“Oh, that,” he said. “I know that one. I played it.”
I hesitated, sensing some kind of ambiguity.
“I’m Primrose,” he said.
We chatted while I wrapped the records. He was charmed by the shop—it had a really English flavor, he said. Before I knew it, I was telling him the whole story of the Seven Stairs.
“Until what time do you stay open?” he asked. “It’s quite late.”
“I’m closing right now,” I said.
“If you have time, let’s have a drink,” he suggested. “I should like to hear more.”
On a sudden inspiration, I asked first to make a phone call. While my customer browsed among the books, I spoke with Lionel and asked if he would like me to bring William Primrose over. He was ecstatic. At first note, his voice had sounded forlorn, so empty of life that I guessed him to be terribly sick. But mention of Primrose acted like a shot in the arm.
“Hurry!” he cried.
I told Mr. Primrose that my friend had a wonderful bar and a devotion to great music. But he had already heard of Dr. Blitzsten. “Isn’t that the analyst?” he said. “My friends in the Budapest Quartet often used his home for rehearsal.”