Chapter 3: The Signature on the Contract
Falk drew out a brass tuning key and drove it into the antique player.
The cylinder jumped from its spindle and struck the floor.
“No!” I dropped beside it.
Victor caught Falk by the collar.
“You knew exactly where to strike.”
“Let him go,” Vincent said.
Victor released him, but Falk smiled as though he had won.
“The cylinder was already damaged,” Falk said.
“Your maid forced it into a machine she did not understand.”
“I am not his maid,” I said.
Vincent stepped between Falk and the door.
“Why were you carrying that key?”
“I am a conductor.
I work around instruments.”
“Conductors carry batons,” Victor said.
“Piano technicians carry tuning keys.”
Vivian lifted her phone.
“Security, come to the stage immediately.”
Vincent took the phone from her hand and ended the call.
“This is my hall tonight,” he said.
“No one leaves.”
Vivian’s lips tightened.
“You would detain me over the word of a servant?”
“Say that again,” Vincent replied, “and you will leave without the protection of my name.”
I gathered the cylinder’s broken pieces into my apron.
One section had split down the middle, but the recorded grooves were still visible.
“Can it be repaired?” Vincent asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“My father repaired cylinders, but I never learned enough.”
Falk gave a quiet laugh.
“How convenient.”
I stood.
“You tried to destroy it in front of four witnesses.”
“I tried to stop you from damaging an irreplaceable recording.”
“Then why did Vivian say it should have been destroyed?”
Vivian looked at Falk.
He did not look back.
“She misspoke,” he said.
“I did not ask you,” Vincent replied.
“Vivian?”
She folded her arms.
“Your mother suffered from confusion.
Falk and my father protected this family from her accusations.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Your father protected himself.”
“You know nothing about Edmund Ashcroft.”
“I knew him before you learned to pronounce his name.”
Vivian’s confidence slipped for half a second.
Then she reached into her handbag and removed a folded document.
“I came here to prevent this exact performance,” she said.
“Thomas Marlow sold the concerto to Maestro Falk twenty-six years ago.”
She placed the paper on the piano.
My father’s signature appeared at the bottom.
I touched the page.
“Where did you get this?”
“From my father’s estate.”
Falk straightened his jacket.
“Thomas needed money.
He accepted it, spent it and later regretted the bargain.”
“My father never said your name.”
“Shame often makes men silent.”
My hand curled around the edge of the piano.
Vincent read the document twice.
“This grants Falk sole authorship.”
“It also proves Elena has no claim,” Vivian said.
“If she performs the work again, we will sue her.”
“Try,” I said.
Vivian leaned toward me.
“You clean tables for a living.
How many attorneys can you afford?”
“One less than you will need,” Victor said.
Falk pointed to a paragraph near the bottom.
“Read the final declaration aloud, Vincent.”
Vincent did not move.
“Read it,” I said.
His voice lost its edge as he spoke.
“‘I, Thomas Marlow, admit that all previous claims of authorship were false and intended to embarrass Maestro Adrian Falk and Mrs.
Isabella Moretti.’”
Vivian watched my face.
May you like
“There,” she said.
“Your father confessed.”
