"I believe that most of these instruments are rented from one company," continued Indiman. "We can find out definitely at the city License Bureau, and we might as well make that the starting-point of our investigations. We have plenty of time before luncheon; it is barely twelve o'clock."
"But shouldn't we begin with—with the thing itself," I objected, and glanced nervously at the big trunk standing in the middle of the floor. The identity of the victim—it may be possible to establish it—a most important point, surely."
"I'll have to pass up that part of it—at least for the present," said Indiman, frankly. "But we must get the box out of sight somewhere. The weather"—and here he gave a little involuntary shudder—"is getting warmer. We'd better get it down into the cellar. I'll see if the way is clear."
The servants were all busy in the upper part of the house, and we succeeded in getting the trunk down into the cellar unobserved, stowing it away temporarily in an empty coal-bin. On our way up-stairs we encountered the maid, Mary, and something in the hasty way in which she stood back to let us pass stirred again my vague suspicions. But there was nothing to say or do; we must trust to luck.
Then there was no difficulty in finding the office of the company that leases hand-organs to itinerant musicians, and the manager, an Americanized Italian, was most courteous in answering our inquiries. It appeared that this particular aria of "Celeste Aida" was only included in the repertoire of some half-dozen of the older instruments. It chanced that they were all in stock at the present time, and it would be no trouble at all to let us hear them play. "Our incomparable maestro—he is no longer remembered," said the manager, mournfully. "The public—now it is that they demand what you calla hot stuff—'Loosianner Loo' and the 'Lobster Intermezzo,' Per Bacco! if they would but open their ears—la—la—there it goes—
'"Ce-le-ste A-i-da, For-ma di-vi-na'—
Ah, gentlemen, THAT is musica."
An amiable person, but we were wasting both his and our time. Each one of the six organs reproduced the original notation of the aria, and the imperfect instrument must therefore be in private hands. So we returned thanks to Mr. Gualdo Sarto for his courtesy, and went away somewhat disheartened. Haystacks are large places and needles small objects.
Two days went by—days spent in aimless wandering about the streets waiting for a distant hand-organ to give tongue. Then a hot chase, only to draw another blank.
On the third day I came home alone about five o'clock. The weather was really hot again, and I was tired out with tramping. Yet a little chill ran down my spine as I happened to glance across the street and caught sight of a man's face in an areaway. He had been watching me; of that I was certain.