranger say it—could a man speak when his lips did not move?) Myer almost believed he had said it himself—only, as it happened, 'twas a word with which he had small acquaintance. Shaking off the weird influence of the silence, he cleared his throat and looked commandingly at the customer. To his relief, the latter spoke at once in a business-like manner.
"That violin," he remarked, "looks rather interesting. My special fad is gems, but I like to look at instruments. I have an idea that one might be unique."
"Sorry, mister," said the pawnbroker, "but that violin is not for sale. It's a pledged article, and only here two days. But I've other instruments. Maybe—"
The man made a gesture of irritation. "No," he said, sharply, "I don't care to waste time on ordinary modern fiddles. Of course that may be nothing more, but I fancied—at least, I'd like to examine it. But if it's not on sale—never mind!"
And he turned toward the door. Could Uncle Myer let him go, thus, taking with him a pawnbroker's prestige and also (perhaps) several dollars' profit? No, Uncle Myer could not!
"Come back," he called, "oh, please come back. I'll take it down—sure there's no harm in just letting you look it over. Then you can tell me what it's worth; and I know you'll be careful handling it. The owner warned me it was delicate."
The pawnbroker watched with deep attention as the customer weighed and examined the instrument, but it was with hope that the violin would be found wanting, as the ring had been. Then the pawnbroker would try him with an amber necklace or a mosaic brooch. These collectors were likely to buy anything.
At first it seemed as if the violin were anything but satisfactory, for after taking it to the door and looking it over in the light from the street, it was brought back and laid aside with seeming carelessness. Still, the customer made no move to depart, and after complaining because there was no fly in the amber, the mosaic was condemned as "modern," his attention reverted to the violin.
"So it's not for sale?" said the customer, slowly. "Well, I'm sorry. I've taken up a lot of your time, and I'd like to see you paid for your courtesy. But—what can a man do when the only object he cares for is 'not for sale'?"
Uncle Myer sighed in disgust, even ​while he wondered if the man wanted the violin, or was only trying to cover his exit neatly.
"Would you really like the fiddle?" he asked. "Do you see something of value in it?"
The man turned guiltily from his amorous gaze at the combination of wood, glue and strings, and put on what seemed to the pawnbroker an obvious assumption of nonchalance.
"Oh, I don't know," he remarked, "as it's really worth anything. It's only curious, I guess. Still, I'd be willing to venture a bid on it, just to reward you for your time and because my collection lacks a violin."
Uncle Myer remembered the hungry look of the old-young man, and convinced himself he could do everyone a good turn.
"What'll you give," he whispered, "if I can induce the owner to sell? He prized it very highly, I remember, so he'll be hard to handle. I must be able to make him a good offer."
"I don't know what your idea is of a good offer," said the collector. "I'd scarcely care to go five hundred. If that would tempt you, and you can get it for a trifle less from him, let me know. Here's my card. I'm at the Copley Hotel for a week."
He went out, leaving Uncle Myer mentally stunned. He had actually expected the customer to stop at "five"—and he had gone on to "hundred" as calmly as if ordering weinersnitzel in a delicatessen shop.
Myer took up the violin and tried to look into its inner economy. At the same time he gave himself explanatory information.
"An old master he said you were," he observed, "and didn't like the dark. So I should hang you where you'd get the air. And an old master you must be if a man wants you for five hundred. How'd he put it? 'I'd scarcely care to go above five hundred.'"
The shop had grown quiet again, despite Myer's self communings and suddenly his heart gave the familiar pound, just as it had done a half hour before when a mysterious word floated on the air.
What was that word—Stradivarius! And what association had it in the mind of Myer?
An encyclopedia had come into the shop in flotsam from a library. Myer hauled down the volume "Pue to Strad" and solved the puzzle. A "Strad" was a violin, "an old master," probably of fabulous worth. The stranger suspected this of being one. The word had been pumped into the air inadvertently. Instead of cheating himself by paying five hundred, he would be trying to cheat Uncle Myer. Well, the first thing to do was to get that fiddle into one's hands. Then "business" could be talked to that "collector," and perhaps when the violin changed hands more than a paltry five hundred would do likewise.
While trying to decide on what pretence the owner could be invited to the pawnshop without arousing suspicion, that down-and-outer crossed the threshold of his own volition. And he wore what Uncle Myer diagnosed as a lean and hungry air.
"Say," he pleaded, "I'm whipped clean again, and I've got to have an extra two dollars. My ship is still ​pounding its nose off beyond the coast of plenty. Can you add another two spot to the violin incumbrance?"
"Well, maybe," considered the pawnbroker. "Or—perhaps you'd sell the violin?"
"And perhaps I wouldn't think of anything of the kind," was the immediate reply. "Guess you don't know the soul of art that is held in bondage for want of a few dollars. No, mister, you can't appreciate the heaven of music that is imprisoned in that violin. If I sold it I would be selling all that is dear in the world to me."
The pawnbroker's face hardened and his eyes glinted covetously. "Then I can't be bothered," he answered, indifferently. "No more can I give you as a loan. To buy I'll give you a good price."
The man, taken aback by this cavalier treatment, turned and gazed ruefully toward the street. "I must have money to live," Myer heard him whisper. And then he wrung his hands, afterward passing them over his eyes as if to drive away a bad dream. Then, "Well, how much will you give?" he jerked out, desperately.
"Maybe ten or fifteen dollars," said the pawnbroker, cautiously. "I would risk the fifteen because you say it has value."
The man's answer was a sob that turned into a derisive chuckle. "Fool," he sneered, "that violin is worth thousands—indeed, is priceless. But I cannot starve—give me three hundred and I'll sacrifice it."
The pawnbroker raised his shoulders and inclined his head while an indulgent smile spread over his features. "For an old fiddle, three hundred dollars! Please don't joke in business hours."
"See here," said the man decisively, "you heard my offer. It was wrung from me by hunger—that alone. If you cannot accept it say so before another minute. I will go out among my friends; surely they will aid me to live until such time as I am able to redeem it." He paused to give the pawnbroker opportunity to think, then said, "The minute is up—what is your decision?"
The pawnbroker, still deliberating, allowed his customer to reach the door before he called him back. "Stop, stop, please," he cried. "I can—I can give you a hundred and fifty. It's all the money I have in the store. A princely offer, and one I shall not make again."
The man made as if to depart, then, as the door opened to admit another customer, he squared his shoulders, bit his lips, and moaned, "Give me the money."
Waiting only long enough to count the bills tendered him, and to surrender his pawnticket, he hastened away, his very back suggestive of a burden of lifetime regret. Myer allowed but one pang of sympathy to intrude on his self-congratulation. After all, a hundred and fifty was a bunch of money, and if the poor fellow didn't know he was selling a "Strad" he would realize that he had been well paid—when he came to think it over. "An old master!" cooed Myer to his purchase, and longed to fondle it all night.
An hour after opening up next morning, Myer went to the telephone and, thrilling under the glow of ​commercial conquest, asked for the Copley Hotel. When the connection was made he inquired for Mr. James, the name on the card.
"Don't know him," came back over the wire, after several minutes of waiting. "We have no guest of that name stopping here."
Uncle Myer hung up the receiver weakly, as a disquieting thought crowded upon him. He rushed wildly to the hotel, but there was nothing to add to the telephone conversation. Inquiry at other hotels brought no hope. Mr. James was an unknown person.
Toward his three-ball establishment Uncle Myer moved mechanically and when he had entered he found a seat. His suspicions developed into facts. Sadly from the safe he took the violin and hung it back on the hook, while all and sundry among the pledges seemed to join in the sneer, "An old master!"
"It's a new game for the crooks," Myer soliloquized. "And I it had to be that should be the victim and lose my hundred and fifty. What a slick pair of Jesse Jimmies."
No sooner had he reported the fraud to police headquarters than he received a visit from Max Klein, a neighboring pawnbroker. "Say, Goldman," asked Klein, as he entered, "did you get caught on the new violin game?"
"What business, tell me, is it of yours?" groaned Goldman. "For the post mortem cackle you come round."
"I came for the reason that misery likes company," said Klein. "They got me for a hundred and twenty-five. And you?"
"A hundred and fifty," reluctantly admitted Goldman. "Twenty-five dollars you're better off than I am."
"Who wouldn't get caught?" said Klein, consolingly. "They were a nifty pair of actors. Show me your fiddle."
Goldman obeyed, and then Klein shook his head knowingly. "Just like mine, a cheap new fiddle, fixed up to make it look old and valuable.
"I'll bet they're breathing a balmier climate by now," he gloomed, before returning to his own place.
When Goldman had made his day's report to the police and locked up securely, he wandered toward the white light district. He felt versed in the weaknesses of the unrighteous, and thought it just possible the pair who had duped him might be lingering where the cafés harbored the cabarets. Two hours of Sherlocking somewhat damped his ardor. He decided to begin to enjoy himself, sat down and ordered refreshments with which he really intended to refresh himself. An orchestra of three pieces, cornet, violin and piano, was playing an enticing waltz, and playing it well, considering the place and the hour. A very pretty girl adorned the piano stool, and the cornetist, an elderly chap, took such good care of her that Goldman thought he must be her father. The violinist stood outside the family group, fiddling cleverly. Goldman liked him because he was so different from the man who had pawned the fiddle. He should never care for pale men with flowing locks again. This chap had short black hair and a red face, the healthy glow of which included even ​the nose. He was carefully dressed, and looked as if used to his "three squares and a snack" daily.
Yet even while indulging in these reflections Myer's heart gave that old familiar thump. The man looked different in every particular. He had not run away, but was publicly exposing himself in the brightest of lights. His gaze, as he bowed to the perfunctory applause of the drinkers, was now dreamy, now keen and practical, never desperate—as that other gaze had been. But—he hugged the violin as that man had hugged it. The peculiar attitude was registered on Myers' memory.
"It's him," he gulped, and rushed out for a policeman.
He came upon one lolling carelessly at a street corner, to whom the pawn-broker, in high-pitched tones, imparted news of the fraud and its discovery.
"Wait," said the officer, "I'll 'phone to the station for a plain clothes man. It wouldn't do for me to make the arrest in uniform. It might hurt the management."
Ten minutes later the plain clothes man put in his appearance and in deference to the wishes of the café people the officer waited until the place closed before arresting his man. Goldman, much elated by the result of his sleuthing, went home to a much needed rest.
Next morning he was honored by a visit from headquarters.
"You had it right, Goldman," advised the inspector, "the man whose arrest you caused is the guilty party. He confessed after we found the makeup, wig and so on, in his room. He had played the game on more than you and Klein—half the pawnbrokers in town were left lamenting. His partner, who framed the job, got away to New York, beating the chap we have in custody out of his share of the proceeds. In fact, the man who pawned the violins and did the dirty work was really a dupe. The fellow who got away, an old-time gentleman crook, uses his brains to pick out uncompromising jobs, attended, with little risk. He got acquainted with the violinist at the cabaret, where the plan was arranged.
"The queerest part of the story," added the inspector, "begins with the stealing of all the violins in Providence. One of the lot was taken from a wealthy residence and is a real Stradivarius, for which there is a reward of five hundred dollars. It has a special V-shaped mark burned in the wood at the bridge. Now some of you pawnbrokers—"
Goldman, without waiting for further information, rushed behind the counter and grabbed the fiddle. His eyes traveled hungrily to the bridge and there they stopped, as he emitted a shout of joy.
"This is it," he cried; "this is the real Stradivarius!"
"You're lucky, after all," said the inspector, "but remember," he continued, "you'll be wanted in court tomorrow morning as a witness."
"I'll go," said Goldman, "but inspector, please, I ask you, don't ask me to testify. I shouldn't want to say anything against that fiddler. He done me a favor. Think of it, inspector, three hundred and fifty profit. I had a suspicion all along it was an old master!"