Murder as a Fine Art by John Ballem Read Free Book Online Page B

the first time he’s written a concerto in that key.”
    Marek began to pick out notes again and as Laura squeezed Richard’s arm and turned to walk away, her eyes caught something glinting in the moonlight on the ground just off the path. When she narrowed her eyes to focus on it, she could make out that it was a microphone, partially hidden behind a fallen branch. Somebody was taping Marek as he worked on his concerto.
    She glanced at Richard. His attention was riveted on her and he hadn’t spotted the microphone. “You are very beautiful in the moonlight,” he said softly.
    â€œThank you.” She slipped her hand in his as they continued up the path. They walked in companionable silence to Lloyd Hall in the silver moonlight. The quizzical look was back in his eyes as they said good night at her door.
    What should she do about the microphone? That question kept Laura awake and staring at the ceiling until she finally decided that in all good conscience she must tell Marek about it first thing in the morning. With that decision made, she fell into a restless sleep.
    The microphone was still in place. After a quick glance around to make sure there was no one else in sight, Laurastepped off the path and tramped through the underbrush until she was standing over it. A thin black cord led her through the trees and down into the little ravine. The reel of the tape machine, hidden under a canopy of pine boughs, was revolving at a very slow rate. It contained enough tape to record for hours on end, and it would be an easy matter to change tapes without being seen since the ravine provided cover on all sides.
    There was no sound coming from Marek’s studio, but the outside light was still burning. Somewhat apprehensive of what her reception might be, Laura knocked on the door. She didn’t know how she expected the composer to look after his self-imposed exile in his studio, but she certainly didn’t expect the clear-eyed, freshly shaven Marek who opened the door. The only sign of fatigue were the dark smudges under his eyes.
    â€œI hate disturbing you like this Marek, but there’s something you should know about.”
    â€œIs it about Isabelle?” he demanded.
    â€œNo. It has nothing to do with her. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
    â€œYou are sure this has nothing to do with Isabelle?” Marek persisted as he followed her along the path.
    â€œSee for yourself,” Laura said as she led him down the little ravine.
    Marek stared down at the tape machine with its slowly revolving reel. “It’s from the music department,” he muttered. “Nobody else has a machine like that.”
    â€œBut who would do something like this?”
    â€œI think I can guess, but we’ll know for sure soon enough. The tape is almost finished. Whoever it is will have to come back to change reels.” Marek ran his fingers through his dark tousled hair. “The
andante
will be on there. That’s what I was working on until just before dawn.”
    â€œBut whoever it is couldn’t use your music. Everybody would know.”
    â€œChange a note here and a few bars there. Better still, arrange it for violin rather than piano. The important thing is to have the structure to hang the notes on, and the tape would give you that.” Marek was growing visibly angry at the thought of someone appropriating his music in this stealthy and underhanded manner.
    The tape was almost down to the spindle. Even though it was broad daylight, Laura shivered. From somewhere down the ravine came the crack of a broken branch, followed by a muffled curse in German.
    â€œIt is just as I thought,” whispered Marek. “Carl Eckart—a disappointed and bitter man whose music has been ignored by the world. My concerto would have been his masterpiece.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Laura whispered as Eckart’s thickset figure came into view through the