The Vanishing Violin Read online

  When you have solved it, write the two words in red chalk on the sidewalk in front of the violin shop, and await your next clue.

  Powodzenia!

  Margaret has that nobody’s-going-to-outsmart-me look in her eyes, and I immediately know that she won’t rest until this case is wrapped up tighter than a pair of size-eight feet in size-six shoes.

  Rebecca pounds her head against the marble pedestal. “NO! NO! I can’t take another one of these!” She shakes a fist at the sky. “Stop torturing us!”

  “Calm down, Rebecca,” Margaret says. “It’s just a little fun with puns. They’re kind of like crossword puzzle clues. And he told us what the category is—all six of these clues are for the names of literary orphans. We can probably solve the whole thing in half an hour.”

  “Tell you what, Becca,” I say. “I’ll bet you a macchiato ice cream soda that Margaret can solve number four right now, in under sixty seconds.” I choose number four because I already know the answer.

  Rebecca slaps my hand. “You’re on. No helping.”

  “What do you think, Margaret?”

  “Start the clock.”

  “Ready?” Becca says. “Go!”

  Margaret thinks out loud: “‘She’s certainly Anne.’ A character named Anne who is an orphan. I’m thinking Anne from Anne of Green Gables seems like the obvious choice. She’s an orphan. But ‘Anne of Green Gables’ is way more than eleven letters. Seventeen, actually. Concentrate! What is her last name? Lennox? No, that’s Mary from The Secret Garden. Nolan? Nope.”

  “Thirty seconds!” Rebecca shouts.

  But I don’t think Margaret even registers her.

  “Come on, Margaret. Think. ‘She’s certainly Anne.’ Certainly? Definitely? Obviously? That must be part of the clue. Anne Certainly? Anne Definitely? She’s Anne for sure. Oh my gosh … it’s ‘surely.’ Anne Shirley!”

  I pat her on the shoulder. “Seventeen seconds to spare. Thank you, Margaret—I’ll think of you as I slurp my delish macchiato.”

  “Double or nothin’ on the first clue—the one with the pennies,” Becca counters.

  “Ready, Margaret?” I say.

  Margaret closes her eyes. “Pennies. Cents. Coins. Abraham Lincoln. Baseball diamond. Bases. What’s another name for a baseball diamond? Ballpark? A field. A field of pennies. Penny Field. Wait, what are pennies made of? Copper! A copper field. David Copperfield! Wait, that’s too many letters. Maybe just his last name, Copperfield. Is that the right number of letters?”

  “Eleven, right on the nose,” I say. “Two down, four to go.”

  “Okay, one more time,” Becca says. “But it has to be this one: ‘Miss Doe’s beneficiary.’”

  The Brain That Can’t Be Stopped makes the leap into hyperspace. If she were a computer, there would be flashing lights and whirring motors—maybe even some kind of siren blaring—but instead there is absolute silence.

  Becca starts a confident countdown. “Ten … nine … eight, just you wait … seven … six … five, my dream’s still alive … four … three … two, and Sophie’s through—”

  Suddenly Margaret’s eyes open wide, and I catch a hint of a smile. “Jane Eyre.”

  Leigh Ann elbows me. “Is that right?”

  I shrug. “Beats me.”

  Margaret nods. “It’s right. Jane’s heir. Beneficiary and heir—same thing. And Miss Doe is Jane.”

  “Wait a second,” Rebecca says. “Who is this Jane person?”

  “Okay—you know how the police call an unknown man a John Doe, and an unknown woman is a Jane Doe? If a Miss Jane Doe had a beneficiary, that person would also be known as Jane’s heir. Jane Eyre, E-y-r-e, is another literary orphan. Charlotte Brontë’s, obviously.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” Rebecca fake-concurs.

  On our way back down to Perkatory to collect on my bet with Rebecca, my phone rings. “Now who wants to join the band? Kurt Cobain? Jimmy Page? Hell-o … uh-huh. This is Sophie … uh-huh. You play the drums. I see. And what did you say your name was? … Bingo? … uh-huh. Look, you nitwit, it’s Ringo, and I’ve already heard from you. This was only funny the first eighty-seven times. You can just… just b-i-n-GO!” I hang up.

  “Um, Sophie,” Rebecca starts, a strange look on her face. “By any chance, did that person have an unusual accent?”

  “Yeah, how’d you guess? Really fake-sounding.”

  “Her name is Mbingu. M-b-i-n-g-u. She says the M is almost silent. It means ‘sky’ in Swahili.”

  “Oh.”

  “Remember, I told you about the girl from my art program? That’s her. She just moved here from Africa a couple of years ago. We were talking about music, and I said how we were probably going to be looking for somebody, and she said she thought she could do it. And since, unlike everyone else on the planet, I don’t have a cell phone, I gave her your number.”

  I am scum. “What should I do? She probably hates me.”

  “Call her back,” says Leigh Ann. “Like, right now. Tell her you’ve been getting all these prank calls.”

  I call the number and it rings a few times, then goes into voice mail. “Should I leave a message?”

  “Yes!” everyone shouts at me.

  “Um, hi, uh, Mbingu. This is, um, Sophie, the girl you just called. I am really sorry about, you know, me being, um, a jerkwad. I’m not like that, honest. It’s just, um, ever since I put up that sign, I’ve been getting a million prank calls, and, uh, well, Rebecca forgot to tell me you’d probably be calling. So, like I said, I’m really sorry. Please give me a call back. I definitely want to talk to you about the band. Um, I guess that’s it. Call me. Please. Bye.” I look at my friends to see what they think.

  “You sounded sincere,” says Leigh Ann, putting her arm around my shoulders. “If it were me, I would call you back.”

  “Ladies, I believe the appropriate thing to say right now,” Margaret says, “is hakuna matata.”

  Or maybe—another one bites the dust?

  When I get home, I attempt to do my homework, but I just can’t stop thinking about Leigh Ann and everything she’s going through with her family.

  But how to help? How, how, how, how, how … hey—Malcolm!

  Monsieur Chance and I already have a history of clandestine activity, conceiving and then carrying out a secret mission related to the recovery of the Ring of Rocamadour. I leave him a message, and he calls back a few minutes later.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Sophie! What a nice surprise to see your name pop up! What can I do for you?”

  I explain the situation with Leigh Ann’s brother. “So, I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, but maybe you know a math or engineering professor who could tell Alex how great Columbia is, so he won’t go to Harvard or someplace even farther away.”

  “I think I know just the person for the young man to talk to. She hosts a fantastic math seminar for a few stellar high school students every year—it’s four weekends in January and February, I believe. Everyone who goes absolutely raves about it. Life-changing stuff, apparently. Send me an e-mail with his information, and I’ll put in a good word.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “That depends. Know anybody in Cleveland?”

  Chapter 7

  Éclairs for breakfast? C’est fantastique!

  It’s my fault, really.

  I made the tragic mistake of falling asleep without turning my phone off, and sure enough: Brrring! Brrring! It is precisely six o’clock in the morning.

  “Mmmffff. What?”

  “I got another one,” she says.

  “Rruummpphh. Another what?”

  “Number six of the orphan puns. After I finished Great Expectations, I started reading Bleak House—back when we were still trying to find the ring. And remember that clue we had with all the names? Esther Summerson and Mr. Guppy? Sophie, wake up! I can hear you snoring.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “Li
ke a buzz saw. So I’m looking at this new clue, ‘One fewer than nine filled French pastries.’ Obviously, it’s eight something, right? But eight what? What is a French pastry with filling? An éclair! Eight éclairs.” She tries again, a little louder, as if lack of volume is the problem. “Eight éclairs.”

  I sit up in bed, trying to get my eyes to focus. “Eight éclairs. Right. Wait a minute. Who has eight éclairs?” Mmm … éclairs. Rich, gooey, chocolatey … must have them.

  “Ada. Ada Clare. She’s an orphan character in Bleak House. Eight letters.”

  “That’s great, Margaret. Now, do you actually have any éclairs?”

  “I’ll be over in a few minutes. I want to catch Mr. Eliot at Perkatory first thing so that he can let us into the school. Bring your flashlight.”

  Exactly eleven minutes later, there is a knock at my door.

  I wave off Mom’s offer of toast and juice, telling her that Margaret has promised to buy me a breakfast éclair.

  “This all seems remarkably familiar,” I say to Margaret on the way down in the elevator. “Solving clues, early-morning phone calls, meeting Mr. Eliot at Perk. Will we be staking out a confessional or x-raying any old paintings for hidden messages?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so, anyway. But I did talk to our old friend Malcolm last night. We’re meeting him at a bar this afternoon.”

  “A bar?”

  “You’ll see. It’ll be fun.”

  • • •

  Mr. Eliot is at his usual table in Perkatory with his usual copy of the Times. When he sees us, he gives us a salute and a sly smile.

  In addition to being our English teacher, Mr. Eliot has played an important role in our career as detectives. The whole ring affair got started when I looked out a window in his classroom and screamed (I had my reasons). He has helped us out with clues, smoothed over our troubles with Sister Bernadette, and on one memorable morning, let Margaret stand on his back (we had our reasons).

  “The Misses Wrobel and St. Pierre, out on the streets before dawn. What are you two up to? Off to prowl the secret tunnels in Grand Central Station? Interrogate the doorman at the Plaza?”

  I shove Margaret up to the counter to buy me a hot chocolate and an éclair.

  The new girl, Jaz, takes our order. In contrast to her chipper attitude of a few days earlier, she looks and sounds like she would rather be just about anywhere else on the planet—in the sewers of Rangoon, tied to an anthill in the Australian outback, in that creepy, snake-filled chamber in Raiders of the Lost Ark—anyplace other than here.

  “Here ya go,” she says, setting our food and drinks on the counter, sans smile.

  “Thanks, Jaz,” I say. “You’ll be happy to hear that the Blazers had their first rehearsal the other day.”

  “That’s great,” she says with absolutely zero enthusiasm.

  “Maybe she’s just not a morning person,” Margaret whispers as we walk away.

  Mr. Eliot folds up his paper when we join him at his table. He raises an eyebrow at my éclair. “In training, St. Pierre?”

  “Yep.” I take a big, squishy bite, and I am suddenly wishing I had a bagel instead. When I’m an especially good girl, my daddy makes me the real thing; this is nothing more than a tube-shaped doughnut in disguise.

  “What brings you two out so early this fine morning?” Mr. Eliot asks.

  Margaret squints at him. “Can we trust you?”

  “Like Abel trusted Cain.”

  Margaret tells him about the package, the letter she received at Mr. Chernofsky’s, the bow, and what Leigh Ann and I learned about the Carnegie Hall theft.

  Mr. Eliot whistles. “Holy mackerel. A hot violin!” He leans over and whispers, “How many people know about this?”

  “Mr. C., Ben, the four of us, and you,” Margaret says. “And whoever sent the letters.”

  “What about Malcolm?” I ask Margaret. “What did you tell him?”

  “Only that we were working on something new. I didn’t give him any details. But I trust him.”

  “I would think so,” Mr. Eliot says. “Now, where do you go from here? Even if this Wurstmann is dead, and there’s no insurance, somebody must have a legal claim to the violin. Have you talked to the private investigator yet?”

  “Can’t. He died ten years ago,” Margaret answers. “But you see, there’s also this other case we’re working on. It’s for Sister Bernadette. And we really need to get into the school before it’s open. Can you let us in, pretty please?”

  “We wouldn’t ask if you weren’t the bestest English teacher who ever learned me,” I add.

  Behold the power of mostly sincere flattery.

  The basement door is unlocked, and I push it open, cringing as the hinges creak. I shine my light down the stairs so that anything scampering, skittering, or skedaddling can get the heck out of my way. Then I tiptoe into the abyss.

  When I get to the bottom step, Margaret whispers in my ear, “Do you hear that?”

  At the far end of the basement, behind several stacks of cartons and old chairs, I hear what sounds like a chair being dragged across the floor, followed by a few sharp raps, as if someone is hammering on something metal. And now—he’s whistling. (“Beethoven,” Margaret whispers.) Still, we creep forward, flashlights clicked off. Our view of the area is obstructed, but as we get closer, the glow from a candle or a small lantern throws a flickering shadow of what looks like some horribly deformed giant on the back wall. In fact, the room itself seems to be alive as Margaret, with one hand on the small of my back, pushes me gently but persistently. “Just a little closer. We’re—”

  CRASH! Just behind us, a stack of metal chairs falls over. Margaret’s fingernails dig into my arm as the noise goes on and on, seems to pause for a breath, and then continues for a few more seconds, till—poof!—the light is gone, along with our giant.

  I exhale.

  Gone where? I wonder as my breathing and heartbeat resume.

  “There’s no way he slipped past us to go up the stairs. Either there’s another way out, or he’s still down here,” Margaret says, blazing a trail with her flashlight. “Hel-lo! Is anybody there?”

  I squelch the urge to shush her—a person who breaks in and upgrades just doesn’t seem that scary (just weird). We go to the workbench, covered with paint cans and old rollers and brushes, some of which are still wet after being rinsed out.

  “Boy, is Sister Bernadette gonna be ticked off,” I say.

  “Which means we’re going to be in for it. We have to catch this guy.” Margaret walks toward the back corner of the room, shining her light on the wall, the ceiling, the floor. Stopping next to the shelves where I stepped in the paint, she kneels down to get a close look at the floor.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Somebody cleaned up that spilled paint, even your footprints. But see these marks on the floor? These shelves have been moved. Here, give me a hand.”

  Despite its size, the shelf unit is surprisingly easy to move when we put our shoulders into it and pivot the thing on one corner. I shine my light at the wall behind it, and—voilà!—one mystery is solved. At about waist height is a metal door about two feet square. I recognize it because Margaret’s dad, who is the super in their apartment building, once showed us an identical door in his basement office. It is an old coal chute, from the days when the school had a coal furnace. Margaret grasps the handle and gives it a twist, and—a blast of fresh air hits us in the face, and we realize we are looking out into the alley behind the school. From my vantage point, I can see the back of the school, the church, the convent, Elizabeth Harriman’s house, a row of four more townhouses, and the building where Perkatory and Chernofsky’s Violins are located.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, tugging on a rope tied to a metal strap that is screwed into the back of the shelf unit.

  Margaret nods with admiration. “Oh, he’s a clever one, isn’t he? After he climbs out, he reaches back in and pulls on this so that the shelves cover up the
door.”

  “But where did he go?”

  “It looks like the only way out of the alley without going through another building is that narrow space between Mr. Chernofsky’s and that townhouse with the nice garden.” She pulls the door shut, and then we push the shelf unit back into place. “There. You can’t even tell we found the door.”

  “Unless he’s hiding somewhere out there, watching us right now,” I say, creeping myself out. “We need to get out of here—first bell is in a few minutes,” I warn.

  Margaret grunts in agreement. “Well, we may not know who or why, but at least we know how he’s doing it.”

  Personally, I’m in favor of telling Sister Bernadette so that she can just weld the door shut and be done with it, but Margaret just has to know the who and the why—so we’ll sit on this, for now.

  And in the meantime, if another room or two get painted, let’s hope he picks a nice color.

  On our way to Spanish class, I duck into the bathroom to check my phone for messages. (Yes, I’m aware that using my phone on school property is against the rules. Confession is next week.) Still nothing from Mbingu, but I do have a really sweet text from Raf, who wants to know if we’re actually going to see each other in person ever again. See, we have a very modern-modem relationship: we talk on our cell phones, and we text. Beyond that, our relationship is still … becoming.

  I mean, Raf is definitely more than a friend. But a boyfriend? That sounds so … not yet. And my dad has absolutely forbidden me even to say that word. The fact is, with Central Park being the geographical obstacle it is, our actual personal contact is pretty minimal, which is probably the reason my parents haven’t objected too much—so far. When I tell Margaret about Raf’s text message and sigh woefully about the complications that go along with a long-distance relationship, she bops me a good one on the forehead.

  “Soph, he lives a mile away.”

  “Technically, that’s true, but in Manhattan, a mile across town is like fifty miles anywhere else. The Upper West Side might as well be in Albany. And you know how I hate crosstown buses.”

  “Still, if you want to see him …”