“I am not sure about that,” grumbled the clerk. Nevertheless, he took down the receiver and called a number.
He waited a moment, spoke a few words in a low tone, then turning to Curlie said,
“Mr. Lieber wishes to know whether or not it is a violin.”
“It is,” replied the boy.
A few more words, a surprised look on the clerk’s face, then a curt,
“He’ll see you. Room 1080. Elevator’s over there.” A jerk of the clerk’s thumb and Curlie was once more on his way.
“Well, that’s that,” the boy thought as the elevator ascended. “Soon be free from the responsibility of carrying about a priceless violin.”
“But this other package?” There was a question. What was he to do with it, try to deliver it in person, or turn it over to the postal authorities? He knew little about that package. Some wild-eyed man in shabby clothes had paid the largest possible fee to insure its safe delivery. The address was on the first floor of a building in a doubtful section of the city. That was all he knew. Little enough, yet he was destined in time to know enough about it to realize that had it been filled with high explosive it could have been scarcely less troublesome.
He was now at the door of the great violinist’s room. He knocked, and was admitted at once. He found Fritz Lieber in a dressing gown. Beside him was a table littered with papers.
“Already up,” he said, nodding at the sheets of paper. “I’ve been writing music. My mind’s fresh in the morning.