“Yes, sir.”
The meal was over, and the four men came back through the doorway. Dr. Stone found his chair. Ran Freeman dropped down upon the piano stool, but Lawton seemed to seek a seat far from the blind man and the dog. Waring paced the room, and Otis King was still cold and watchful.
Freeman’s fingers, once more running soundlessly over the keys, struck a faint note. As though the sound had broken a barrier, he banged a chord. The next instant, swinging about on the stool, he faced the instrument and began to play, freely and without restraint.
Joe found it hard to swallow. Music, in this house of death, sounded ghastly, almost sacrilegious. He looked at his uncle. The calmness was gone from Dr. Stone’s face. Around the sightless eyes, around the serene mouth, strange, intense lines he knew well had suddenly formed.
Captain Tucker had gone out into the kitchen to talk to Cagge. Freeman ended with a crash of sound. Seconds passed, and nobody spoke. The silence seemed no more ghastly than the music.
“Ran,” Otis King drawled, dangerously quiet, “your veins must be filled with ice.”
“Why be hypocrites?” Freeman demanded. “We’re not mourning Anthony, are we?”
“We can be decent about it,” King told him.
Dr. Stone’s voice was again a calm stream. “There was one part, Freeman—Tum, te-tum-tum, tum-tum-te-tum. Toward the end. The execution was fast. Tum, te-tum——”
“Oh, this.” Freeman faced the key-board again and began to play. “This what you mean?”