

### The Mephisto Mysteries

### Terence O'Grady

Copyright 2012 Terence O'Grady

Cover images courtesy of Justyna Pszczolka, Ekaterina Naimushina & dreamstime.com

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is a coincidence.

Table of Contents

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Preface

Franz Liszt, perhaps the greatest pianist/composer of the nineteenth century, was not only a brilliant musician but possessed an extraordinary, even magnetic personality. His pianistic technique seemed so vastly superior to that of his competitors that there were frequent whispers suggesting some sort of collaboration with Mephistopheles. Could any living soul play with such incredible skill without in some way being in league with darker forces? Modern scholars refuse to take such ideas seriously, of course, but in the nineteenth century, many music lovers—and many of Liszt's competitors— were not so sure. Liszt's students worshipped their teacher and more than one attempted to wield the same incredible powers as their master...by any possible means.

Prologue

Rome, 1842

My Dear Liszt,

I received your most recent letter with the greatest pleasure. That a great man—a great composer such as you—should honor me with such a communication is almost beyond my comprehension. I have no words to express my gratitude.

To have been your student—however briefly—has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. To think that you would deign to bestow on me, not only your priceless instruction in the exalted art of music, but also your unsurpassed wisdom and the secrets of your power, moves me beyond measure. For your power is unequalled, not only among the immortals of music but among the greatest men of the century.

I can only hope that you will continue to entrust me with the great secrets that only you fully understand.

Your devoted servant,

Count Sebastian

Chapter 1

More than anything else in the world, Elizabeth McDermitt wanted to find a coffee house that didn't have WiFi. Honestly, she thought, the college students camp there for hours and look at you like you're encroaching on their sacred territory the minute you enter the room.

At twenty-three, raven-haired Elizabeth didn't look much older than the college students herself. But she had no interest in checking in on her Facebook page or downloading tunes. All she really wanted was a little time to herself without a piano keyboard in front of her. She had been in Vienna for a week now and had spent the vast majority of that time playing exercises on one of the grand pianos in the oldest wing of Vienna's grandest conservatory. For the time being, anyway, she had had enough of the piano.

In fact, there had been more than one occasion when she wondered whether it had been a good idea to devote her summer to an international piano competition in Vienna. It was a wonderful city and she enjoyed what she had seen of it, despite her woeful German. But of course she had seen very little of it. That was the problem, or at least one of them. Stuck in the practice room for hours a day, she had little chance to expand her horizons or to absorb the glories of Vienna.

Originally, it had sounded like a great idea. She was thrilled—and surprised—when she won the North American semi-finals for the Radovsky Prize. She had never won anything that important in her life and the whole thing seemed exciting and glamorous.

But the excitement had faded all too quickly. Now, coming to Vienna to compete with young artists from all over the world for the Radovsky Prize, her life had become a grind. She felt guilty if she didn't practice for six to seven hours a day. Her piano teacher had told her to lighten up, insisting that too much practice would make her stale, tighten up her wrists. Elizabeth was beginning to realize that her teacher was probably right. But it didn't matter. She knew she had to work at it harder than anyone else in order to succeed. And the first performance in the competition was just a few days away.

Just as she was about to give up and trudge back to the practice room, she saw a likely prospect—a small coffee shop on the corner that seemed too "old-world" for Wi-Fi. It probably has it, she thought, but has the good sense not to advertise it. As she reached for the door handle, she heard someone rapidly approaching her from behind.

"This is almost miraculous!" said David Currant, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder. "You've actually managed to escape from the practice room."

Elizabeth smiled weakly at David, a tall, sturdily-built young man a year or two older than her. She didn't exactly dislike David. They had hit it off well when they first met and on some level she still found his earnestness attractive. But he seemed a little clingy. Of course, he was alone in a new city just like she was, being the American alternate in the Radovsky competition. Being an alternate, he would probably not get a chance to play, not unless Elizabeth took ill or was for some reason unavailable. And she certainly didn't intend to let that happen. So David, although obligated to keep practicing and stay ready, was probably going to spend the whole festival on the sidelines. At least he seemed fairly cheerful about his situation and she admired him for that.

"I see you've managed to take a little time off from the piano as well," she told him as she entered quickly into the coffee shop ahead of him.

"Absolutely necessary for mental health," he said cheerfully, following closely after her. "Where shall we sit?"

Elizabeth took a seat near the window and David quickly pulled up the chair next to her.

"Elizabeth!" he said, gazing intently into her face. "You look horrible! You need a lot more sleep."

She sighed. "Nice to know chivalry is alive in Vienna. No, I don't need more sleep. I need more practice."

"Haven't you been practicing six hours straight? You've got to eat. You've got to sleep. You look terrible!" said David, shaking his head slowly.

"Well, as you can see, I am taking a break. But it can't be a long one. I've got to..."

"What'll you have?" David asked her brightly as the waitress came over to the table.

"Oh, just a cappuccino, I guess."

"I'll have the same. Two, Miss."

"Nice little place," she said, staring out the window at the passerbys, dressed warmly against the brisk wind.

"Absolutely!" said David eagerly. "But seriously, Elizabeth, if you don't get out of that practice room more often, you're not going to survive. You're not a machine, you know. And if you don't get enough sleep, the muscles won't perform and your brain won't function properly."

"My brain is simply going to have to look out for itself," she said wearily. "It's going to have to keep up with my hands and that's all there is to it. At this point, things are _not_ going quite as well as I'd like."

"If you're struggling right now, that's all the more reason you need a break. You're playing a Liszt piece, right? It's great music, but everybody knows that you have to take frequent breaks when doing battle with Liszt."

"Everybody knows that?"

"Everybody I know knows it," David said, cracking a slight smile.

"That's because you don't like Liszt," Elizabeth replied.

"Not at all," he said, reaching into his wallet to pay for the two cappuccinos. "All I'm saying is that you don't have to kill yourself with over-practicing. Take it easy. Enjoy life a little. See the city with me."

"Look, David," Elizabeth said, shifting in her seat to look him squarely in the face. "Nobody ever said that winning the Radovsky Prize was going to be easy. It wouldn't be easy for anyone, and it certainly won't be easy for me. I'm an unknown pianist from a small town in Iowa. Everybody was shocked when I beat five other pianists to win the American semi-finals. How many people thought I'd be here—in Vienna—four months later competing in the international finals?"

"Well, don't sell yourself short. I've always told you that you were a great piano player. If you just do your best...that's all that matters."

"You know, that's true for a lot of things in life, but not here. Here, winning is what matters."

"Well, sure...but you've got to enjoy the ride. Just competing at this level is..."

"No, David. I am not simply _thrilled_ to be here. Just being here is nothing. I'm here to win and I'll accept nothing less than that."

David smiled and shook his head gently as the door to the small coffee shop opened again and Frederico, a dark, wiry young man with curly locks flowing to his shoulders, appeared in the doorway, smiling broadly.

"Ah, my two favorite Americans in Vienna! I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" piped Frederico cheerfully, twirling his substantial black mustache as he swung a chair over from another table to join them.

David smiled. "I'm pretty sure that we're the _only_ two Americans you know in Vienna."

"Well, you're certainly the only ones who matter...the only two Americans competing with me for the Radovsky Prize. And what could be more important than that?"

"I'm actually just an alternate..." David began.

"And now that we are all here," interrupted Frederico. "What shall we talk about?"

Elizabeth forced a smile. "I was just about to get back to practicing."

"Nonsense!" said Frederico. "Your practice schedule is ridiculous. The best thing you could do would be to stop using your hands and use your head for a while."

"Strangely enough," Elizabeth murmured, "I thought I was using my head along with my hands."

"Well, I think you're wrong," snapped Frederico, flinging himself over a nearby chair. David cracked an amused grin.

"You practice at the keyboard...always at the keyboard...so that means you're not using your brain...only your hands."

Elizabeth gave Frederico a disgusted look. "That's ridiculous. I analyzed this piece right down to the smallest detail before I played a note. I know this work forward and backward."

"Ah, but now you play, play, play...play by the hour as if you can _force_ the music to stay beneath your fingers," insisted Frederico, still beaming broadly. "Sometimes you need to step away from the piece and do something completely different for a few hours and then come back to it."

"Thanks for your opinion, but..."

"Don't you see that you have to take some time off to get a new perspective?" interrupted Frederico.

"Stop it!" demanded Elizabeth. "The piece is coming along. In fact I'm pleased with my progress—more or less. At least I was before the two of you showed up to distract me."

"Temper, temper now, Elizabeth," said Frederico, wagging his finger dramatically. "Moody artists perform no better than cheerful ones and they're much less fun at our Radovsky Festival receptions."

"Ah, the famous receptions," interjected David. "Elizabeth and I haven't had that pleasure yet."

"You'll get your chance," replied Frederico. "The first one is tomorrow night. And don't believe it for a moment when they tell you that attendance is optional. It's likely that at least two of the judges will be there—Madame Troussant and Mr. Bertini—and they do like it when the competitors socialize with each other. So grit your teeth and enjoy it—or at least pretend that you don't hate it."

"You've been to these things before, I suppose," said Elizabeth.

"Of course. Don't forget that I'm a veteran of this competition," Frederico announced proudly. "I was a finalist last year as well. I know the ins and outs."

"I had forgotten," said David quietly. "I'm sorry if...."

"It doesn't matter," Frederico shot back brightly. "Not one of my most successful adventures, I'll admit. I didn't do particularly well in the final concert, but...so what? I am back once again this year...older and wiser...and with a few new tricks up my sleeve."

"New tricks?" asked Elizabeth encouragingly.

"Absolutely! Tomorrow, before the reception, I go on my yearly pilgrimage to the Church of St. Boniface. It's one of Vienna's most fascinating little churches with this great little library attached. It's really quite amazing, although almost no one knows about it. It has a small collection of manuscripts—tiny, really. There are some Beethoven scores—not real compositions of course—but some teaching scores. Scores he marked for some of his students. I sit and gaze at them for hours...absorbing the master's spirit you know."

"Really?" asked David eagerly. "They let you really get that close to them?"

"Absolutely, you can even handle them, if you're careful," replied Frederico.

"That's amazing" said David.

"The church itself isn't that pleasant to look at. It's dark and damp as a tomb this time of the year. But the library has a little old man who brings you the scores and then simply leaves you alone. St. Boniface doesn't get that many tourists, you know, so if you walk in the door and sound like you know what you're doing, the librarian will assume that you really do and just leave you alone. So what do you say, my friends? Who would like to accompany Frederico on his pilgrimage?"

"Absolutely," David chimed in quickly, casting a furtive glance in Elizabeth's direction.

Elizabeth sighed. "I don't know. I've really got to..."

"Enough with the fingers!" demanded Frederico. "It's time for a break. The library even has a few Liszt manuscripts if memory serves me right. Nothing really big, you understand. Mostly some exercises he prepared for a student he taught briefly, a Count Sebastian. Years ago Sebastian's heirs donated all of his compositions and piano scores to the library. I guess no major research library was even interested."

"It actually has some Liszt manuscripts?" asked Elizabeth eagerly.

"Now don't get your hopes up, Elizabeth. I told you this was minor stuff...a few exercises perhaps. Although I really don't know why you care. Liszt was a horrible composer and a very strange man at that."

"Not exactly strange," said David. "More mysterious than horrible if you ask me."

"I don't care what either of you think. I've got to see those Liszt scores, if they really exist," Elizabeth said firmly, standing up and gathering her bag.

Frederico beamed eagerly. "Wonderful! Meet me at 11:00 tomorrow morning on the church steps and I'll be your guide!"

**Chapter 2**

Elizabeth paused on the steps of the old church, eyeing the faded gray edifice warily. Frederico was right. The church wasn't much to look at, even in the bright morning sunshine on a lovely, early winter's day. The façade was unremarkable at best—blocky and blunt with no interesting lines or details. The tourist literature would no doubt describe it as "formal" and "austere," but the truth was that it was just plain creepy. But even though she hated to admit it, she was glad to get away from the practice room for a while. Maybe she _was_ practicing too much. Frederico and David meant well, even if both of them could be a nuisance once in a while.

Elizabeth saw Frederico, who had arrived a few seconds after her, bound up the steps quickly, entering the church through the heavy wooden doors that seemed designed more to intimidate visitors than to invite them in. David, right behind Frederico, hesitated at the top of the steps for a moment, clearly waiting for Elizabeth to catch up with him. She dawdled at the bottom of the steps, pretending to study the architecture. Seconds later, David joined Frederico inside the church and Elizabeth climbed the steps slowly. Let's hope the church is more interesting on the inside than it appears to be from the outside _,_ she thought.

It wasn't. The stained glass windows let in remarkably little light and the occasional candle did nothing to brighten the dingy interior. The statuary that adorned the three altars in the front of the church was covered with decades of dirt and grime. Clearly, St. Boniface was not making much of an effort to be a tourist attraction, thought Elizabeth.

She saw Frederico gesturing to her vigorously from a side door near the left front of the church. David was beside him, also signaling for her to come ahead. She smiled faintly and walked quickly to meet them.

"It's here, off the main sanctuary," said Frederico. "You have to go through the church itself to get to the library."

Frederico and David disappeared through the narrow door to the library and Elizabeth followed a few seconds later. The library was not overly large but still looked impressive to Elizabeth. The ceilings were higher than expected and the space had a certain grandeur that was oddly missing from the sanctuary itself. There was little general lighting but there were four or five large tables, each equipped with large, green-shaded lamps for examining the library's collection.

"There are no stacks?" asked Elizabeth hesitantly, scanning the dimly lit room.

"No casual reading here," said Frederico, smiling broadly. "The only reason anyone ever comes here is to examine some part of the library's 'special collections.' Come on. I'll negotiate with the ancient librarian. My German is far better than yours."

Frederico quickly led the way to a small desk centrally located in the room. He greeted the elderly librarian courteously, explaining his needs in a quiet voice. The old man nodded silently and disappeared through an ornately carved door at the far end of the library.

"This may take a while," said Frederico. "I explained that I needed to look at the Beethoven teaching scores and that the young lady wanted to see the entire collection of Count Sebastian's materials."

"And exactly how much material is that?" asked Elizabeth, her eyes widening.

"I have no idea whatsoever," replied Frederico, "although I should say that the old man seemed a bit surprised by my request."

"I guess that means that there aren't many people interested in Sebastian's archive," said David quietly.

"I have no idea why he gave me that funny look," shrugged Frederico. "Perhaps we'll know more when Elizabeth takes a look at it."

The three had drifted through the library for several minutes when the librarian returned, pushing a small, creaky cart that contained two separate boxes of papers and scores. Both Frederico and Elizabeth were asked to sign the library's enormous ledgers. Then they each hefted their pile of materials from the cart and deposited them on one of the library's long tables.

Frederico quickly ploughed into the pile of Beethoven scores, choosing one and holding it up proudly. "Aha!" he whispered triumphantly to David and Elizabeth. "My bookmark is still in place from my last visit. Apparently this library gets even fewer visitors than I thought."

After a quick glance, in Elizabeth's direction, David sat silently beside Frederico and began to examine some of the other scores.

Elizabeth sat quietly in front of her slightly smaller pile of papers for a few seconds. As she began to leaf through the cover sheets listing the various documents, she was somewhat surprised that the collection included what appeared to be a notebook with daily entries—perhaps a diary of some sort—and a ledger book as well as a pile of scores. She quickly glanced through them. Count Sebastian's scrawl would not be easy to decipher. Elizabeth pushed the diary and ledger book over to the side and began to search for the Liszt autograph score that Frederico had mentioned. The index listed three sheets as "studies" and "teaching materials," all supposedly by Liszt. She worked her way quickly to the correct portfolio and opened it slowly.

Frederico had been right. She was gazing at authentic Liszt manuscripts—not a doubt in the world about it. Elizabeth had never actually handled a Liszt autograph before. She had studied plenty of facsimiles and microfilms, but she had never before touched a paper that Liszt himself had handled. She paused, put the manuscript down gently, and took a deep breath.

Liszt had fascinated Elizabeth since she was a child, just beginning her first, halting steps as a pianist. Her early piano books had portrayed the dynamic virtuoso almost as a matinee idol—his long, flowing locks swept back by the ferocious energy of his playing. The popular illustrations of Liszt reproduced in her music books and on the wall of her piano teacher's studio, showed an intensity that was almost eerie. At the keyboard, Liszt was transformed into an almost demonic concentration of power and determination. Liszt seemed truly possessed while at the keyboard, the fire inside him exploding from his fingers and his eyes—those eyes that could stare directly into a person's soul.

Her piano teacher had often spoken of Liszt's charisma. Here was a man who had fraternized with Chopin and the famous author George Sand, whose scandalous love affairs were notorious. Liszt could thrill and manipulate audiences—particularly the ladies—with little or no effort. Because of the sense of power and mystery that hovered around Liszt, some people had murmured about a "pact with the devil," suggesting that Liszt, like the famous nineteenth century violinist Paganini before him, had somehow sold his soul to the devil in order to acquire his fantastic skills. In later years, when Liszt embraced the church and spent a great deal of his time writing religious music, many knowingly shook their heads and said that there would never be enough time for a penitent Liszt to erase his wicked past.

But Elizabeth didn't care about such stories. It was Liszt's music she loved, not his reputation, and she couldn't get enough of it. There were only a few pieces by Liszt that she could play as a young pianist but, as her technique improved, she talked her teachers into letting her explore his music more and more. They hadn't been all that eager, many of them urging her to play more conservative nineteenth century composers. But with time, even her teachers had to admit that she seemed to have an instinct for Liszt and was able to penetrate the spirit of Liszt's music in a way that was unusual for a young student. Her current teacher, Professor Jamison, believed that Elizabeth's interpretations of Liszt's music were remarkably sensitive—even profound in their own way. It was her performances of some of the Liszt _Transcendental Etudes_ that had made her the winner of the American semi-finals and allowed her to come to Vienna to compete for the Radovsky Prize, the most prestigious award for young pianists in the world.

And now, sitting in a small church in Vienna, Elizabeth found herself gazing at an authentic autograph manuscript written by Liszt himself. The music wasn't much, just some conventional counterpoint exercises that he had written out for the benefit of his pupil Sebastian—but the notation was clearly in his hand. There was also some writing at the top of the page and in the margins. It appeared to be Liszt's handwriting but it was more difficult to tell. She would have to look more closely to be sure.

Elizabeth glanced quickly around the room. The old librarian had again left his desk. Frederico and David were locked in animated discussion only a few feet away, their eyes glued to the Beethoven manuscript in front of them. There was no one to see her.

Elizabeth slowly moved her oversized canvas handbag to the top of the table. It was almost miraculous that she had not been required to check her bag at the desk. But the library received so few visitors.

After stealing another furtive glance around the room, Elizabeth gently placed a group of manuscript sheets into her bag.

Chapter 3

It was almost an hour and a half later when Frederico sighed loudly and announced that his brain was full. "I have absorbed as much of Beethoven's spirit as any man dares to in a single day. Besides, I'm starving. Let's get lunch."

David nodded quietly, as did Elizabeth, straightening out the papers in front of her.

Outside, on the church steps, Frederico began to list the nearby restaurants. Elizabeth hesitated, and then expressed her regrets. Unfortunately, they'd be on their own today. Her head ached and she had to get back to her apartment at the conservatory. David remained silent as Frederico looked hopefully at him. No, David explained, he also must get back to his apartment. Frederico shrugged, wished his friends well, and hurried off to lunch while the other two walked off together in silence.

A block later, David spoke quietly. "I saw you, you know...take the manuscript. I'm pretty sure that no one else did."

Elizabeth took a short breath. "I thought you were preoccupied worshipping at Beethoven's shrine."

"I was, but I happened to glance over. What made you do a thing like that?"

"I'm just borrowing a few sheets for a couple of days. They're unimportant studies...as Frederico said."

"But they're Liszt manuscripts..."

"Yes, they are. And that's what makes them interesting to me. I just want to look at them more closely. I want to figure out what they're actually saying. They seem to be just a couple of counterpoint exercises but the writing is hard to read and I..."

"You couldn't do that at the library?"

"No, I couldn't," Elizabeth snapped, stopping in her tracks. "I need time to study them—with a piano in front of me. And in case you didn't notice, there was none available in the library."

"I realize that, but..."

"Look. I don't need a father figure in my life just now," said Elizabeth firmly, her hands going to her hips. "I did no harm by borrowing a few pages of manuscript paper. As Frederico said, no one ever goes into that library anyway. How many people do you think are really interested in the worthless papers of an obscure Count Sebastian?"

"Well, if there's one, there may be more," said David, shaking his head gently.

Elizabeth paused, looking down at the ground between them. "Look, David. I'm not even sure why you're here in Vienna in the first place."

"I'm here as a pianist...same as you."

"You're here because you're an alternate in the competition? The only way you're going to play is if I get sick and can't perform. You don't really think that's going to happen, do you?"

"Okay, so I'm just an alternate. Finished right behind you in the North American semi-finals as you may recall," David replied flippantly.

"But," Elizabeth said, shaking her head, "you told me the other day that your wrist is in such bad shape, you couldn't play if you wanted to."

"Sure, it would be difficult."

"And once the first performances begin—which is in just a couple of days— the original finalists can't be replaced by an alternate anyway."

"Very true."

"So David, why are you here? You know you're not going to play a note in Vienna."

David smiled. "I'm here to see the sights, what else? And I'm here to help out if you need it."

"But I _don't_ need it, David. Can't you see that? I don't have to be directed, and I don't have to be coached. I don't even have to be encouraged. I'm fine. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, you've made your point."

"Have I? The problem is, David, that you just assume I need your help...or want your help. I'm sorry if I sound cruel. I do appreciate your concern but..."

"But you can do without it at the moment. I understand perfectly. You need your space and, as it turns out, I have a number of errands to run at the moment." David gave an exaggeratedly low bow and walked back in the direction of the church.

Chapter 4

Elizabeth sagged back into the only comfortable chair in her apartment. My God, this place is depressing, she thought, gazing sadly at the peeling walls and water-stained ceiling _._ Not exactly the luxurious accommodations she had expected from the famous Radovsky competition. She closed her eyes. Her headache, which had started in the library, had gotten even worse. She should grab something to eat and head back to the practice room. But, right now, she just didn't have the energy.

All of this had been more difficult than she thought it would be. When she had been declared winner of the North American semi-finals for the Radovsky competition, she was naturally elated. That victory—unexpected and hard earned—had been the most thrilling experience of her life. She told herself that no matter what happened from that point on, she had proven herself to be a serious artist—an important artist—and that was all she had ever hoped for. Just _competing_ in Vienna with many of the greatest young pianists in the world was reward enough for her hard work. How could she ask for more?

And yet, upon arriving in Vienna and spending the first few hours in the dimly lit practice rooms of the oldest wing of the conservatory, it soon became clear that just competing was _not_ enough. She now felt that anything less than a first place prize would be a defeat—a devastating defeat that would destroy the confidence she had so carefully built up over the years.

She knew her competitors—many of them at least—by reputation. Four of them had won important "young artist" competitions previously. She was by far the least heralded of the group with no major awards to her name. And yet she was grimly determined to succeed against the odds. She knew she didn't have the technical skills that some of the others had. Having heard recordings of several of the other pianists, she knew that their technique was in many cases remarkable. She knew she would not be able to surpass her competitors in terms of sheer pianistic virtuosity. If that were all a particular judge cared about, he probably wouldn't be impressed with Elizabeth's playing.

And yet, she believed she had an advantage. As Professor Jamison had explained to her, it wasn't enough to play with speed and power. It wasn't enough to be clean and precise in terms of touch and articulation. A performer must make the music _meaningful_ to the listener. Every piece had its own story to tell—a _musical_ story, not necessarily a descriptive or programmatic one. This is where she thought she might be able to surpass the others, getting to the essence of a piece of music and communicating it to the listener. All of her really perceptive teachers had recognized that quality in her and praised her for it. She was sure that it was her power to communicate—her ability to convince the sensitive listener that _her interpretation_ was precisely what the composer had intended—that made her stand out. And she had always felt especially attuned to Liszt. She believed that she came as close to tapping into Liszt's musical soul as any other young pianist in the world. A lot of other pianists avoided Liszt's music entirely. It was too difficult, too demanding. But she had always felt a connection with Liszt, now more than ever.

And now she had in her possession one of his manuscripts—actually written in Liszt's hand—touched and handled by the master. This modest manuscript would draw her even closer to Liszt's spirit.

She supposed it had been silly—dangerously silly—for her to have to taken it. But she saw no reason for David to be so sanctimonious about it. No harm was done to anyone. She would look at the manuscript briefly, play through a few of the counterpoint exercises contained in it, and make another attempt at deciphering Liszt's sketchy handwriting in the margins and between the staves. Then it would go back to the library, without anyone ever noticing it had been missing.

But even if she couldn't possess the manuscript for long, it was important for her to be able to hold it in her hands for a little while... especially now, when her playing had to be at its best and most sensitive. Her ability to play Liszt's music had gotten her into this competition and, if she were to have a chance to win, she would have to see even deeper into Liszt's soul.

Elizabeth slowly reached down into her bag and gently pulled out the pages of manuscript. Now in her apartment, the pages somehow seemed larger...heavier. Apparently she had grabbed more from the file than she had intended to. No matter. The Liszt manuscripts were the only important things and she had to look at those with a piano in front of her.

She moved to the old upright piano in her apartment. Unlike her practice room piano, this piano was almost junk. It was unusable for any serious playing, but it would be good enough to play through the simple exercises that Liszt had written for his student.

Elizabeth placed the first of the three manuscript sheets on the music rack. She sat down gingerly at the piano and flicked on the piano light, projecting a yellowish glow on the faded pages. Still, the score seemed dark. She pushed the head of the lamp closer to the music, leaned forward and squinted. Not only was the musical notation—the _cantus firmus_ upon which Count Sebastian had written his counterpoint—clearly in Liszt's hand, but some of the writing in the margins did appear to be Liszt's as well. Elizabeth closed her eyes for a few seconds and rubbed them gently. She opened them and once again squinted at the tiny handwriting. "Mostly Liszt is just pointing out Sebastian's errors," she said softly to herself. The Count was obviously not a great student; there were a number of mistakes in the part-writing.

Elizabeth's hand drifted down the page. Suddenly she paused, her finger dropping away from the manuscript. She shook her head quickly and peered even more deeply into the manuscript. Then she gave a short gasp.

Chapter 5

David sighed, his steps slowing as he began to hear the cheerful voices in the room ahead of him. He had dreaded this for a couple of days. As an alternate for the competition, he certainly had a right to come to the opening Radovsky reception, probably even an obligation. But he still felt out of place. Alternates were chosen for each regional semi-finals competition, but the recognition was really no more than an "honorable mention" for the runner-up. Alternates never actually replaced the finalists for the competition in Vienna because the finalists never missed a chance to be at the competition themselves. The Radovsky Prize was, simply put, the most coveted honor a young pianist could hope to achieve. The finalists would come on crutches if necessary, but they would come and compete. No alternate ever found a place in the competition and most never bothered to show up.

So why was he here? Unfortunately, it was both obvious and painful to Elizabeth that he had come, at least in part, to follow her. They had known each other casually for two years before the American semi-finals but had really made a connection only there—at the semi-final competition. They had talked music for a week straight—meeting every night after each concert and conversing passionately about their likes and dislikes late into the night, moving from one Boston coffee house to the next. He had been amazed how quickly and completely they had connected.

When Elizabeth's turn to perform came, he felt she had played brilliantly. There was no doubt in his mind that she deserved to win, but he was nevertheless surprised when she did. There had been other pianists in the semi-finals who had been flashier, whose technique had sparkled more dazzlingly. But the judges had heard a spark in Elizabeth's playing of Liszt's _Transcendental Etudes_ that they could not deny. _The best musician in the competition_ , the head judge had claimed as she handed Elizabeth the certificate. Of course the votes had been split and there was some semi-public grumbling on the part of two of the judges who had been outvoted. But the prize was Elizabeth's and no one deserved it more.

And he had finished second, the American alternate to the international Radovsky finals to be held later than year in Vienna. He was as surprised by his own second place showing as he had been by her first place award. His left wrist had started to bother him weeks before the competition. By the night of the second concert, the pain was excruciating and he knew that he was forcing his left hand to obey him—stiffening his wrist in such a way that he knew would affect his tone. Although the audience's applause had been impressive that night, he could see two of the judges consulting after his performance and he knew that his already slim chances were diminishing fast.

And yet, he had somehow managed to finish second to Elizabeth. That had caused a bit of an uproar as well, and it would have caused even more if anyone really thought that the alternate position had any importance. Nevertheless, he clearly felt snubbed by several of the other pianists at the final reception and even the congratulations offered to him by some of the others that evening had been lukewarm at best.

In the end, he felt he was able to finish second more because of the freshness of his repertoire than his playing. He was the only pianist to play Mozart and Scarlatti, throwing in an early Brahms sonata for its "Sturm und Drang" brazenness. No Chopin. No Liszt. Not even Beethoven. He had been told that this strategy would never work. "Give the judges what they want to hear," he had been warned. But he didn't, and somehow he had managed to place second, even though he knew he hadn't played up to his potential. Still, there had been surprisingly little joy in his accomplishment. He felt much more exhilarated by Elizabeth's success than by his own, in part because he knew his own second place finish would lead to nothing, and her first place finish entitled her to move on to one of the most important competitions for young pianists in the world.

But, when the winner of the American semi-finals was finally announced, and he had rushed up to Elizabeth to express his heart-felt congratulations, she had reacted rather stiffly. She seemed increasingly embarrassed by his interest in her. Rather than wanting to share her sense of pleasure and satisfaction with him, she withdrew within herself. Although she had let him take her out to dinner to celebrate her triumph, she remained distant—her mind already projecting ahead to the challenges of Vienna. It hadn't been a satisfactory evening for either of them.

Seeing her again months later in Vienna, David had hoped he could rekindle what he had taken to be an initial spark of interest on her part. But it now seemed unlikely. Their early conversations had been cordial, but increasingly he was made to feel superfluous. And then, after he had questioned her about taking the manuscript—an episode that still puzzled him greatly—she had become almost hostile. Of course he realized now how stupid it had been of him to say anything about it. But he had been surprised by her actions and felt a need to understand them. Predictably, his objections had only served to reinforce the wall that had formed between them. So now, as he marched slowly down the hallway to the reception room, he felt a burning desire to avoid the only person at the Radovsky Festival whom he felt he could really talk to.

At the half-open door, David paused briefly and sighed.

**Chapter 6**

"David! David Currant! Don't hang about out there like some medieval ghost." The voice was Frederico's, booming heartily as usual as he gestured broadly for David to join him in a group of four others. "Come in, join the party!"

David smiled slightly and strode briskly into the reception room. The walls, covered by dark oak paneling, were well lit, showing an almost lustrous glow. But most of the energy in the room clearly came from Frederico, chatting noisily with his group of friends.

"Yes, yes!" he bellowed. "Right over here! Don't be shy. I've some people here for you to meet."

David came forward, his hand extended to Frederico's. "One and all!" announced Frederico," I am pleased to introduce to you my American friend, David. Well, actually my _other_ American friend. We mustn't forget Elizabeth, of course." He bowed gallantly to Elizabeth, who had just walked up to join the group. She smiled back.

Frederico quickly turned back to David. "This fellow is the only one of us who isn't painfully nervous. Since he's an alternate, he will _not_ be performing in the opening round of the competition in three days' time. Therefore—as you can see—he looks happy, well-rested...even, one might say, emotionally stable."

The four other guests surrounding Frederico laughed politely.

"David is an excellent pianist, of course," Frederico continued cheerfully. "He finished second to Elizabeth in the North American semi-finals and has been kind enough to grace us with his presence for the Radovsky competition. So if any of you would like the opinion of a _truly_ unprejudiced musician—not one who is secretly hoping that you fall on your face every time you approach a piano—then by all means, talk to David."

The group responded to this with a nervous titter. Frederico grabbed David by the arm. "First of all, David, I'd like you to meet Ms. Sung Lee Kim, a most charming young lady who plays Debussy as if in a state of suspended animation, floating gracefully over the notes that the rest of us have so much trouble with." David stepped forward to take Kim's shyly proffered hand. "And now, Mr. Allen—Geoffrey Allen—the pride of Great Britain. And yet it is his playing of Mendelssohn and Schumann—two great German composers—that has made him famous." David and Geoffrey Allen, a tall if somewhat thin and pale-faced young man, shook hands heartily, exchanging smiles and nods.

"I'm Juan Peirera. It's a great pleasure to meet you," offered a short, affable young man to Allen's right as he reached out for David's hand.

"I'm sure you've heard of Mr. Peirera, David," said Frederico enthusiastically. "Winner of the South American finals and already possessed of an excellent reputation for his performances of Villa-Lobos."

"But here, for the Radovsky Prize, here I play Chopin, Bach and Ravel. I am partial to the French modernists," Peirera said, beaming broadly.

"I too am a devotee of Chopin," said Ernst Deiner eagerly, stepping forward to clutch David's hand.

"Ernst is our German representative," said Geoffrey Allen. "And an astounding performer of the Scherzos among other things."

"Of course," continued Frederico eagerly. "And finally, Mr. Vaclav Rajki, the pride of Bratislava and winner of regional awards too numerous to mention."

Rajki, a large young man, darkly complexioned with staring eyes, stepped forward to take David's hand. "But as yet, no _international_ conquests," he said, smiling slyly. "And that, of course, is why I am here."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said David. "What, if you don't mind me asking, is your specialization?"

"I play everything," said Rajki smugly. "Everything that is worth playing. I have little sympathy for the noise that is contemporary music. I consider my heritage to include both German music and the great Bohemian tradition. I am here to represent both traditions—and I am here to win."

"Yes, of course, Vaclav..." interjected Frederico quickly. "Now then, David, I believe that's everybody."

"I don't believe so, Frederico," interrupted Rajki as he turned toward Elizabeth. "I don't believe we've all had the pleasure of being introduced to your charming young American friend...Miss..."

"Oh yes, of course," said Frederico, turning to face Elizabeth with a broad smile. "This is Ms. McDermitt...Elizabeth McDermitt. Winner of the North American semi-finals and a wonderful pianist."

"Indeed," said Rajki somewhat coldly. "And what, may I ask, is your passion, Miss McDermitt?"

"I'm a musician," replied Elizabeth stiffly. "My repertoire focuses on the late Romantic."

"She means Liszt, of course," Frederico interjected good-naturedly.

"Ah," said Peirera, smiling broadly. "So we _do_ have a Lisztian among us. Are you going to play any of the nasty stuff for us? One of the Mephisto Waltzes perhaps?"

"Absolutely!" said Frederico, increasingly carried away with his own enthusiasm.

"I don't personally find it that amusing, Frederico," said Rajki. "It's better not to play around with such stuff."

"Oh, please!" Allen interjected quickly. "It is too early in the evening for fairy tales."

"Yes," said Peirera, his head nodding vigorously. "Please explain yourself, Rajki."

Rajki shrugged. "What is there to explain? Some Liszt is harmless enough, but the Mephisto Waltzes? Why play with fire?"

"Am I missing some joke here?" asked Allen, turning his attention back to the group after wandering away to hoist a glass of white wine from a nearby waiter's tray. "Are we afraid of Liszt now? Those damn octaves can be murder but..."

"We are not discussing the technical difficulties of Liszt's music, Geoffrey," replied Rajki, "we are discussing its...its moral significance."

"Oh! Then I have missed a joke!" Allen said brightly.

Rajki frowned and turned to face Allen. "Liszt's Mephisto Waltzes are no laughing matter, no matter what an Englishman might say."

"I say," replied Allen, snorting indignantly.

"How about the Germans, Rajki?" said Deiner, shaking his head slowly. "Do we understand your precious Liszt well enough to laugh at him?"

"Liszt was a Hungarian. Not a German," protested Rajki.

"A Hungarian who never spoke a word of the language!" spat Deiner.

Rajki turned slowly to face Deiner. "His soul was Hungarian and that is all that matters."

Allen grimaced. "His soul, Rajki?" Strange. I thought you were implying that he _had_ no soul. And how about your soul? Is your soul Hungarian as well?"

"It is not," replied Rajki coolly, "but it understands the Hungarians. I know Liszt. Liszt attempted to channel forces that no man should..."

"And the Germans don't know Liszt?" demanded Deiner.

"They know his virtuosity," replied Rajki angrily," but they don't understand what was in his soul or his creative spirit. They attempt to make his music merely romantic...merely pretty."

"Whereas Liszt's soul was too 'black' and corrupted by diabolical influence to make any 'pretty' music. Is that it?" said Peirera, a slight smile crossing his face. "It is an intriguing story, of course, but who can take it seriously?"

"It may be risky to ignore the power of the Mephisto Waltzes, my friend," replied Rajki." They represent a side of Liszt that is not completely understood by anyone."

"Except by you, of course," sneered Allen.

"Speaking of Liszt channeling diabolical forces, Elizabeth was trying to channel Liszt just the other day," David interjected quickly. "We went to the old Church of St. Boniface. Marvelous little library attached to it. Elizabeth found an actual Liszt autograph manuscript. Not much to it, actually, just some counterpoint exercises written for an errant student. But in the master's hand. With a few words of encouragement written along the margins...am I correct, Elizabeth?"

"There was not much to the manuscript," she said haltingly. "I saw it only briefly."

David looked away from her, gazing briefly down at his feet.

Rajki threw back his head with a forced laugh. "Of course it is Liszt for you Americans...always Liszt. No _healthy_ German music? No Haydn? He will clarify your mind. Some middle period Beethoven perhaps? Let his struggles inspire you—he comes by them honestly and surmounts them by the sweat of his brow—it is honest music...but Liszt? I still say that he is more dangerous than you think. Americans are drawn to Liszt but they can never understand him. You should stick to the Germans."

Elizabeth stared into Rajki's eyes coldly. "Liszt _was_ German...every bit as much as Beethoven."

"Ah, but as our dear Vaclav has pointed out, his soul—if he had one— was Hungarian," Frederico quickly inserted. "He was one-half a gypsy in his heart. Listen to Danko on this subject some time. They say Danko is Russian but his people are pure Roma. He can tell you about Liszt."

"Speaking of Danko, where is Mr. Sulek this evening?" asked Allen. "I thought he intended to come."

"Ah, but that is just the point," said Frederico, nodding knowingly. "Danko announces he will come to the reception tonight. Therefore, you can be sure that he will _not_ come."

"I'm not sure that being unpredictable is such a great asset in a piano competition," Deiner said softly.

"Ah, but who can say for sure?" Frederico asked mysteriously. "Look at those judges," he said, nodding his head toward a grouping of six or seven people congregated in a far corner of the reception room. The others shot a glance in that direction. "The judges...they speak to each other...they speak to our wealthy sponsors...but do they speak to the performers? No, never!"

"We're supposed to communicate through our playing," said Allen. "I see nothing wrong with that."

"And I'm happy that there are wealthy sponsors with whom they can speak," added Deiner, chuckling gently. "The money has to come from somewhere. All of us here have achieved honors for our artistry, but none of us have competed for a huge cash prize of the sort the Radovsky Festival promises. Not to mention the management contract that goes with it."

"Yes, of course you're correct," said Frederico, sighing softly. "But just once, wouldn't you like to get inside their heads—the judges'—and find out once and for all what they really think about?"

"I dare say they're thinking about how they themselves would play the pieces they hear," said David smiling slightly, "assuming they had the talent to perform on that level."

"I don't think it can be that simple," Kim offered quietly. "Certainly they must be open to alternative interpretations of the music. These great works invite it—they demand it."

"Perhaps," replied David sympathetically. "But I sometimes wonder if they don't simply live out their own aesthetic fantasies in our playing...and reward those pianists who come closest to the way they'd play the pieces themselves."

"Our stalwart executive director, Mr. Johann Wurtler, is said to have his favorites," said Rajki, nodding almost imperceptibly to a white-haired gentlemen in his sixties who was rapidly making his way around the large room, clasping every hand in sight. "I wonder if he ever bends the ear of any of the judges."

"Really now..." began Allen.

"Enough, Enough..." Frederico interjected quickly. "There are no answers to these questions and we're all getting tired. Let us thank our hosts heartily for this pleasant little party and be off to our night's rest."

Moments later, Frederico was leading the guests merrily through the main hall of the conservatory, approaching the grand stairway that led to the main floor lobby.

"I insist that we all have pleasant dreams tonight," Frederico demanded playfully. "I've no doubt that once the judges hear the wonderful music that each of us will produce in the upcoming concert that the rules will change and we'll _all_ be given the first prize and riches beyond our wildest dreams."

"From your fantasies to the judge's ears," murmured Peirera.

"But wait—gather around now—we must all make a pledge," Frederico said mock-earnestly as he paused at the head of the grand staircase, the six gathering around him. "Whatever happens in the next week, we must pledge to help each other in our careers from this day on. There can be no enemies here—only friends who love music."

Some members of the group chuckled softly and there were two or three murmurs of assent. "Very well," said Frederico, undaunted, "on to the promised land."

Frederico bowed low and swept his arm beneath him as the group began to descend the grand staircase. Seconds later, a voice called, "Look out!" and Allen, his arms thrown out wildly in the air, stumbled and missed a step. As several members of the group screamed, Allen lurched forward, falling head-first down the long, marble steps of the gilt-edged staircase.

"Oh, my God!" cried Rajki. The others looked on in shocked disbelief as Allen finally jolted to a stop, twisted and groaning at the bottom of the stairs.

**Chapter 7**

Early the next afternoon, Ernst Deiner, Sung Lee Kim and Mario Peirera sat quietly around a table at _The Garret_ , a modest coffee shop down the street from the contestant's apartments.

"It was no accident, you know. He was pushed." Ernst Deiner spoke softly, hiding his mouth behind his cup as his eyes darted restlessly from one side of the dimly lit room to the other.

Sung Lee Kim hesitated briefly, then picked up the small pastry in front of her. "Really...I don't know why you should say such a thing."

"Don't be naive," Deiner snapped. "He was a strong competitor. He had been playing particularly well lately. It would be very convenient to have him out of the way."

"Convenient for whom?" sneered Juan Peirera, glowering from across the table. "I'm sorry, but I have a difficult time believing in conspiracy theories."

"No one's asking you to," replied Deiner coolly. "Not unless you believe in a conspiracy of one. Allen was leading the way down the stairs but there were a number of individuals—three or four—right behind him. Any of them could have reached out and given a gentle shove."

"If it comes down to that," Peirera smirked, "there were at least five or six people who could have done it—including Vaclav's teacher and probably even two or three judges who were close by. But that doesn't mean..."

"Geoffrey was being very careless," Kim interjected quietly. "He was looking over his shoulder, trying to talk to three people at one. It's a tragedy, but it's not surprising that..."

"A tragedy?" Deiner turned his seat quickly to face Kim, a grim smile crossing his face. "Are you saying that you're not secretly pleased that Allen is out of the competition?"

"I don't want _anyone_ out of the competition because they have a broken arm," said Kim, returning his gaze unflinchingly. "My God, Ernst, what kind of person do you think I am?"

"I think you're somebody who wants to win this competition as much as I do."

"Nobody wants to win that badly," insisted Peirera, shaking his head.

"Are you so sure?" asked Deiner, his eyes widening. "This competition can launch a career—you know that. Might somebody use desperate measures to accomplish that goal? Sure they might. My agent would probably frame his grandmother for murder if he thought it would guarantee that I would pick up the Radovsky prize."

"But your agent wasn't there," said Kim.

"No, he wasn't, but you get my point."

"So I suppose you have some likely suspects in mind?" asked Peirera casually.

"Sure," said Deiner. "Somebody who wants it just a little more than anyone else. I'm not sure who that is yet. But they'll reveal themselves. It's just a matter of time."

Chapter 8

"Good lord! This is not an assignment I would have chosen for myself, Inspector Fischer," said Max Hermann, shifting his rotund body uncomfortably in his chair.

"Nonsense, it'll be good for you," responded his senior colleague cheerily.

"But how about young Schmeltzer?" urged Hermann hopefully. "Wouldn't this sort of thing be more in his line? I'm told that his wife takes on the occasional piano student."

"That's not really the chief qualification here, Max," Fischer replied, obviously enjoying himself. "What I need for this investigation is someone with a certain level of sophistication...someone with a cosmopolitan outlook."

Hermann groaned, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "But that's just the thing, sir. I'm not a man who enjoys culture all that much...you know what I mean. I like jazz and not much beyond Oscar Peterson. I'm not really the one to interview a bunch of fancy pianists."

"Nonsense," barked Fischer heartily. "Do you a world of good. Get you out of this dark depressing office and expose you to the artistic perspective. I'm sure you're quite capable of handling this."

"But sir, has there actually been a crime to investigate? A man takes a wrong step and goes tumbling down the stairs and everybody gets into an uproar! I mean, sir...accidents can happen to anyone."

"Look, Max," said Fischer, leaning over and adopting a conspiratorial tone. "I have no idea if we're looking at a simple accident here or an attempt at mayhem. All I know is that people are talking. Maybe they're all just neurotic artists. Maybe they know something that we don't know. But this is a significant cultural event and it must go smoothly. And we certainly can't be seen as being passive when it comes to the success of a major music competition held in the middle of Vienna."

"But sir," protested Hermann, shaking his head wearily, "I'm not sure I can even talk to these people. The officers who wrote up the complaint admitted that nobody could get their story straight."

"My God, Hermann, they're artists...they're young pianists from all over the globe. They're not alien space creatures," replied Fischer, his face serious for the first time. "You can deal with this. I know you speak some French and a little English. Get some help if you need it, but get to the bottom of this. The organizers of the competition have been promised a full report and a full report they shall get."

"Yes, yes...of course," sighed Hermann as he snatched his hat from the desk in front of him. "I just wish that I wasn't the one they were going to get it from."

Chapter 9

Vaclav Rajki shook his head slowly. The last few hours had dragged terribly. Usually playing Rachmaninov energized him...gave him a great sense of satisfaction. But today...nothing. Everything had been a struggle. The second movement had gone much better last week than it was going today. His playing was lethargic and he knew it. And in just one more day it would be Saturday and the first day of the competition would be upon them. This was no time to be in the doldrums.

He looked around the small practice room. Frankly, he had expected better from the conservatory. There were only eight finalists left in the competition. Couldn't eight decent practice rooms be found in one of Vienna's major conservatories for the finals of one of the most prestigious piano competitions in Europe? Apparently not. Well, at least their practice room annex was isolated. He could hear only one other pianist. He assumed it was Kim. A rapturously delicate touch, but a little hesitation at moments of climax. Some judges would adore her finesse but others would look for more aggressiveness.

Still, it was hard to know what would happen and how the judges would react to any performer. Some pianists played quite differently when they actually took to the stage. And on this level, it was quite possible that Kim would be transformed into an absolutely electrifying performer who would captivate the audience and the judges.

And perhaps others—who now seemed the stronger competitors—would get nervous and fail. It was simply impossible to predict what would occur when the curtain was raised. Even though every pianist in the competition had played well in numerous prestigious venues before coming to Vienna for this competition, there was nothing quite like competing for the Radovsky Prize. The competition had launched some careers into the stratosphere and buried others.

Rajki could hear the door opening down the hall. Within seconds his teacher, a short, red-faced and somewhat overweight man in his early fifties, pushed his way into Rajki's practice room.

"Here you are!" exclaimed the man robustly. "I hoped I would find you here."

"Where else would I be, Mr. Kurzen? Where else would you allow me to be?" said Rajki, a wan smile crossing his face.

"It is not a question of where I want you to be, Vaclav, it is a question of where you _must_ be if you plan on winning this competition," said Alois Kurzen, wiping his brow vigorously as he came to rest on the only real chair in the tiny practice room. "We need four hours of practice from you each day. It is important that the notes stay under your fingers. But your hands—and your brain—must remain fresh, so I don't want you to practice a moment longer."

"Yes, Alois, I know," said Rajki, allowing himself a hint of a sigh. "We've been through this a dozen times. I assure you I've been a good boy. I'm almost done for the day. How nice of you to come to see me and unlock my chains."

"That is not amusing," said Kurzen, shaking his head. "You do this for yourself, not for me alone. And if you do not take it seriously, you will be sent packing after Saturday night. You are an excellent pianist, Vaclav, but there are many excellent pianists here. One must take every competitive advantage."

"Well, I'm not going to push one of my competitors down the stairs if that's what you mean."

"That was unfortunate. But he was not destined to win this competition. His character was not strong..."

"My God, Alois, are you saying you're glad that Allen broke his arm?" Rajki wheeled around to face his teacher, his mouth gaping open.

"It is not a question of being happy," said Kurzen, shaking his head slowly. "But an artist must be tough-minded in order to succeed. You must focus everything on your goals and you must be ruthless in attaining them."

"But to stand victorious over the broken bodies of your competitors..."

"Is to stand victorious. This is your great chance, Vaclav. And perhaps the last chance...for both of us. You are my greatest student—the first student I have ever had in a lifetime of teaching who can make the world stand up and listen. But you must seize this opportunity. And if you must elbow aside some musicians who have not the strength of character required to compete...then so be it."

Vaclav Rajki swiveled on the piano bench to face Kurzen directly. "Listen, Alois. I will win this competition and I will win it _my_ way. I am not soft, but I am not stupid either. I will do what I must to win, but I will not declare open warfare on the other pianists."

Chapter 10

"So, are you sleeping all right?" David tried to sound casual, sneaking a peak at Elizabeth over his coffee cup as they sat quietly in a far corner of one of Vienna's smaller coffee shops. "Big day coming up tomorrow."

Elizabeth gazed distractedly in David's direction. "Yes...I suppose. I guess so."

"Guess that it's a big day, or guess that you've been sleeping well?"

"I've been sleeping all right," Elizabeth answered quietly. "I've got a constant headache. But its not the first time that's ever happened before a competition."

"How's the practicing been going? Liszt been behaving himself?"

"If he had been, it wouldn't really be Liszt, now would it?"

David lifted his hands in protest. "Whoa! I'm the wrong one to ask about that. As you know, I've never considered myself a true Lisztian." David paused to sip his coffee. "Let me simplify that. How about 'Mazeppa'? How's your favorite _Transcendental Etude_ coming? It sounded great when last I heard it."

"It sounds different...very different now. Somehow, everything's changed in the last few days. I've been playing Liszt for years but I've just come to the conclusion that I've never really come close to his music...I've never been able to get a true feeling for it—never really gotten inside it."

"And that's changed in the last two days?"

"Yes, it has. I can't really explain it. I just..."

"That Liszt manuscript...must have really inspired you," said David, studying Elizabeth's eyes closely.

"I returned it...the very next day," she snapped angrily.

"You returned it? Back to the library?"

"Yes, didn't I tell you?" Elizabeth replied quickly, forcing a cheerful, almost sprightly tone. "Had to smuggle it back of course. It was interesting, but in the end there wasn't much to it. A few notes, a few scrawled instructions in Liszt's hand. It wasn't a real piece, of course."

"No, of course not," said David, "but it was in the hand of the master. You seemed pretty interested in it at first."

Elizabeth shrugged.

"It was terrible thing that happened to Geoffrey Allen," said David, his eyes still trained on hers.

"I didn't see it," Elizabeth replied quietly. "I had looked away for the moment. And then there was so much confusion...I just didn't get a good look."

"Well, it was a horrible sight. Just a terrible bit of luck for him."

Elizabeth again shrugged. "I suppose. Maybe he's better out of it. He's no longer in the pressure cooker."

"I know," said David," but still..."

"Maybe it was just meant to be. Anybody can fall down a flight of stairs. It could have just as easily been me."

"Elizabeth," said David slowly, "are you sure you're getting enough sleep? And this constant headache of yours...don't you think you had better go and see someone about that?"

"Oh, so you're my doctor now as well as my Father confessor and analyst," said Elizabeth starkly, her eyes directed piercingly at David. "Is that why you wanted to meet here? To tell me what I need to do for my own good?"

"Of course not, Elizabeth," protested David, "it's just that..."

"I appreciate your friendship, David, but maybe this just isn't the time for you to be overly concerned for my welfare. Okay?"

"Anything you say, Elizabeth. Well, I've got to go. I guess I'll see you later," said David, forcing a smile as he rose to his feet and quickly left the coffee shop.

**Chapter 11**

Why had she been so rude? thought Elizabeth a few minutes later, wrestling with the lock to her apartment. Well, on one level, it was obvious. She was under tremendous stress—the most she had ever experienced in her life.

Still, she couldn't keep from feeling that there was more to it than that. She just didn't seem to be herself—hadn't been for a few days. Was it just the pressure? Maybe. But did the pressure cause memory lapses? Recently, there were periods—even a couple of hours at a time—that just seemed to be a blank to her.

She entered her dingy apartment, tossing her coat onto a chair near the wall. She collapsed into the one comfortable armchair. Just last night, she'd been sitting there. Or was she at the old piano? And then, all of a sudden, she had been startled and had woken up quickly, discovering that it was almost two hours later than she had thought. But she hadn't been asleep, had she? She had never been one to take naps and had never fallen asleep in a chair in her life—at least never before. Now, for some reason, she was blanking out—sometimes for long periods. In the past she was always able to transform the nervousness of performing into great surges of energy. But this time something was going wrong. Why was she blacking out or falling asleep for a couple of hours at a time on days when keeping her focus was absolutely crucial? And her headache was worse than ever. Maybe she should go and see a doctor as David had suggested. Obviously he meant well, although his timing wasn't too great. But no...the doctor would simply blame it all on stress and tell her to take it easy for a while. As if she could afford to take it easy when the Radovsky prize was at stake.

Elizabeth sighed audibly and lifted herself slowly out of the big chair. I've got to keep my mind on the music, she thought. I've got to think it, even when I can't play it. She moved slowly over to the piano, carefully pulled the score to "Mazeppa" out of her oversized bag and placed it on the music stand of the battered old piano. For a few seconds, she focused on the opening measures, humming them lightly as she narrowed her eyes in an attempt to increase her ability to concentrate. But then she paused. She reached to the top of the piano. There was Sebastian's score—actually Liszt's score, as far as she was concerned. She didn't remember putting it there, but there it was nevertheless. She should have smuggled it back to the library, just as she had told David she had. Tomorrow. She would do it tomorrow.

She pushed the score to "Mazeppa" over to the side and placed Sebastian's score—Liszt's score— in front of her. She scanned the first page, which somehow looked slightly different. At the bottom of the score there was some writing she hadn't noticed before, the words jammed together as if they had been put to paper quickly. She couldn't be sure of the hand involved. Most of the writing on the score in the margins was Liszt's, mostly pointing out errors in Count Sebastian's pathetic attempts at counterpoint. Some of the writing seemed clearly to be Count Sebastian's—notes to himself regarding special instructions or problems to avoid. But the writing at the bottom of the score, which she couldn't remember noticing before, seemed different, with some peculiar symbols interspersed. The handwriting resembled Liszt's but it appeared somehow transformed. But it was hard to see...it seemed almost as if the dingily lit apartment had gotten even darker. She peered intently at the words, reading slowly... _Music requires the highest commitment from the mind and the soul... An artist must eliminate all obstacles in his path...nothing must be allowed to stand in the way...One must embrace the power..._

**Chapter 12**

Saturday had dawned brightly, almost unnaturally so in David's eyes. Blinking into the bathroom mirror, his razor in hand, he reminded himself that this was a day in which two of the finest young pianists in the world would be sent home, disqualified from further participation.

Well, it could have been worse, he thought. In some competitions, the first round performances eliminate more than half the performers. But in this case the list of eight finalists had been winnowed extensively by a series of regional competitions. Still, today would not be pleasant. There would be some brilliant performances—some pianists would rise to the occasion and play beyond their normal abilities. Others, internalizing the pressure differently, would become cautious. Afraid to make a mistake, their playing would become tentative, overly conservative. Those pianists would not survive the day.

***

Hours later, the sound of applause echoing in his ears, David made for one of the side exits of the small but elegantly appointed recital hall that housed most of the competition's performances. The morning had gone well. Elizabeth had not yet performed, but Danko Sulek had played his Chopin polonaise brilliantly. Throughout his performance he had worn a confident expression—almost close to a smirk at times. He was at the top of his game and he knew it. And although the judges nearly always remained passive in their expressions regardless of what was happening on stage, David thought he could see a hint of excitement in the eyes of at least one or two of them. Sulek would clearly move on to the next level.

David was less sure about Frederico. He played the Mozart C Minor Fantasia thoughtfully, but without much intensity. It was almost as if he were waiting to become inspired by the music rather than seeking to inspire his listeners to explore its mysteries. He finished convincingly though, and earned substantial applause.

Ernst Diener's performance was also problematic. His Chopin Scherzo was heavy on bombast but too homogeneous, over-simplifying and reducing the widely varying moods contained in the piece to a single, pulsating drone. Almost more importantly, Diener had looked nervous. He seemed more concerned with getting through the piece without mistakes than making it flow.

On the other hand, Juan Peirera was suave and assured in his performance of Ravel's "La Valse," a flashy and yet nostalgic piece that was always a hit with audiences despite its modestly modernist musical vocabulary. Although his playing seemed a bit superficial to David, Peirera beamed confidence throughout.

David literally held his breath when Elizabeth finally took the stage. She seemed strangely passive and expressionless as she adjusted the piano bench and rested her hands on the keyboard in preparation for striking the first notes.

Suddenly her hands and arms erupted with energy and Liszt's "Mazeppa" burst forth with incredible force. David felt as if a wave of intensity was pushing him back in his seat. He almost had to struggle to lean forward, eager to catch every note. The sound poured forth like a torrent—full of passion and rhythmic precision but never mechanical or clock-like. The legendary Cossack leader came to life before him—his color, his ruthlessness, his sense of abandon. It was breathtaking! This surely must have been close to the way that Liszt himself played the piece to so mesmerize his audiences! He had never heard Elizabeth play like this before. And yet, as the notes continued to pour forth in swelling cascades of sound, Elizabeth's face remained almost shockingly blank—completely expressionless. "My God," he gasped quietly, "she seems transformed!"

Chapter 13

The afternoon performances were something of a blur for David. Sung Lee Kim had played Debussy's "Pour Le Piano" solidly if a little uncertainly at times, and Vaclav Rajki had thundered through a late Beethoven sonata with a vengeance.

But David's mind remained on Elizabeth and her performance. He had tried to find her over the lunch interval but she seemed to have disappeared. It wasn't until later in the evening, long after the conclusion of the concert that he managed to locate her, overtaking her as she walked slowly in the direction of her apartment.

"Elizabeth," he said breathlessly, jogging after her. "Please stop for a moment. I must tell you how remarkable your performance was this morning!"

Elizabeth paused, turning slowly toward David. She tilted her head slightly as her eyes focused on his face. She seemed at first not to recognize him.

"David? Yes, of course. How nice to see you again," she said haltingly.

"Elizabeth? Are you all right? I mean...have you been feeling ill?

Elizabeth paused briefly, then smiled. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"No reason, I guess. It's just that you seem rather distant."

"I've been working hard, David. I've been concentrating. I've..."

"You played wonderfully," David interjected quickly. "'Mazeppa'....it was incredible. I've never heard you play it like that before. I've never heard _anyone_ play it like that before!"

"Yes, yes...of course...'Mazeppa'...did it go well?"

"Elizabeth, it was remarkable. Absolutely remarkable. I mean...you sounded possessed. It was like you were directly channeling Liszt."

Elizabeth's expression turned vacant. She tilted her head gently. "Why would you say that?"

"Listen, Elizabeth," David said quietly. "Can we go somewhere where it's quiet and just talk? There's a small bistro right around the corner. You probably haven't eaten a bite all day."

"Right around the corner?" Elizabeth asked listlessly.

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

***

Elizabeth picked silently at her pastry as David cast anxious glances in her direction. Somehow this bistro, which had looked so cheerful in the daylight, managed only to look decadently over-ornamented and depressing in the evening.

"You probably didn't get a chance to do much listening today..." David began.

"No....I heard no one play today," she replied quietly.

"Well, Rajki was strong today...Danko Sulek as well," said David energetically. "Kim produced some beautiful sounds but overall seemed a little cold. Peirera was excellent, but I'm not sure about Deiner. He was noisy enough but seemed to be on automatic pilot. And I don't know about Frederico. I've heard him play better."

Elizabeth nodded politely.

"Of course, it's always subjective so I really have no idea who was eliminated today," David continued. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow morning. But Elizabeth....I do know one thing. You played better than you've ever played in your life. I know you'll be moving on to the next round. You must know how brilliantly you played."

"I'm not sure...Yes, I must have played well."

"So aggressively! All fire and energy! It really wasn't what I expected. You've always stressed the nuances...the fine distinctions...but this performance had everything. It was bold, colorful...but sensitive. It seemed like a new you."

Elizabeth looked up from her plate quickly. "I don't know what you mean. I'm the same as I've always been," she said sharply.

"Yes, of course...it's just that..."

Her expression softened as she saw the surprise in David's eyes. "Look, it's just that I've been working hard. I told you that. I've discovered some new things about Liszt...about the music...and I'm trying to incorporate them into my playing. I'm just like any other pianist trying to find a way into the music."

David smiled and nodded gently. "I understand. It's just that you surprised me. I've never seen that side of you before."

Elizabeth smiled demurely. "I guess I'm a little more mysterious than you've given me credit for."

Chapter 14

"Skin of my teeth, my friend. Skin of my teeth," laughed Frederico the next morning as he and David walked quickly toward the conservatory.

"I don't know about that. I thought you played splendidly," said David encouragingly.

"Abysmally...and you know it," said Frederico, shaking his head slowly while still smiling broadly. "But I survived, which is more than I deserved to do. I lived to fight another day. And for the next round of the competition, I will rely on an old favorite—the Bach-Busoni Chaconne in D Minor. And I assure you I will be brilliant!"

"I take it you're coming to the reception tonight," said David.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," snapped Frederico. "I'll be resplendent as usual and oozing confidence from every pore."

"How about Kim and Deiner? Are they expected to be there, even after having been eliminated from the competition?"

"Indeed they are. It's in the grand Radovsky tradition to overcome your disappointment and mingle with the winners. Skulking off into the background is definitely _not_ the way the game is played."

"Still, they must be heart-broken. It was a tough break for both of them."

"I suppose it was," sighed Frederico, pausing to scratch his chin. "But there's no accounting for the judge's decisions. Two fine pianists had to be eliminated yesterday. It happened to be them. I'm just grateful it was not me."

"Diener did seem nervous. It seemed that he just wanted the piece to be over with," said David.

"Perhaps," Frederico replied thoughtfully. "But was it really an unsuccessful performance or simply not one attuned with the judges' expectations?"

David shook his head. "I don't know...and yet..."

"Kim was distracted. Her performance surprised me much more than Diener's," Frederico interrupted. "Normally, her command of details is fantastic. No one's palette of sonorities is richer...but not yesterday. Her mind seemed elsewhere."

David nodded slowly. "What do you think could have caused that?"

"Anything. We all think that we've perfected our powers of concentration, particularly at this level. But it can always slip. Something can lodge itself in your mind and take you away from the music. Usually it occurs in the practice room only. But it can happen anytime. It can happen during one of the most important performances of your life."

"So you don't suspect anything?"

"Suspect anything? What is there to suspect?"

"Her nerves...she may have been edgy because of Geoffrey Allen's accident."

"Her nerves? It's possible, I suppose...I never discussed Allen's accident with her. But I have no reason to think she saw it as anything other than an accident."

"There have been some rumblings. The police were called in, after all."

"Yes, yes...but I doubt that Kim had anything to do with that. My impression was that the organizers simply wanted a little more attention paid to the competition. Insert a bit of mystery, if you will."

David smiled weakly. "I'm not sure that's the kind of publicity that anyone is fond of. I think the police investigation may have made everyone a little more nervous."

"I don't know. Perhaps. But I really don't see the connection with Kim's performance. Are you suggesting that there is some sort of plot afoot and she is just another in a line of victims to be claimed? The police did not appear to suggest anything of that sort when they interviewed us."

David paused, then spoke slowly. "It's just that...well, something about the whole competition seems peculiar."

"Peculiar? In what way?"

"Well, for example, Elizabeth's not really been herself lately."

"Not herself? Really? I must admit that I haven't noticed anything, although I've not spoken more than a word or two in passing to Elizabeth for a couple of days at least."

"Ever since our little side trip to the library—the one attached to St. Boniface."

"Charming little place. I thought Elizabeth enjoyed herself there. I also recall that it was due to my heroic efforts that the young lady even located a Liszt autograph."

"Yes, Frederico, you were very helpful. Although she keeps saying that there wasn't much to it. Just some counterpoint exercises as you had indicated."

"Yes, of course. Not much ever became of Sebastian as far as I know. He was never much of a pianist and even less as a composer, at least in the early years. It seemed as if he was destined to become one of Liszt's greatest failures as a teacher. Oh well, the manuscript seemed to fascinate her at the time."

"It fascinated her all right. She lifted the manuscript and brought it back to her room."

"You're kidding...that's unfortunate. We can't be absconding with Viennese manuscripts, now can we? Even ones of questionable value."

"She told me she returned it, but since that day there's been something a little out-of-sorts about her. At times she seems perfectly normal. At other times she's been edgy, even irritable."

"Well now, that _is_ a question of nerves, isn't it? I doubt if Elizabeth is agonizing with guilt because she lifted an insignificant manuscript for a few days. Or perhaps a bit of a lover's quarrel?" said Frederico, nudging his companion playfully.

David smiled weakly. "No, it's hardly that. And it's more than the predictable nerves. From time to time she's seemed preoccupied and unfocused. No...more than that...she's been uncommunicative and even vacant."

"Well, these are the most important performances of her life. You can't necessarily expect a steady mood from everyone. Besides, though I missed her playing—too busy licking my own wounds at the time, you know—I was told by a couple of most reliable sources that she was fantastic—played like a woman possessed."

"Yes, it's true. She was great. I've never seen her play like that before."

"Well now, you can't worry about everything. Kim is nervous and distracted, you say, so Kim plays badly. Elizabeth is nervous and distracted but Elizabeth plays beautifully. Of the two, I'd say that Elizabeth is in the better situation. Whether she's doing it with nervous energy or with mirrors, I wish she'd show me how it's done. One more weak performance and I'll be sitting on the sidelines."

"I understand what you're saying. She does seem to be performing very well right now. But there are other things in life...other concerns."

"David...David...you must stop complaining about success! Be happy for her. And perhaps stay out of her way for the next few days. It's just possible that you could be the problem, you know."

"I've thought of that, of course. Things haven't turned out exactly as I had hoped they would between us, even before the manuscript made its appearance. But I still can't avoid the feeling that something strange is going on here and I should get to the bottom of it if there's any way to do it."

"Careful, David," said Frederico, a cautionary finger in the air. "It would be very easy for you to overstep your bounds here. You are not your lady friend's keeper and she's enough of an independent spirit to resent it bitterly if you interject yourself where you don't belong."

Chapter 15

The man with the gray hoodie walked quickly but quietly down the darkened hallway. It was the winter break for the conservatory students and the building seemed quiet. But he knew there would be a few stragglers. Some of the members of the conservatory orchestra had been asked to stay on to perform in the last concert of the Radovsky Festival. A few other students would stick around to work on their senior thesis or just stay in their rooms because they had no other place they were interested in going. Yes, there would be a few students left behind.

He slowed his walk as he approached the end of the hallway. In front of him was the door separating the women's and men's section of the dorm. He slipped on a pair of dark glasses and then quickly glanced behind him. No one in sight. He entered into the women's section. Now he thought he could hear a sound, some music in the distance. He walked slowly down the hall and, about half-way down, saw a thin line of light escaping underneath one of the doorways. He walked over to it quietly and listened for a few seconds with his ear pressed to the doorway. Music was coming from computer speakers. Something folky-sounding. He pulled up a black scarf over his nose, then he pushed the door open gently.

A young girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty was sitting at her computer with her back to the door. He took a few steps into the room and then closed the door loudly behind him. The girl, obviously startled, wheeled around quickly in her chair. Uncertainty in her eyes, she tried to sound bold. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" she demanded, the catch in her throat causing a slight gurgle.

The man stared at her. No smile. He said, "Don't scream."

She immediately screamed. "Help! Help!"

"I don't think there's anyone here to help you," said the man calmly.

She rose from her chair and backed into a corner of the room. "Get out of here," she screamed. "You don't belong here! Get out of here!"

"You shouldn't even be here...by yourself...in these dorms," he said quietly.

"I'm telling you...get out of here right now!" Her eyes glanced wildly around the room for something she could defend herself with. There was nothing. She picked up the book on her desk and brandished it.

The man took three steps toward her. He reached up and pulled the scarf down slightly to uncover part of his mouth. Then he cast his eyes around the room. A green pole lamp was to his left. He grabbed it and threw it across the room toward the girl's bed. He kicked a plastic garbage can across the room.

She threw her book at his face but he turned in time and it barely glanced off his shoulder.

"It's no use," he said. But then he turned quickly around...as if listening to a sound she could not hear. He glanced back at her over his shoulder but said nothing. Then he opened the door and quickly left the room.

The young woman raced across the room and slammed the door shut. She hurriedly locked it. Starting to sob softly, she moved quickly to the phone and dialed campus security.

***

Inspector Fischer drummed his fingers on his desk. "Why was she left vulnerable like that? Can just anybody walk into those conservatory dorms?"

Max Hermann took a seat in front of the Inspector's desk and uttered a brief sigh. "Well, not just anybody. Or at least theoretically not just anybody."

Fischer grunted. "Remind me about their campus security procedures, please. Seems to me that we haven't had an incident like this for some time."

"Remember," said Hermann, pulling out his notebook, "that side of campus is mostly deserted. They're all on winter break. Or at least most of them are."

"Obviously not everybody. Why would some of the students be hanging around?"

"The conservatory students who play in the orchestra are hanging around because they're supposed to perform in the last concert of the Radovsky Festival. You know...accompanying the finalists for some big concerto."

"How many of those are there?"

"Maybe thirty students in all."

"But she was the only student on her floor that night?"

"Apparently so. Those thirty students—and a handful of others who chose to stick around during winter break—are spread out among several dorms. So it's probable that no particular dorm would be highly populated."

"Would anyone know that? Would that be common knowledge?"

"Well, no...not exactly common knowledge. I mean, everyone— or at least a lot of people—would know that the conservatory is on winter break right now. But not many would know which dorms still have a student or two still hanging around there. It was the conservatory registrar that explained the system to me."

"I see," said Inspector Fischer, a frown spreading over his face, "and did the registrar explain to you why those few students were left defenseless against a possible intruder?"

"The registrar admitted that the security force is much reduced during winter break. Turns out that many of the employees want to take a break themselves at that point and, besides, it's cheaper for the school to run a skeleton crew for that period. There was a security guard on watch that night but he was making the rounds almost half a mile away at that point."

"So, basically, there was nothing to prevent any potential criminal from just waltzing into one of the student's rooms and terrorizing them?"

"Well, that's not quite how the conservatory officials see it. The main door to each of the dorms is accessible only by a special key, which all of the students have. And of course one assumes that the students will lock the doors to their own rooms."

"But as it turned out, nothing was locked on that particular night, was it?"

"No, because I'm told that the students often don't bother to relock the building doors, especially if they think one of their friends from another dorm might be dropping in for a visit. And you know as well as I do that 20-year olds often don't give a lot of thought to their personal safety."

"Okay," said Inspector Fischer, shaking his head slowly. "So it's the student's fault. Still, I don't think we should let the conservatory off the hook on this one. I'd like you to write up a report that strongly suggests that the conservatory could have done more to protect their charges."

"Absolutely, sir."

"Now...about this assault. Was it actually an assault?"

"It was certainly a 'breaking and entering,' although I guess there wasn't really any 'breaking' because none of the doors were locked."

"But no real assault?"

"No, and that's the peculiar thing. For whatever reason, the perpetrator seems to have lost his nerve, or changed his mind... or something. The young lady states that after she threw a book at him, he paused...almost as if he'd heard something...and then left."

"So no real damage was done?"

"Well, there was some petty damage. A broken lamp...stuff like that. But fortunately the young lady was completely untouched."

"What was the point of the damage? To intimidate her?"

"Possibly...but we really have no idea."

"So this is somebody who was trying to act violent just so she'd submit?"

"Maybe, but the young lady said that his heart didn't really seem to be in it, although I'm not sure how anybody could really determine something like that."

"Didn't recognize the perpetrator, I suppose?" said Inspector Fischer, a wistful smile crossing his face.

"Didn't really get a good look, sir. He was hearing a gray hoodie, dark glasses and a scarf pulled up over his nose."

"Old or young? Tall or short?"

"Medium build," she figured. "His voice was muffled, but she didn't think he sounded particularly young. Maybe in-between. She did say that the scarf seemed to slip at one point and she thought she could see a moustache."

"Doesn't give us much to go on, does it? Still, Max, it looks like we've dodged a bullet on this one for whatever reason. Nevertheless, be ruthless in your report on this. Don't let the conservatory officials think that they don't have any responsibility for something like this. They should increase their security patrols and make sure, at the very least, that all of the dormitory doors are locked at all times."

Chapter 16

David glanced at the ornate Grandfather's clock. It was eight-thirty and the reception had been underway for almost half an hour. The atmosphere seemed remarkably cheery to David. Nobody can really be in this good a mood, he thought, as he caught a glimpse of Danko Sulek, noisy and over-flowing with high spirits. Vaclav Rajki, holding forth gleefully with what appeared to be a couple of eager journalists, was equally boisterous. Journalists were normally barred from the festival's receptions, but there was clearly a sense on the part of the organizers that there was some public relations fence-mending to do. The talk regarding Geoffrey Allen's unfortunate accident—especially the rumors that the accident had in fact been a willful act by one of the other pianists anxious to remove a well-qualified competitor—had died down substantially. On the other hand, another problem had apparently erupted last night on the other side of the conservatory campus where an undergraduate student appeared to have been attacked in her room. What exactly had happened was still pretty vague. Some stranger had forced his way into the dorms and some sort of assault had taken place. The details were still very sketchy, especially since David could only understand about half of the news report he had caught briefly in the morning before leaving his apartment.

At any rate, between what had happened to Allen and the problem on the other side of campus, the Radovsky Festival now needed some positive stories to balance out the sometimes negative ones of the last few days. Besides, the administrators wanted to send the message that things were, once again, running like clockwork. Two excellent pianists had been eliminated the previous day, but that was in the nature of things. It just meant that the competition in the days to come would become that much more meaningful.

A more introspective Juan Peirera was standing in the group with Sulek and the journalists as well, silently nodding his head in agreement from time to time. He was certainly not being particularly lively, and periodically the executive director of the festival, Mr. Johann Wurtler, seemed to eye him unhappily from the corner of the room where he was speaking with a couple of grand old dames who were almost certainly major contributors to the Radovsky Festival.

David eventually located Frederico, wedged between the various small clumps of festival officials, judges and guests. Frederico was playing host as usual. His main goal for the evening apparently was to cheer up Kim and Deiner. Deiner looked as miserable as one might expect for a man who had just been eliminated from one of the world's most prestigious competitions for young pianists. Although David could only catch a word or two of what he was saying, Deiner seemed to alternate between staring at his feet morosely and interrupting passionately on some point or other that caught his attention. Kim, on the other hand, was much more subdued, contributing occasionally to the conversation but more often nodding silently, apparently more out of politeness than any heartfelt sense of agreement with Frederico's musings.

Dodging what seemed to be a surplus of waiters bearing or'd oeuvres, David headed toward Frederico's small group, the only place in the room where there were certain to be no embarrassed silences.

"Greetings David!" Frederico exclaimed buoyantly. "How nice of you to join us."

"The pleasure is all mine," David murmured quietly.

"And Elizabeth?"

"I expect she'll be along shortly."

"Yes, indeed...Elizabeth! And where is the young lady who played so brilliantly yesterday?" roared Johann Wurtler, charging up to David with Sulek and Rajki in tow. "My God, I don't think I've heard anyone play better in the early rounds for years." Wurtler beamed broadly at David and Frederico, waiting eagerly for their response. Frederico cleared his throat slightly, tilting his head to the side, and Wurtler noticed Kim and Deiner for the first time. "But of course the standards of the Radovsky Festival are so high that one can in fact play brilliantly and yet not move on to the next round," Wurtler added enthusiastically. "I'm not sure how many of you know it," he said, scanning the entire group, "but there have been a number of Radovsky artists who have gone on to remarkable careers even after having been eliminated from the competition. Indeed yes! Just their very presence in the competition has launched several artists to excellent careers."

There were attempts at weak smiles all around but Deiner's faded almost immediately. "You'll excuse me. I must renew my glass," he said curtly, gesturing toward a half-filled glass of wine. He bowed slightly to the group and walked quickly away.

"I thought we were all marvelous," Sulek said eagerly. "I would have hated to be one of the judges having the responsibility of eliminating two pianists. As far as I'm concerned, we all deserved to move on to the next level."

"Yes, of course...of course," agreed Wurtler, nodding his head eagerly. "But of course we must abide by the rules. The Radovsky competition is one of the oldest and most respected in all Europe. Traditions must be honored, you know."

"Well, to be honest, Mr. Wurtler, I'm not sure that everyone is abiding by the rules...not unless clandestine surveillance is also one of the Radovsky Festival traditions," said Rajki, crossing his arms with more than a hint of a smirk upon his face.

"My dear boy, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," replied Wurtler, his smile frozen into place.

"It's quite simple really," said Rajki. "I think someone has been messing about in my apartment."

Wurtler blinked. "Messing about? Whatever do you mean by 'messing about'?"

"I mean breaking and entering. Two days ago I found my door standing open. I had left it locked, but someone had clearly been in my room while I was gone."

"Vaclav, my boy, the maid of course..."

"The maid had come and gone hours earlier. And when I went inside to find out if anything was missing, I noticed that some of my things were out of place."

"Out of place?" Wurtler gasped quietly. "Has something been stolen?"

"No, nothing. That's why I didn't report it earlier. But someone had definitely been in my room."

His broad smile back in place, Wurtler continued more confidently, "I can assure you, Mr. Rajki, as I can assure every one of our competitors, that the graduate student apartments in which you have been housed are quite out of bounds for any of the regular conservatory students. No one could possibly have..."

"It's not just the apartments, Mr. Wurtler," interrupted Danko Sulek. "It's our assigned practice rooms as well. I'm almost certain that someone else has had access to my practice room. If someone is trying to intimidate me..."

Wurtler seemed doubtful. "Really now, Mr. Sulek, your practice rooms are completely isolated from the rest of the campus. They were chosen for that purpose. And each of you has the only key for each room. Surely, you must have left your door ajar and one of your colleagues, perhaps looking for you..."

"I find it unlikely," said Sulek coolly. "Two evenings ago I was practicing very late into the night—into the early morning actually—and there was no one at all in my wing. I had left my room for a very brief time—perhaps ten minutes—and, when I returned, I found my scores on the floor. I initially saw it as an annoying prank and scoured the halls searching for someone who might have done it. But there was no one around, although I discovered that all of the hallway lights had been turned off."

"The night watchman of course," Wurtler said cheerfully, "making his appointed rounds."

"About half an hour later, I encountered the watchman. He said that he had just arrived and knew nothing of the entire business."

"Well, well...I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," Wurtler said soothingly. "Of course the buildings are old and these ancient locks can easily be forced—that's why we've asked all of you to keep your most precious valuables in the conservatory safe. But really now...no harm seems to have been done here and..."

"It's a bit upsetting to have had someone snooping around nevertheless," interjected Frederico gloomily.

"Yes, yes...of course, of course. And I'm sure we'll all redouble our level of alertness," said Wurtler calmly. "For my part, I'll ask the campus security force to keep a closer eye on both your apartment building and your practice room annex. But in the meantime, I don't want any of you to give this matter a second thought. I can assure you that there is nothing sinister going on here and you must all focus on your music so that the Radovsky Festival continues as brilliantly as it has begun. And as for now, I see many an empty glass around me and no waiter in sight. Let us adjourn to the refreshments and try to recapture a spirit of gaiety appropriate to the occasion."

As Wurtler enthusiastically herded the group in the direction of the refreshments table, David saw Elizabeth standing next to it, a glass of red wine in her hand. He headed toward her, smiling hesitantly.

"It's good to see you," he said quietly. "I had hoped you wouldn't miss the big party."

"A thrilling event to be sure," Elizabeth said, returning his smile demurely.

"A bit lacking in Midwestern robustness, perhaps," observed David.

"And yet it has to remind you of some of the get-togethers we were forced to attend as graduate students, doesn't it? There's something about parties that you absolutely have to go to, and yet where you're absolutely not supposed to have any real fun."

David smiled more broadly. "Now that's the Elizabeth, I remember. Feeling more yourself now?"

Elizabeth gave a pained expression. "Let's not start all that over again."

"No, of course not. It's just that you seem to be in a slightly better mood than when last I saw you."

"Just the natural rhythms of the day, I would think," Elizabeth replied with a sigh.

"I understand..."

"Perhaps...I'm not sure," said Elizabeth. "You'll forgive me for saying this but...well, you're not competing for the Radovsky Prize. You're an innocent bystander for this one and you don't have the same pressures bearing on you that the rest of us have."

"No, I don't," David replied matter of factly. "No, I'm just an observer here."

"Look, David...my mental health is a topic that I'm simply not interested in discussing. As a matter of fact, I've felt better in the last two days than I have for a couple of weeks. Let's just leave it at that, Okay?"

"Absolutely."

"So what did I miss?" said Elizabeth, brightening visibly. "I saw you standing with Frederico, Wurtler and the others. Although I couldn't hear much, it seemed to me that the conversation was rather intense."

"Surprisingly, it was—at least at times. It turns out that things at the Radovsky Festival have not been running quite as smoothly as appearances would suggest."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at here."

"Well, it seems that there have been some mysterious lurkers around the apartments and the practice rooms. Both Rajki and Sulek have reported the presence of person or persons unknown messing with their stuff."

Startled, Elizabeth hesitated for a few seconds. "Has...has anyone been seen?"

"Not a soul," David answered glibly, sensing her discomfort. "Nothing's gone missing and there's not really much evidence that anyone's been snooping around. But Rajki and Sulek are certain that their space has been invaded and they're convinced that someone's up to no good. They figure that at the very least someone is eager to put them off their game for the final part of the competition."

"And what does Wurtler think?" asked Elizabeth quietly.

"That there's absolutely nothing to worry about, of course," replied David, shaking his head and smirking slightly. "What would you expect him to say? Is the executive director going to admit that there is anything seriously wrong with the famous Radovsky Festival?"

"Well, there was the Geoffrey Allen incident."

"Merely an unfortunate blip on the screen. There was a nominal police investigation that came to nothing, thus giving Wurtler the opportunity to declare Allen's accident a 'non-event.' No, as far as Herr Director is concerned, the site of the Radovsky Festival is the safest place in the world."

Suddenly a collective gasp and the sound of breaking glasses issued from the refreshments table, echoing loudly through the entire reception room. David and Elizabeth turned quickly to see Juan Peirera on the floor, clutching at his throat and struggling for breath. "My God, it's a heart attack!" screamed Kim.

"No...he's ill...back away...give him room...!" bellowed Rajki in a commanding voice.

Alois Kurzen, standing next to Rajki, dropped to his knee and cradled Peirera's head as he lay groaning on the floor, clutching his stomach and writhing violently. "Get a doctor...immediately...he's been poisoned!"

Chapter 17

Max Hermann walked quickly through the musty halls of one of Vienna's oldest police stations. This was the kind of case he hated. Everybody from the Radovsky Festival was excited and demanded immediate action from the police, but nobody knew anything. He sighed, knocked lightly on the door of Inspector Fischer's door and entered without waiting for a response.

"So, Inspector Fischer, it appears that things have turned quite a bit more serious all of a sudden," said Hermann, quickly taking a seat in front of the inspector's desk.

"Or perhaps they were serious from the beginning and we weren't paying proper attention," replied Fischer, smiling slyly as he lifted a bulky paperweight from his ancient desk.

"Who knows?" Hermann responded with a shrug. "There is still no obvious connection between the poisoning of Mr. Peirera—if that's what it was— and Mr. Allen's unfortunate accident...which, as you've now suggested, may have been something more than an accident."

"As you look back to those first interviews with the Radovsky competitors and staff with the advantage of hindsight, does anything pop out at you?" asked Fischer, reaching for the notebook on his desk.

"No," Hermann replied with a sigh. "Nothing. They were an anxious bunch before, but no one had any concrete notions as to how Allen could have been pushed down those stairs. They just had a vague sense of discomfort about it...somehow didn't think it was right."

"And now?"

"Well, of course, now they're _really_ an anxious bunch and most of them are convinced that there's a foul fiend on the loose trying to do them all in."

"Do they conclude that this 'foul fiend' is in fact one of the remaining competitors for the Radovsky Prize?"

"Strangely enough, no. The pianists seem reluctant to suggest that one of their group could be capable of such a thing, despite the fact that virtually all of them were in a position to shove Mr. Allen down the stairs that night without anyone being the wiser. But of course, they can offer no ideas as to who the evil perpetrator might be."

"No one wants to speculate? Not even a hint?" Fischer asked, dumping the paperweight back onto his desk with a thud and shaking his head.

"Nothing. Not even the deepest or darkest of hints. I did find that at least three of them link this latest episode with what they consider to be some funny business going on in their apartment rooms and practice rooms."

"What's this? I don't remember anything about 'funny business' in the apartments or practice rooms," demanded Fischer somewhat irritably.

"Until this last round of interviews I hadn't heard a word about it myself. But it turns out that some of the contestants reported to Director Wurtler that night that they thought their rooms had been searched. Wurtler was in the process of shrugging it off when Peirera took violently ill."

"Do you take these claims of mischief seriously?"

"I've not attempted an investigation—we've got our hands rather full at the moment with the Peirera case and the assault on the other side of campus, but my guess is that given the situation as its developed, we've got to take any such claims seriously."

"Did our pianists have anything to say about that other assault...of the conservatory student?"

"Some of them weren't even aware it happened, although it's been in all the newspapers. But these musicians, Inspector, they live in a world of their own. If something doesn't directly affect them, it's like it never happened."

Well, we still don't know for sure if _any_ of this is connected," Fischer grumbled. "Just because it appears that Peirera may have been poisoned, it doesn't mean that we know Allen was actually pushed down the staircase. The first thing we have to ask ourselves is what—if anything—do these alleged crimes have in common?"

"Clearly, they were both perpetrated on the contestants competing for a prestigious award. And..."

"Isn't it possible," Inspector Fischer interrupted, "that the intended victim of the poisoning was someone other than the contestants? Perhaps Wurtler? Does he have any obvious enemies? Could it be that one of the contestants would want revenge on him?"

"I must admit that it's impossible to know at this point. Obviously, some dangerous substance had been placed in one of the wine glasses. It's hard to know exactly when that happened, although we're doing our best to retrace everyone's steps on that night. Could the poisoner possibly have known that Peirera was going to pick up _that_ particular wine glass from the tray? Probably not. And yet the likelihood that _one_ of the competitors—rather than someone like Wurtler— would have picked up that glass is statistically enormous."

"Could the poison have been placed in the glass _after_ Peirera picked it up?"

"Everyone seems to agree that it could not have been."

"Why? Did the substance discolor the wine?"

"No. It would have been invisible in a glass of red wine. I'm told it's odorless as well, although it might have added a little bitterness to the taste. This may be why Peirera—fortunately for him—drank so little of it."

"Would it clearly have been fatal to him if he had drunk the whole glass?"

"Apparently not. The lab assures me that the 'poison' in question is basically just an extremely concentrated dose of a diuretic drug. It seems that the drug was not meant to kill, only to scare the victim and then send him or her to the hospital for a few days...eliminate them from the competition no doubt."

Fischer's eyes opened widely. "Aren't we jumping to conclusions a bit on that one?"

"Well, the fact is that Mr. Peirera is uncomfortably ill and will not return to the competition," Hermann replied calmly. "What would have been the point of the perpetrator risking discovery just to make the director of the festival ill for a few days?"

Hermann grunted in assent. "I see your point. So you're figuring at this stage that one of the contestants was the probable target and it may or may not have mattered which one was eliminated from the competition?"

"I realize it seems a bit strange to take that approach, but my guess is that whoever did this saw them all as dangerous rivals and would have been happy to get rid of any one of them. As it turns out, Peirera was considered one of the favorites to win the competition."

"But there are still four contestants standing. Doesn't any one of them have a decent shot?"

"Yes, they do. But, as I said, Peirera was a favorite."

"So you're implying that he was the specific target?"

"I just don't know at this point. Even though it seems reasonable on one level, it is hard to imagine that he was. Whoever spiked the wine glass clearly planned the deed ahead of time, but is unlikely to have predicted who was going to pick up the one doctored glass."

"Who else was in the group hovering around the wine glasses?"

"Depends on what part of the evening you're talking about. Although there were waiters circulating and refilling glasses, I'm told that most people made their way to the wine table shortly after they arrived. It was apparently a gathering point before people started to group together for different conversations. The group immediately surrounding Peirera included Danko Sulek, Vaclav Rajki, Sung Lee Kim, Frederico Gasparini and Wurtler, the director of the festival. Ernst Deiner had been attached to the group earlier but had left it to refresh himself a minute or two before. The American, Elizabeth McDermitt, was also seen at the refreshments table earlier as was Alois Kurzen, Rajki's 'coach,' as it were."

"Coach? The pianists have brought their own coaches?"

"More like teachers or mentors, really. Three or four of them have regular little entourages accompanying them. But most of the teachers stay away from the official receptions. Kurzen had been a competitor himself some years back so he's given a free pass to these events, so to speak."

"Anybody else?"

"Oh, yes. There may have been as many as thirty people in the room when the incident took place. A number of sponsors were there, a handful of other festival administrators, quite a few local officials and perhaps half a dozen journalists. As you pointed out, this is considered quite an affair in the international music world."

"Yes, I know. So you've had a chance to interview each of the other contestants?"

"Yes, I started with the pianists," said Hermann, thumbing through his notebook. "Sulek was the first one on my list. He was not terribly helpful. Says he saw nothing. He spent some time standing near the table with the filled glasses of wine, some white, some red. He says he could just as easily have chosen the poisoned glass. He's very upset about that, actually. The thought that he could be lying in that hospital bed disturbs him greatly. He's more than just a little indignant as well."

Fischer's eyebrows went up. "Indignant?"

"Matter of fact, yes. He said that this whole problem could be attributed to the fact that no one took the first attack seriously—Allen's tumble down the stairs—and that precipitated the second attack. He blames the festival's director for this but he also blames the police as well. He believes that they—the pianists—should all be 'protected' from this problem...he calls it a 'distraction.' I think he is worried less about Peirera's recovery than about whether the competition will now be cancelled."

"Is there any chance of that?"

"No immediate chance, apparently. Wurtler is obviously still in denial. He keeps going on and on about Mr. Peirera's 'health problems' as if he'd had an attack of appendicitis. He'll have to get the approval of the festival's Board of Directors, but my impression is that what he says goes, and he gives every indication that the show must go on."

"What about the remaining competitors? Any chance that one of them will drop out?"

"Sulek's the only one to go on record on this matter. One gets the impression that at least some of the others are too much in shock to think about the rest of the competition. But I've heard no one suggest they were leaving."

"So Mr. Sulek is indignant. How do the other competitors feel?"

"Mr. Rajki is being even less forthcoming. He reports having seen nothing unusual around the refreshments table, but then again he can't even seem to remember who was in the vicinity when Mr. Peirera collapsed. He asked if he and the others were considered suspects. I naturally assured him that we were just trying to gather as much information as possible about the event. That seemed to satisfy him and he didn't say much after that. Still, I had the suspicion that he was on the verge of offering up a speculation or two about what happened but then thought the better of it and clammed up."

"Mr. Gasparini?"

"A convivial fellow to be sure. I'm not sure how seriously he's taking the inquiry. He seemed authentically upset that Peirera was in the hospital but kept repeating that it was 'just a little stomach upset' and that Peirera would probably be back in shape in no time. He saw nothing, of course. Seems to have been too busy being the life of the party, as others have described the situation. Doesn't appear to have a worry in the world about his own safety."

Fischer glowered. "Humph! Well, he'd be well advised to take the matter a little more seriously. Somebody doctored that drink and they didn't do it as a joke. If we're right about the approach taken here, the poisoned wine glass could have gone to anyone—anyone who drank red wine rather than white wine anyway. By the way, did the people you interviewed remember what they were drinking?"

"A few said red, some white. Some can't remember and some insist they had nothing. I'm not sure that path is going to take us very far."

"How about the young American lady, Elizabeth McDermitt?"

"Well, of course, she was not really with the group. She's a bit of a loner, apparently, or at least has been one recently. But she was seen near the refreshments table earlier that evening and so could have done some mischief at that point."

"What is this Ms. McDermitt like? Was she helpful?"

"No, not particularly. Extremely polite...soft-spoken to a fault. When I asked her why she seemed to hang back from the rest of the group, she had no real explanation. Said she hadn't been feeling well and wasn't really in the mood for a party. Still, she did show up, although I'm informed that the competing pianists are pretty much obligated to show up for these events since they're really more for public relations than anything else."

How about the other pianists who were in the area, the ones already eliminated from the competition? What did they have to say for themselves?"

"That would be Mr. Deiner and Ms. Kim. They were both standing around with the large group, although you'll recall that Deiner left the group early to refill his glass. So he, like Elizabeth McDermitt, was seen near the refreshments table while no one else was close by."

"Anything come from your discussion with Deiner?"

"Only the fact that he's a very unhappy young man. He did express sympathy with Pereira's plight, but Deiner clearly feels he himself was eliminated from the competition unfairly. Others I talked to indicate that he simply didn't play very well at the last concert."

Fischer's eyes opened a little wider. "So he's a candidate for a 'sour grapes' poisoner then?"

"It's possible," Hermann replied with a slight shrug, "but I'm still not convinced anyone would take a chance like that after they were no longer in the competition themselves. Still, there's no question that, try as he might to suppress it, Mr. Deiner is a bitter fellow. I realize that these competitors are only in their early and middle twenties, but they wouldn't be the first young people to try to do away with a competitor, even in a piano competition."

"And Ms. Kim? Is she also bitter about being eliminated?"

"It's more difficult to say with her. She's a somewhat more complex character. I believe she is disappointed that she didn't play better in the last round, but she doesn't seem to be really angry or resentful. She was, however, a bit mysterious in some of her responses. She hinted that the matter with Mr. Peirera didn't catch her completely by surprise. She referred to some peculiar occurrences in the dark and gloomy halls of the conservatory practice room building, but she didn't point to any specific incidents as Rajki and Sulek had when talking to Wurtler."

"Mysterious, eh?" Fischer said uneasily. "Mysterious always makes me nervous."

"Well, it's dangerous to come to any final conclusions on the basis of a half hour interview, but Ms. Kim doesn't strike me as the aggressive type."

"How about Kurzen? Rajki's 'coach?' You said he was hanging around as well."

"He's a strange one. Hard to get much out of him. Like almost everyone else in the room, he had a chance to spike the wine. But the problem for Kurzen is that he couldn't know for sure that Rajki, his own student, wouldn't pick up the wrong glass and be sent to the hospital."

"Unless they were in collusion in some manner. Did Rajki say what kind of wine he was drinking?"

"He wasn't sure. Thought it was probably red."

"Maybe...maybe not," said Fischer, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "We can hardly take his word on that one."

"No, we can't. I could start the finger-printing process."

"Not just yet. I suppose we've got a responsibility to let the Radovsky Festival run its course if it's at all possible to do so, and I don't want to cause any more of a stir than I have to unless I'm convinced it's really going to do some good. Why don't you just finish interviewing as many of the other reception attendees as you can and we'll see what develops?"

"Right. I'm assuming that this is the end of the shenanigans. Any more problems and the festival would presumably close down. One assumes the perpetrator wouldn't want that."

"Let's hope not. But, then, it all depends on how rational a person we're dealing with."

Chapter 18

"It's amazing how hungry you can get doing absolutely nothing," David said coyly, looking up to catch Elizabeth's eye across the table.

Elizabeth smiled wanly. "You haven't really been doing _nothing_."

"Well then, an excellent imitation of it. It's not that I'm complaining. I'm becoming so attached to these little Viennese cafes that I hope to never leave the city again. It's just that I'm not exactly a man of action these days."

"You're listening to music," Elizabeth said softly. "What could be more important than that?"

"Sure. Of course it would be nice to be actually _making_ music like you have been...and so beautifully."

"For the moment, it's not clear if any of us are going to have that opportunity much longer."

"Oh, I'm quite confident that the competition will continue. It would take more than a couple of 'incidents' for Wurtler and the Board of Directors to short-circuit the Radovsky competition."

"Ah...you are here...both of you. I hoped I'd find you here. Mind if I join you?" said Sung Lee Kim as she walked briskly up to their table at the back of the small, darkly lit café.

"Why of course," David said quickly, gesturing toward an empty chair. "We'd be delighted to have you."

Kim sat down slowly, eyeing Elizabeth cautiously. Elizabeth flashed a wary smile in her direction.

"To what do we owe..." began David.

"Listen," Kim interrupted. "I don't know either of you well and you don't really know me. Still, there's something I've got to say to you that's important and worth listening to."

Elizabeth seemed a little startled, but David smiled smoothly. "We're all ears. Can I get you something to drink? A latte perhaps?"

"No thanks, it's not necessary," Kim said, her voice relaxing slightly.

Elizabeth began hesitantly, "I'm sorry...about your elimination from the competition, I mean. I've heard you many times and have nothing but the greatest admiration for your playing."

"It was not a good performance," Kim said dispassionately. "I was not at my best."

"Was there something in particular wrong?" asked David eagerly. "Were you ill or..."

"I was not ill," Kim snapped quickly. "Look...I'll tell you what was wrong with me because it has a lot to do with what's wrong with this entire competition and with what might go very wrong for you if you're not careful."

"I'm sorry..." said Elizabeth, looking across the table at David with a mystified expression, "but we really don't know what you're talking about."

"It started a few days ago—three or four. When I arrived at the conservatory, I was nervous...I guess we all were. The Radovsky Festival is one of the main competitions for young pianists in the world. There's a lot at stake...for everyone," Kim said, looking meaningfully at Elizabeth.

"At first I thought my practicing was going well," she continued. "I felt prepared. I felt that I was making progress on a group of pieces that I've being trying to refine for a long time. But gradually, I became uncertain...nervous. I attributed it to the importance of the occasion. I mean...why not be nervous? To win the Radovsky Prize would almost be to guarantee one's career...or at least provide a dramatic start for it. Still, I was developing an uneasiness that I couldn't blame simply on the importance of the competition."

"Did something happen...some incident?" asked David quietly.

"No, not at first," said Kim. "The feeling of unease came first. But then...once or twice as I walked through the lonely halls of the conservatory's practice room annex late at night...I could have sworn that there was someone else there."

"But people will sometimes practice into the early morning hours," said Elizabeth. "It's quite possible that you wouldn't be the only one practicing late at night."

"There was no one practicing," Kim said, shaking her head. "There were no sounds from the practice rooms. And these were not the ordinary sounds of someone shuffling down deserted hallways on the way back to a practice room. Every time I'd stop to listen, the footsteps would stop."

"Do you think someone was trying to spook you?" asked David.

"I don't know. At the very least, I think someone was trying to make me uncomfortable."

"But Sung Lee..." Elizabeth said quietly. "Footsteps? Of course there would be footsteps somewhere."

"It's not just the footsteps in the hallway...there's more to it than that. The hallways darkened for no reason."

"But the place is ancient," protested David. "I'm sure the wiring, especially in the annex, is eighty years old. It's a miracle that the place doesn't burn down."

Kim threw David a skeptical glance.

Really," he continued, trying to sound as off-handed as possible, "it's almost shocking that they couldn't come up with better facilities for a major international competition."

"David," said Kim sternly. "I'm not a child and you don't have to humor me. I've played in more of these competitions than you have and I think I know what's normal and what's not."

"Is there anything else?" asked Elizabeth. "Anything else that..."

"Yes, two things. The other night at about 3:00 in the morning, I heard piano music. Heard it clear as a bell, as if it were being played right next door."

"Well," said David casually, "maybe there was someone who..."

"Absolutely not!" Kim demanded, clenching her jaw tightly. "Don't you think I would have checked? I immediately got up to look around because I had assumed I was alone in my part of the building. And I _was_ alone. There was not a single person—pianist or otherwise—in the dozen or so practice rooms on my floor. And yet the music came through as clear as a bell."

"Through the ventilation system from another section perhaps?" offered David hopefully.

"Not a chance. The music was coming from down the hallway."

"And when you went to investigate it, it stopped?" asked Elizabeth quietly.

"Yes, it stopped. And please don't look at me like I'm some sort of frightened child. I was not frightened, although I _was_ disturbed. What I'm telling you is that whoever is responsible for producing that music was turning it on and off purposely with the intention of distracting me. And that they succeeded in doing."

"What was the music? Did you recognize it?" asked David.

"Yes, of course. It was the Liszt Liebestraume in A-sharp minor."

Elizabeth uttered a short gasp. "But Sung Lee...surely you don't think I..."

"You're not the only one who plays Liszt," snapped Kim. "Everyone in the competition has had that piece in their repertoire since they were sophomores in high school."

"Of course," David quickly agreed. "My God...everybody's played that piece...everyone would know it."

Kim looked directly at Elizabeth. "I'm not telling you this because I think you had anything to do with it. I'm telling you because I'm almost positive you didn't and I'm trying to help you."

"But I'm so sorry that..." said Elizabeth quietly.

"Wait. There's more," said Kim quickly. "That night when I went back to the student apartments—a little unnerved I must admit—I finally got to sleep at 4:00 or so. But within minutes I was awoken by a sound—the sound of a piano. It was Liszt's 'Liebestraume' again."

"One of your neighbors? Those old pianos in the apartments are terrible," said David.

"It was not one of my neighbors and it was not one of the old apartment pianos. As before, the sound was disembodied. It was hard to tell exactly where it was coming from. But it was not one of my neighbors playing Liszt. That I can promise you."

"Well, we're not talking about ghosts here, Sung Lee, so I can assume someone was doing this purposely to annoy you," said David, shaking his head slowly.

"It became something much more than an annoyance later that day," Kim said grimly. "When I came back to my apartment after breakfast to pick up my scores and head over to the practice annex, I discovered that someone had been in my room."

"Actually _in_ your room?" David asked incredulously.

"Sulek and Rajki also reported what they took to be unauthorized people snooping in their rooms," continued Kim. "But in this case it went a step further. My practice scores—with all my markings—had been destroyed. Shredded into small pieces and thrown about the room."

"That's terrible!" exclaimed Elizabeth, leaning forward in her seat. "How did you perform without them?"

"I had duplicate scores, still packed in my suitcase, and naturally I had the pieces memorized," Kim said, "but of course it wasn't the same. I had spent hours with those scores—every expressive detail was carefully written out. I had finally arrived at a perfect interpretation of the music—at least perfect _for me_. Now it was all gone, or at least, the documentation of it was gone." Kim paused briefly, staring blankly at the wall. "Of course it shouldn't have bothered me so much. I _knew_ that music—backwards and forwards. The interpretations were all in my head. I didn't really _need_ those scores, but somehow seeing them destroyed—ripped into small pieces—was more than I could take. When I played later that day, there just wasn't much inside me."

"So you believe you were purposely sabotaged," said David.

"Of course I was sabotaged," Kim replied sullenly. "I don't have a broken arm like Geoffry Allen, nor am I in the hospital with a ruined digestive track like Juan Peirera, but I was sabotaged just the same."

"This is incredible," said David, shaking his head slowly. "Surely you've told Wurtler and the authorities."

"By the time I got to Wurtler, it was later that afternoon. I had already played and been disqualified. I'm sure my complaints sounded fanciful—probably even petty. I had lost, and so I was making excuses for it. Maybe even angling for a second chance that neither the judges nor Wurtler thought I deserved."

"You didn't show him the score?" Elizabeth asked.

"Why? He would simply have assumed that I tore it up in a peak of anger."

"I don't know what to say," said David sadly. "It must have been a nightmare for you. Is there anyone you suspect as having been responsible for this?"

"Do you assume that it was one of us...one of the other contestants?" asked Elizabeth.

"It's difficult to think anything else, isn't it?" said Kim. "Who else would care if I stayed in the competition or not?"

"Is there someone in particular?" asked David quietly.

"Given recent history, it wouldn't seem to make much sense to suspect Peirera. But as far as I'm concerned, everybody else—other than Allen of course—would seem to be fair game. When I spoke to Deiner about Allen's situation, he seemed to me to be particularly bloody-minded. But I really have no idea."

"How about the two of us?" David asked, gesturing toward Elizabeth.

"I came to you because I assumed you were trustworthy. I don't pretend to know either of you well, but neither of you strikes me as someone who would consider the Radovsky Prize important enough to commit mayhem...or attempted murder."

"We appreciate that," Elizabeth said softly. "I'm so sorry for what you've had to go through. Is there anything we can do?"

"For me?" Kim said, forcing a smile. "No. There will be other competitions. But for yourself, yes. You had better watch yourselves carefully. I had made up my mind to come to you and warn you even before Peirera was poisoned, but afterwards I knew there was no time to waste."

"This place seems to be falling apart," said David. "Maybe it would be best if the festival just folded the tents and called it quits."

"You already know that Wurtler will recommend no such thing as long as there's a candidate or two still standing," said Kim. "He's speaks of Peirera's problem as if it's a bad case of indigestion. As long as he sends flowers to his contestant's hospital rooms, he feels like he's discharged his duty."

"But the police..." began Elizabeth.

"It doesn't look like they're off to much of a start now, does it? People tell them that their rooms have been invaded and they turn a deaf ear. They had all but concluded that Allen's fall was an accident when this newest 'accident' forced them to rethink the situation. Maybe the police will come up with something, but I wouldn't expect it to happen any time soon."

David shook his head briefly then looked directly at Elizabeth. "Maybe you should..."

"Stop!" she demanded. "I'm a big girl and I make my own decisions."

"You do whatever you want, Elizabeth," Kim said grimly. "I'm just giving you the benefit of my experience and letting you know that if I were continuing in this competition, I wouldn't trust anyone."

Chapter 19

Elizabeth gazed unsteadily at the book on her lap, a lengthy biography of Liszt that she had been unable to make much progress with in recent days. As she looked up at the dirty window that let through most of the light in her shabby apartment, she again thought of Sung Lee Kim's warning. What did all of this mean? The last few days had been something of a blur to her—she could remember almost nothing of her performance two days earlier. She had been told again and again that it had been brilliant, that she had surpassed all her previous efforts. The critics covering the competition had expressed amazement at the intensity and spirit of her playing. But she had experienced no feeling of elation after it was over. Even the sense of relief—her most typical reaction after a major performance—was missing. Although she felt almost impossibly fatigued, her body still seemed charged with a tension that showed no signs of letting go.

Of course everyone was tense now. Some of the competitors seemed almost hysterical after Peirera had been poisoned. Kim had kept her composure, but her words were frightening just the same. Still, Elizabeth could not bring herself to see the recent events as a conspiracy. She had always thought that Allen's fall was simply a horrible accident. Even now she doubted that someone had purposely sent him tumbling down the stairs. But Peirera's condition...that was no accident. And yet, how could it have happened? Did someone single him out for elimination from the competition? How? He simply picked up the wrong wine glass from the table. Anyone could have done that. _She_ could easily have done that. Had the poisoning been random? But then it made no sense at all. No, there was some reason that Peirera was poisoned...maybe something that had nothing to do with the competition at all.

And yet Sung Lee's warnings...phantom sounds in the practice room annex, people having their rooms broken into, their scores destroyed. It must be true. Kim and the others would have no reason to fabricate such things. What would be gained by it?

But Elizabeth herself had experienced none of these things. No one had broken into her room. Nothing had happened to her...only these terrible headaches and the overwhelming sense of fatigue. Never had she felt the need to lie down so often. Never had her endurance failed her as it had in the last few days. There were times that she must have simply passed out in the chair...times that she had no recollection of.

But she knew she must not get preoccupied with these things. And while she was grateful to Sung Lee for expressing her concerns, the fact was that Elizabeth must keep her concentration on the Radovsky competition itself. Nothing else must distract her. She had been playing well; never had she felt so close to Liszt's spirit. And now she had made it to the next round of the competition against all odds. And as long as the competition continued, it had to be her first priority.

And yet, as she sat sprawled in her chair, she knew that she had come very close to losing that sense of focus. This was the time in her life when she must concentrate all her energy on her music—on her playing—as she never had before. But she was so tired. It seemed like every act—just rising from the chair—required an enormous effort. And now she must pull herself together to practice her Liszt Sonata. This next performance would determine her fate in the competition, perhaps even her fate as a professional pianist. She had to summon her powers as never before in her life. But she was so tired. She longed for inspiration...something that would lift her from the weariness that seemed so overwhelming.

The manuscript! Of course! Just possessing it seemed to take her out of herself. Simply holding it in her hands would give her strength. She pulled herself out of the chair and walked quickly to the small piano in the corner of her room. Yes! Liszt's own hand! Even in her dimly lit apartment, the score seemed to glow! She reached out to hold it, drew it closer to her eyes. As she scanned the notation for the simple exercises, the music came to life. But it was not just the music on the page...it was Liszt's spirit, which seem to reverberate out from the manuscript.

And yet something was not quite right. Elizabeth blinked her eyes hard. _Peculiar_ , she thought. _Why hadn't she noticed that before?_ The manuscript flowed with writing—between the staves, in the margins. Was it in Liszt's hand? Was it Count Sebastian's? It must be Liszt's! At the top left of the page—in larger script—she read slowly... _all obstacles_... _embrace the power_.... Suddenly Elizabeth reached her hand up to cover her eyes...her head ached violently...she staggered to the chair in the middle of room and collapsed into it.

***

David paced his small room restlessly. Increasingly, he had found Sung Lee Kim's warning worrisome. It wasn't that he hadn't believed the complaints widely publicized by Sulek and Rajki, but he felt that both of them would do anything to give themselves an advantage in the competition. Neither would have been above exaggerating or even distorting the facts if they thought it would help their cause. But not Sung Lee Kim. Kim was as serious about winning as anyone, but she was not the type to spin fanciful tales. And she was not the type to become easily spooked. If Kim reported that someone had come into her room and destroyed her score, then it had really happened. And, as Kim said, if it happened once, it could happen again.

Still, Elizabeth had been remarkably unaffected by Kim's warning. She had been sensitive to Kim's feelings and seemed truly sympathetic to her plight. But Elizabeth was completely unable to imagine the possibility that she herself was in any jeopardy. She simply could not worry about that, she had told David. If the competition was going to continue, she had to put all her focus on that. No, Elizabeth would take no steps whatsoever to protect herself.

But David couldn't just sit around and wait for something to happen. God knows he had been useless enough to this point, but now he was determined to help Elizabeth whether she wanted his help or not.

David glanced at the clock—almost 12:30. She could still be in the practice room at this hour or maybe on her way back to her apartment. No matter—he had to find her... to talk to her. He'd swing by the practice room annex first and then work his way back to the apartments. He threw a jacket over his shoulders—the last two nights had been surprisingly chilly—and made his way quickly down the sidewalk toward the main conservatory buildings.

He saw only a handful of students along the five-minute walk. There were a few dedicated undergraduates who had not left for their winter break mulling around the newer conservatory buildings, but most had obviously decided that practicing could wait and there were better things to do on a Friday night. As he approached the old annex, he could see that, as usual, it lay in semi-darkness. It might be empty or it might hold three or four of the remaining competitors, trying to wring out a few more hours of practice before giving up on the day.

David pulled open the creaky old front door to the ancient building. He chuckled to himself. I suppose a little extra security would be too much to ask, he thought bitterly, now that the competition has been enlivened by two attempted murders. No, of course not. The desk that was supposed to be manned by the practice room supervisor was abandoned. The guy probably left at midnight. But of course the pianists were still here. They probably hadn't been told that there was now no protection for them whatsoever after midnight, even though a potential murderer was on the loose. Or maybe they had been told and they just ignored the warnings. Who could tell? At any rate, it was clear that Wurtler's promise for additional security had not amounted to much.

How many pianists were still here practicing? As he moved further into the building, turning into the wing that had been designated as the practice area for the Radovsky competitors, he thought he could hear two, maybe even three pianists storming away. The doors to the practice rooms themselves seemed solid enough—they had obviously been replaced at some point in the building's history—but light could be seen peeking out from around the corners of three practice rooms. It was impossible to see who occupied the rooms because the narrow rectangular slits in the doors had all been covered up from the inside—an attempt to gain a little privacy by the pianists, all of whom insisted on it as key to their ability to concentrate. Still, David thought he could tell which of the three was closeted away in each of the small practice rooms. Beethoven's "Hammerklavier" Sonata boomed out of the first room he encountered, suggesting Danko Sulek as the inhabitant. Walking quietly down the deserted and darkened hallway for several feet, David was sure he heard a fragment of a Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody. Could that be Elizabeth? No...Elizabeth avoided the Rhapsodies...called them all rhetoric and no substance. Besides the touch was too brittle...too aggressive. This had to be Rajki. But surely Rajki would not be playing Liszt in the next round? No, Rajki must simply be taking a break from his more "serious business." Maybe Rajki was already working on encores for the triumphant final concert given by the winner of the Radovsky Festival? Fascinating! It must be wonderful to be so confident.

David turned the corner into an even darker corridor and squinted to detect any signs of light escaping from a practice room door. There...almost at the end of the long hallway...he detected a glimmer. Then the music started up. Was it Bach's English Suite? Elizabeth? He walked quickly but quietly down the hallway. No, it was the English Suite all right—the gigue from the second suite in A minor—but it was not Elizabeth. It must be Frederico...a light but sure touch. David smiled and shook his head. Should he interrupt his friend? Drop in and chat? Maybe Frederico would enjoy a break just then. But maybe not. Frederico seemed to be taking all of the controversy swirling around the Radovsky Festival with remarkable composure, but David knew he was deadly serious about the competition. Frederico had made it to the finals the year before but—by his own admission—seemed to have fallen apart and performed badly in the second round. But Frederico's mood had seemed remarkably upbeat over the course of the last week and his friendship with Elizabeth and David had brought both of them great pleasure. Still, David knew that beneath his almost impossibly cheerful exterior, there was no more determined competitor than Frederico.

David wheeled around and retraced his steps. Elizabeth was clearly not in the practice rooms this evening. He would drop by her apartment, try to determine if she were still awake and maybe invite himself in. One way or another he had to try to convince her that she was in serious danger—that all of the remaining pianists were in serious danger, even if none of them seemed to be acting like it.

David left the practice room building and began to walk briskly toward Elizabeth's apartment building. It was now almost 1:00 and there were few signs of life as he approached the old building. No door guard of course. Wurtler had promised that he would have a man watching the entrance to the apartments but, typically, the man must have abandoned his post around midnight. Of course Wurtler had 'strongly suggested' that the remaining Radovsky pianists be nestled securely in their apartments by midnight but had taken no steps whatever to make sure that would actually happen. It seemed as if only Elizabeth had taken Wurtler's advice seriously.

As he walked wearily up the stairs on the way to Elizabeth's second floor apartment, David was struck by how quiet the building was. Well, of course. Kim and Deiner had moved to off-campus housing the day before and there were no conservatory students living in the building. Only the four surviving pianists remained and three of those were obviously hunkered down in the practice rooms.

As David approached Elizabeth's room, the last on the left down the long second floor hallway, he hesitated slightly. There were no signs of activity. Perhaps she was asleep? He had begged her to get more rest but he knew that most nights she had stayed up late studying her scores, singing the pieces through to herself while her fingers drummed nervously at the table. But tonight there was no light, no noise. Perhaps she had really taken his advice or, more likely, had just collapsed from her built-up fatigue. Well, it didn't really matter which. He would not be so foolish as to wake her up now. She was safely harbored in her room for the evening and nothing could happen to her tonight. He would talk to her in the morning.

As David turned to walk back to the stairwell, he was surprised to hear a door creaking slightly behind him. He glanced over his shoulder quickly. The sound must have come from Elizabeth's room but there was no splinter of light shooting out. The doorway remained dark. David stopped in his tracks. It would not be good to be caught hovering around Elizabeth's apartment like some misguided guardian angel. No, if Elizabeth were to go out on some nocturnal adventure, it would be better if he didn't simply run into her as if by accident—since she probably wouldn't believe it was an accident anyway. David moved down the hallway quickly and ducked around a corner leading to a maintenance closet.

It was Elizabeth. She emerged slowly from her apartment, creaking the door open only inches at a time. David glanced around the corner, and caught his breath. Elizabeth wore what appeared to be a long black dress and heels. She carried a large bag. Strange, David thought. I've never seen her wear that dress before... And why dress like that in the middle of the night?

Elizabeth walked quietly down the hall, her feet gliding over the slickly polished old floors. She's certainly not dressed to practice, nor to go outside on a cold night, he thought. As Elizabeth's feet clicked down the stairs, David moved tentatively out from around the corner. "I've got to follow her," he whispered to himself, moving as silently as possible after Elizabeth as she disappeared around a turn in the stairs, descending quickly.

By the time David reached the first floor, there was no sign of her. Easing open the ancient front door, he quickly scanned the sidewalks in front of him for a trace of Elizabeth. He swept his eyes back and forth over the length of the two sidewalks that stretched out from the old apartment building. Where had she gone? Then he detected a hint of motion far to the left. He thought he saw a soft blur, disappearing behind a group of trees that fronted another old apartment building some two hundred feet away. She's keeping out of sight, he thought. I guess that shows she's probably not sleepwalking. David moved quickly to follow and within a minute or two had made up enough ground that she was clearly in sight, her long dress flowing behind her in the wind, no more than thirty yards in front of him. For a moment she paused and began to turn slightly. David froze and pressed himself flat against the old building. Elizabeth stopped in mid-motion, paused again, and then stepped forward purposely, moving just slightly to her left to keep behind the trees that obscured the view of the next apartment building.

Suddenly, a trio of voices—loud and raucous—broke through the silence of the night. Two young men and a woman, the three of them arm in arm, came staggering down the sidewalk in the direction of the apartment building that stood between David and Elizabeth. Grad students, thought David, as he stopped in his tracks to let them cross in front of him. Sounds like they've been enjoying themselves a bit too much.

The trio proceeded down the sidewalk noisily. David stepped aside to let them pass, a slight smile on his face.

"Evening, Guv'ner," the taller of the young men croaked cheerfully in heavily accented English as he nodded toward David. "Lovely night for a walk, don't you think?"

"Couldn't be better," responded David, now smiling broadly at the group as it tottered by him. David chuckled quietly and watched as the trio turned the corner around the building, striking up an unorganized version of an old German drinking song. Remembering his mission, he wheeled around quickly to look for signs of Elizabeth. She was nowhere to be seen. "Great!" he said to himself. "I've lost her!"

David paused for a moment _._ Well, she can't just be wandering aimlessly, he thought. Maybe she's headed for the practice rooms after all. But why dressed like that? He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts, then walked off quickly down the sidewalk in the direction of the old annex building. Five minutes later, he was back standing in front of the door to the building, having seen no sign of Elizabeth along the way. A wild goose chase, no doubt, he thought. The outside light over the door was unlit. By now, they probably have locked the stupid door. But the heavy paneled door swung open as he gave it a tug and David hurried inside.

The old building was virtually black. A dim bulb barely illuminating an exit sign at the far end of the hall was the only apparent light source. She can't be here, he thought. Nobody's here. Everybody's gone home.

David walked slowly down the hallway, unsure of his footing in the near-darkness. For a fleeting second, he thought he heard music—Liszt's "Liebestraume" in A-sharp—but the sound faded as quickly as it came. He walked down the hallway a few more steps, but saw no lights under the practice room doors. The place was deserted. And yet the sounds of Liszt's music returned, fading in and out of earshot. The sound seemed to echo through the hallway, as if coming from a distance. The third floor of the annex? It was supposed to be empty—used mostly for storage. And yet clearly there was music in the air. David walked purposely to the end of the long hallway and stood there, gazing up into the dark stairwell. Was there a glimmer of light two flights up? Perhaps there was someone up there after all.

David made his way slowly up the stairs, feeling carefully for each step. Stepping on to the third floor landing, he squinted, trying to make the best of the dim glow from the exit sign overhead. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed motion—a figure perhaps—moving quickly at the far end of the hallway before him. It must be Elizabeth. He almost called out to her but held himself back, shaking his head. The figure appeared to turn into a doorway. A practice room? Up here? The music was not really louder now, but somehow felt more present. Could it be coming from one of the rooms ahead? But who was playing? Clearly it wasn't Elizabeth, or at least the murky figure that might have been Elizabeth.

David moved slowly but steadily down the hallway, carefully avoiding the old desks and chairs stacked up on either side. There can't be anything up here, he thought. It looks like this stuff hasn't been touched for years. David edged forward, looking for a clear path in the dim light. Suddenly the music—Liszt's "Liebestraume"—was absent. Had it stopped in just that instant or had he just noticed it now? Whatever had happened, the silence seemed strangely menacing to David. He tried to rush ahead, but his foot caught on the leg of a table and he fell hard to the floor. As he lay there for no more than a few seconds, he heard a cry—it sounded like a muffled scream. Was it Elizabeth? He sprang to his feet and lurched forward, pushing the cluttered desks to one side. In an instant he was standing in front of the darkened doorway where the elusive figure had disappeared.

He took a short breath and was about to plunge ahead when the sound of Liszt's "Liebestraume" came once more to his ear. This time the source seemed to be in back of him. He turned quickly. "Elizabeth?" he whispered urgently. Then another sound, to his left this time. He started to wheel around but felt a crushing blow on the back of his head. David let out a soft moan and slumped to the floor.

**Chapter 20**

"And how are we doing today, young man?"

David blinked his eyes, waking up slowly. He looked up to see a dour-looking middle-age man in a frumpy gray suit gazing intently into his eyes. David blinked hard a couple of times and quickly scanned the room.

"Where am I?" he said, surprised at the scratchiness in his voice.

Max Hermann smiled more broadly. "Bad bump. It's probably a mild concussion. They want to keep you here and observe you just a little longer."

"So this is a hospital?"

"Quite a good one, as it turns out," said the detective, "although the ambulance driver was mostly concerned with just getting you somewhere fast."

"Ambulance? What happened to me?"

"Well, now," Hermann said, clearing his throat slightly, "that's just what we were hoping you could tell us. I'm Detective Hermann and it seems that you got yourself into a bit of trouble last night."

"Last night..." David hesitated. "Last night! Elizabeth! Is she all right?" he blurted, trying to raise himself up in bed.

"She'll be just fine," said Hermann, smiling reassuringly. "Found her about fifty feet from where the night watchman found you. Only she had apparently fainted whereas you, young man, were pretty clearly conked on the head."

"Was that it? Frankly, I remember nothing. I mean...I remember following Elizabeth but..."

"And why, Mr. Currant? Why were you following Ms.McDermitt?"

David winced and put his hand gingerly on the back of his head. "Well, that's simple enough. I was worried about her. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her."

"And why did you think that something bad might happen to her?"

"Something was clearly wrong with Elizabeth last night. She was wandering aimlessly. It was late. So I decided to follow her."

"I see," said the detective, scrawling quickly in the notebook poised on his knee. "Did you mean to talk to her? Did you have something to say to her?"

"Well, no...not really," said David hesitantly. "I had gone to her apartment to check on her..."

"To check on her...after midnight?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Hermann, but I'm not sure my nocturnal affairs are any of your business. But, if you must know, I was worried about her because it seemed to me that she's been acting somewhat strangely lately. And of course all of the contestants in the Radovsky competition have had something to worry about in the last few days."

"Yes, I see. So you were following Ms. McDermitt—from a distance—to make sure that nothing unfortunate happened to her."

'Well...yes...that's true. She was dressed somewhat strangely for a late night stroll on a cold night and..."

"Yes, we wondered about that. The young lady herself has no real explanation for her attire."

"Yes...well, that spooked me a little. She didn't look like she was going off to practice dressed like that, and besides it was pretty late to be heading over to the practice annex in any event," said David, finally pulling himself to a sitting position.

"And yet," detective Hermann said eagerly, "I'm told that the pianists are frequently up to all hours practicing for the competition."

"Yes, that's true," replied David cautiously. "Or at least it was true until all the problems with the competition started occurring. Now the official word is that all performers are encouraged to be finished with practicing and in their rooms by midnight."

"And you were worried that Ms. McDermitt was breaking curfew, so to speak?"

"Well, it's not just that, of course. I just didn't want anything to happen to her."

"I see," said Hermann. "Now would you say that you and Ms. McDermitt have a 'relationship' of some sort?"

"Everybody has a relationship 'of some sort' with everybody they know," David snapped.

Hermann smiled and nodded. "Yes, now...true indeed, Mr. Currant. And still, I think you know what I'm talking about. Do you and Ms. McDermitt have a sort of 'special' personal relationship?"

"I guess that depends on what you mean by 'special,'" said David thoughtfully. "It's not some sort of romantic relationship, which I suppose is what you're trying to get at. We're good friends...we're very good friends...although that was a little truer a few weeks ago than it has been lately, I suppose."

"Indeed?" said Hermann, raising his eyebrows slightly, his pencil pausing in mid-air. "And why do you think that might be the case, Mr. Current?"

David frowned slightly. "I don't really know. It's all the tension from the Radovsky competition. That's tough for a performer to take even when the other performers aren't dropping like flies around her."

"Oh, please now, Mr. Currant. It's not as bad as all that. We've had one unfortunate accident and one gentleman coming down with a serious stomach problem."

"He was poisoned!" David gasped, gaping incredulously at the detective.

"Yes, apparently he was. But there's no evidence to suggest that the incident is even linked to the competition or that any of the other pianists are in danger."

"My God! Do you work for Johann Wurtler? I thought he was the only one desperate enough to deny reality in order to keep the competition going. And how about that assault on the other side of campus?"

"Nobody is denying anything," said Hermann soothingly. "There may have been some foul play in the case of Mr. Peirera. We're just not sure and we don't want to jump to any conclusions. As far as the other assault is concerned, we're not sure that it has anything to do with the Radovsky competition at all. We're still investigating it. In the meantime, we're trying to find out as much as we can about the incident last night."

"Honestly, I've told you everything I know," David said, shaking his head slowly. "I'm in the dark about everything that happened last night. I don't know why Elizabeth was walking around in the middle of the night dressed like a character out of a bad horror movie, and I have no idea whatsoever why someone 'conked' me, as you put it."

"Is there anyone else vying for Ms. McDermitt's affections that you know of?"

"Wait a minute now! I didn't say I was vying for anyone's affections."

"But you said you used to be very good friends...I just assumed..."

"Please assume nothing," David interrupted. "Friends are friends. There doesn't always have to be a hidden agenda."

"True enough, sir, but you were following her in the middle of the night for no apparent reason."

"Oh, so now I'm a stalker...is that it?" snapped David. "Let me remind you that I was the one who was assaulted last night."

"Indeed you were, sir, and that's why I asked you if anyone else was trying to curry the young lady's favor...someone who might have seen you as competition."

David frowned. "No. There's no one like that. No one that I know of anyway. Besides, I could swear to the fact that I wasn't being followed. There weren't that many people around by the old practice room annex."

"Well," the detective stated matter-of-factly, "if no one followed you, then someone was waiting in the old building just in case you were to come calling. An unlikely prospect, I'd say, considering you were on the third floor of the annex and I'm told that's been used only for storage for years."

"Look," demanded David. "I went up there because Elizabeth went up there and I was afraid something would happen to her...you know, because of the mysterious things going on around here."

"Now, sir, I don't know if I'd call anything 'mysterious,'" said Hermann, his knowing half-smile reappearing.

"You can call it whatever you damn well please. But things haven't been right around here for over a week and the performers—they know it. And most of them are worried sick about it."

"But not Ms. McDermitt?"

"No, I'll admit that she hasn't seemed to be particularly worried. But she has seemed distant and even confused at times. And when I saw her sneaking out of her room with that Goth-looking outfit on, I figured it was time to look out for her whether she thought she needed it or not."

"I see, Mr. Currant. You were bound and determined to protect her in spite of herself?"

"Something like that...but it wasn't a case of nobility. I thought she might be in danger."

"And so you ended up getting knocked on the head for your efforts."

"That's right. Any ideas on who could have done that?"

"Well, no sir," replied Hermann calmly. "It's a bit early for that, particularly if you have no ideas about it yourself. It could have been the night watchman of course, suspecting you were a prowler. But his rounds didn't take him there until a few minutes later. That's when he found the both of you."

"And your only other theory is that it was a 'competitor' of mine who is also interested in Elizabeth?"

"It wasn't a theory, sir. Only a question."

"Well, Detective Hermann, I must say you've succeeded in doing something I would have thought impossible—you've given me an even bigger headache than I had when I woke up. So, since it's clear that the hospital isn't going to be releasing me for a little while, I'd like to get some rest if you don't mind."

"Certainly, sir. I know where to reach you if we have to get in touch with you again later."

"Yes, Mr. Hermann. I'm sure you do."

Chapter 21

Frederico burst into the café with his usual exuberant air. "You've heard! You must have heard!" he shouted to David and Elizabeth, seated in a far corner of the mostly empty room.

"Heard what?" replied David, a thin smile crossing his lips.

"The case is solved!" proclaimed Frederico. "The police have arrested Deiner. He's in custody right now."

"Arrested Deiner?" Elizabeth said quietly, looking up quickly from her book. "What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Frederico, lowering his voice slightly as he took a seat at the table. "The police aren't the buffoons we all thought they were. They figured out that Deiner is the one behind all these nasty tricks and they took him into custody."

"Now wait a minute," said David. "He's actually been arrested? They didn't just pull him in for questioning?"

"My sources inform me that the young man has in fact been arrested."

"But why? Why would he do those things?" pleaded David.

"Why?" Frederico chortled. "Because he wanted to win desperately and it quickly became clear to him that he could not win unless he eliminated his major competitors."

"Major competitors? He might have eliminated Allen by sending him tumbling down those stairs, but that didn't help him much. And why go after Peirera? Deiner had already been eliminated by then. He gained nothing."

Frederico shrugged. "Perhaps he gained revenge? How do I know? Deiner had always seemed to me to be hostile to Peirera. After having been eliminated—I'm sure he thought the decision was unfair—he probably targeted the man whom he thought _should_ have been eliminated."

David quickly turned to Elizabeth. "Are you buying any of this...I mean about Deiner?"

Elizabeth shook her head slightly. "I have no idea what to think. I barely knew Deiner. I have absolutely no idea what might have been going on in his head."

David grunted. "Well, I didn't know him either, but this sounds ridiculous to me."

"He was walking close enough behind Allen that first night. He had the opportunity to give him a shove," said Frederico.

"So did I. So did Elizabeth. Even you could have done it," said David, his tone growing more exasperated. "My God, we were walking in a tight bunch. Five different hands could have reached out and pushed him and no one would have noticed. Are you telling me that you can be sure it was Deiner?"

"Look David," said Frederico slowly. "I can be sure of only one thing. The police have him in custody. Detective Hermann—who seems to be a bit of a fool, I'll admit—took him away this morning. But I'll tell you right now, it's all over. There will be no more unfortunate 'accidents,' no more mysterious music appearing and disappearing in the middle of the night. And you, my friend, will suffer no more blows to the back of your head."

David frowned. "I'm sorry, Frederico, but I just don't think life is that simple...or at least I don't think this whole problem is going to be that simple. If it was Deiner who knocked me out a couple of days ago, what was his motive then? He couldn't have blamed me for his elimination from the competition. I'm just a bloody alternate! I'm no threat to anyone."

"I doubt if he was after you," said Frederico. "It's much more likely that Elizabeth was his target and you were just the guardian angel he had to deal with first before getting to Elizabeth. Who knows what he would have done to Elizabeth if she hadn't fainted first?"

"But that's just the point!" demanded David. "She did faint. She was helpless. And I certainly wasn't in any shape to help anyone. He—whoever _he_ was—had her in her power. But he did nothing."

"You told me the other day that the night watchman came in to make his rounds right after you were hit on the head and discovered you unconscious," Frederico responded confidently. "Deiner could have seen him coming and taken off before he had the chance to take advantage of Elizabeth."

"Please," Elizabeth said quietly, "you're talking about me as if I weren't here. I didn't see anyone...I don't think I heard anyone. It's all still a blur and I can remember almost nothing...only some disconnected sensations. The doctor at the hospital told me that I must have been sleepwalking—or at least something like that. I told him that I've never done that in my life. He said that I've never been under so much pressure in my life. I don't know what to think."

"You probably just lost track of time," offered David quietly. "You wanted to get in some late night practice."

Frederico smiled demurely. "Dressed as the Queen of the Night by all accounts—a bit more elegantly than usual for a middle-of-the night practice session."

"The dress...that was strange," Elizabeth replied quietly. "I don't even remember putting it on. I bought it earlier in the day—in an old second-hand shop—I don't know why. Somehow it attracted me. But I had never envisioned actually wearing it."

"Elizabeth, it's all part of the same problem," said David. "You've been under incredible stress...you haven't been sleeping enough...you just haven't been yourself."

Frederico winced slightly and Elizabeth glowered at David. "It's of no importance, David," said Frederico, shrugging and forcing a smile. "It's over. Everything is done. There will be no more difficulties."

"David," said Elizabeth, turning to face him directly, "I know I should thank you for hovering around me like some sort of...what did Frederico say?...some sort of guardian angel? But really, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. What happened the other night will _not_ happen again. I don't know if I was sleepwalking. I can't remember anything about that night. But I will tell you that I am now perfectly in control. You say that I haven't been myself. But I have. This is me now, David. This is who I am. This may not be the person you knew a year ago, but it is who I am now."

"Of course, Elizabeth," said David quietly, "I only meant that..."

"I know you mean well, David. But that doesn't matter. There is only one thing that matters. The Radovsky competition is the most important thing that has ever happened to me in my life. I will not be intimated by it or by any of the distractions of the last few days. I will master this competition. I will win this competition. Nothing...and no person...will stand in my way."

**Chapter 22**

He pulled his hood more tightly around his face as he watched her walk quickly down the sidewalk. Long blonde hair, jeans extending from a long black coat, her hands crammed in her pockets. He stayed slightly behind the line of trees that bordered the sidewalk, but she could have seen him if she had looked over her shoulder. But she hurried ahead without looking around. In a few seconds she reached the heavy main door of the dormitory. She fumbled in her purse for the key for a moment before jamming it into the old lock. The lock was stiff and she had to crank the key with both hands. Finally, she grabbed the door, pulled it open and walked quickly into the small lobby right inside the doorway. She gave a short little sigh and then unwound the muffler from her neck.

As she turned to close the door behind her, she saw him extending his leg quickly inside the door, pinning it to the wall. Her eyes widened. "Do you know someone in this building?" she blurted.

He stared at her for a few seconds. "Sure," he said.

She turned and started up the stairs a few feet away from the door. Slowly at first, but increasing in speed slightly as she approach the top. She was on the landing now and started moving hurriedly down the hallway toward her apartment, about six doors away.

In seconds she had reached the door, opened it quickly and started to slip inside. But he was right there. Again, he slid his foot forward to block the door from closing. This time she kicked out at him with her booted foot. But it was too late. He had both hands on the doorknob. She backed into her room, with him following her in.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she screamed.

He pulled down slightly at the scarf covering his face.

"Get out of here...now!" Her eyes searched frantically around the room. Quickly, she grabbed a mug from her desk and hurled it at him. He took a step to the side and it flew past him. He began to walk toward her. Then, with a high-pitched scream, she flew at him, her fists flailing in the air. He tried to grab her wrists but she continued to battle him, pounding his chest and face. Finally, he managed to grab her by the waist and with a grunt of exertion, fling her to the ground. Panting breathlessly, he watched her as she rose slowly to her feet, anger flashing in her eyes. He hesitated for two or three seconds and then turned quickly, rushing out her door and down the hallway. Quickly she grabbed her cell phone and dialed security, but she heard the large dormitory door slam shut before she could get an answer.

***

"So is this the same guy?" asked Inspector Fischer, beckoning Detective Hermann into his office.

"Very likely," replied Hermann, dropping himself heavily into the chair across from Fischer. "Same gray hoodie, dark glasses, scarf pulled over his mouth and nose."

"Not exactly the same scenario though, was it? Didn't he follow her home?"

"Yeah, but that would be the only way to do it, now that the campus security people have informed all the students that they absolutely must lock the entrance door after entering the building."

"So he can't just stroll in and out of any of the buildings when he feels like it, is that it?"

"That's the idea. So if our perpetrator wants access, he has to be 'escorted' into the building."

"Presumably...at least that's what he must have figured."

"So he pushes his way in before she can lock the door. But she's suspicious from the beginning."

"Right. She doesn't want to panic right away, so she ignores him and hurries to her room. But he's right behind her and again forces the issue."

"But this young lady is no shrinking violet, is she?" said Fischer, a hint of a smile crossing his face.

Hermann smiled back. "Not at all. She throws a mug at him and then comes right at him."

"You think she actually did some damage?"

"She doesn't think so. He had enough strength to throw her to the floor. But then he took off and was well out of sight before the conservatory security police showed up."

"So this is twice now. Twice this guy has shown up and flexed his muscles and nothing much has happened."

"Well, the young lady wasn't really hurt. But she's pretty shaken up."

"Of course...of course. I'm just saying that this guy never really attempts a sexual assault or anything like that. He gets cold feet. Maybe he's scared...maybe he thinks better of it..."

"Really? Unlikely that he develops a moral sense at that late hour."

"No...nothing like that. But something is stopping him from carrying through. I wish we knew what it was. We could get a better handle on him."

"Assuming it's the same guy, and it probably is. Once again, the witness thinks she got a glimpse of a moustache. Remember...this young lady got a closer look than the first victim. She's pretty sure we're not talking about a young man here."

"So our friend definitely has a moustache, huh? Real or fake? Even if it's real, that doesn't give us a lot of help. Hell, our District Superintendent's got a moustache."

"Not to mention the conservatory registrar I talk to the other day and Wurtler himself. Also one or two of the contestants for the Radovsky festival, if I'm not mistaken. I think Deiner fits that bill as well as Gasparini."

"You don't think any of them had anything to do with this?" asked Inspector Fischer, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

"It'd be a long shot," replied Hermann, shaking his head slightly. "They're probably too young to fit the profile and they seem to have other things on their mind."

"On the other hand, they're under a lot of pressure."

"That sort of pressure might conceivably lead them to want to eliminate some of their fellow pianists, but why harass some anonymous young lady?"

"I have no idea. I wouldn't imagine that these particular assaults have anything at all to do with the problems in the Radovsky Festival."

"Should I round up some alibis?"

Fischer leaned forward again. "For our mustachioed friends? We can hardly do that. Where do we draw the line? No...let's just be thankful that neither of these assaults has amounted to much. But you've got more harassing of your own to do. Tell the conservatory officials that we've got a serial intruder on our hands and it's their job to increase security."

Chapter 23

David sighed as he gazed around the Conservatory concert hall. He had come early as usual but now the seats were beginning to fill up quickly. Next to the final night of the competition, when the winning pianist would be chosen amidst incredible hoopla and media attention, tonight's well-publicized benefit performance was the most important event of the Radovsky Festival. As usual, a number of Viennese VIPs were in attendance, not so much because they were lovers of the arts but because this year the performance was to benefit the city's largest homeless charity, and few officials and politicians could afford to miss the photo ops.

The concert also received international coverage as an artistic event. With only four candidates left in the running, it was clear to the press that at least one new rising star of the classical music world was likely to emerge this night. The artist who performed at their best on this occasion was likely to have a great psychological advantage going into the final concerto concert. There would be no "official" judging tonight since it was a benefit performance rather than part of the competition. But the judges would be there and they would naturally be influenced by what they would hear tonight.

And, of course, this year's Radovsky competition had a special "edge" to it that the local media was playing to the hilt. This was the year, the newspapers reported, when the competition seemed "cursed," where mysterious and even dangerous things had happened to the competitors. Allen's tumbling down the stairs and breaking his arm had been originally reported in the press as a regrettable accident, but once it was clear that the local police were involved, some of the news media began to play the "darker" angle for all it was worth. Then, when Peirera was taken to the hospital with a mysterious illness that turned out to have been caused by what seemed to be a purposeful poisoning, even the international press took a new found interest in the Radovsky Festival. The press found it much easier to stir up reader interest by referring to the possibility of spooky goings-on at the festival than to actually talk about the music that was being played. And when two or three of the contestants started speaking openly of security breaches within the festival, including mysterious sounds echoing through the old conservatory buildings late at night, the press had a field day. The festival had not gotten so much free publicity for years, although Johann Wurtler, the executive director, had mixed feelings at best about the nature of the publicity. Then the two assaults on the other side of campus had taken place and Wurtler had moved to distance the festival from those as fast as he could. They were regrettable of course, he had been quick to announce, but they were the business of the conservatory, _not_ the Radovsky Festival. If it seemed to the rest of the world that the whole competition was degenerating into an orgy of violence, then things would get quickly out of hand.

Nevertheless, David thought, as he scanned the rapidly filling auditorium and heard the excited buzz from the enthusiastic patrons, catastrophes aren't necessarily bad for business, are they? But the situation at the festival—catastrophes and mysteries alike—had not been particularly good for the remaining competitors. Danko Sulek and Vaclav Rajki had both been nervous and irritable backstage before the concert. David had wished them well as they had mulled restlessly around the Green room, but he had gotten the distinct impression that Sulek and Rajki thought that he had no right to be there—no right to address them at all at such a crucial time. Frederico had, on the other hand, been remarkably cheerful, almost buoyant. "Nothing to lose in this one," he had said, although he knew better. "A perfect night for music making." Elizabeth, however, had been quiet, even remote. Usually she could muster a weak smile when he wished her luck. But not this evening. She had nodded vaguely as he had told her to relax and have fun. Then she had turned slowly and walked away. Oh, well, thought David, not the best time to be upbeat, I guess.

By the luck of the draw, Sulek was to play first. Striving to appear confident, he walked quickly to the middle of the stage and gave a deep bow, evoking hardy applause and a few playful whoops from an audience that was clearly in a mood to be entertained. Sulek played Beethoven's "Farewell" Sonata,—an unusual choice for him—with ease and a somewhat more introspective tone than he typically displayed. The audience reaction was warm, even enthusiastic in some quarters, and a smiling Sulek responded gleefully.

Frederico followed, playing Schubert's Impromptu in G-flat Major and a group of Scarlatti's short sonatas. Frederico played with high energy and great enthusiasm, seemingly breaking into a chuckle as he finished the first Scarlatti sonata. "He's having a great time tonight," David said to himself as he broke into boisterous applause. The audience roared its approval as Frederico took his bow and the pianist beamed broadly as he strode vigorously to the wings.

After a brief intermission, Vaclav Rajki was next, moving purposely to the center of the stage and taking a quick and shallow opening bow. He had chosen the late Schubert Sonata in A minor and he began the opening Allegro movement briskly. But Rajki's playing soon became indecisive. He hurried from one phrase to the next, seldom finishing any of them with care. In the Scherzo movement, he seemed almost lost for a few split seconds, although he plunged back into the musical flow with such force that it was difficult to be sure what exactly had happened. Rajki played the final Rondo movement well and the applause was polite. But Rajki was clearly not happy. His acknowledgement of the audience was cursory and he left the stage quickly.

Elizabeth was next. But there was an unnatural pause before her entrance, the audience just beginning to murmur about the delay. "My Gosh," David whispered to himself, "Is she coming out?" She did, but walking slowly toward the center of the stage. Arriving at the piano bench, she pivoted suddenly—almost mechanically—to face the audience. The crowd applauded graciously, but Elizabeth seemed merely to be staring out over the heads of the audience, her face completely expressionless. Finally, as the applause started to die down slightly, she bowed—a long and low bow—which was quite a departure from her normal style. Elizabeth then took her seat. She paused again, then faced the audience and announced in an expressionless voice that the published program was incorrect: she would _not_ be playing Mozart's Sonata in A Major. She would be playing Liszt's Sonata in B Minor. She ignored the quiet murmurs from the audience in response to the last minute program change and immediately plunged into the music.

It was electrifying. David had been caught off-guard by her previous performance in the second round of the competition, playing Liszt's "Mazeppa" in a way he had not thought possible. He felt then that she had been transformed, actually playing beyond her normal abilities. But this was different. He had never heard the perfect combination of strength and fluidity that Elizabeth was now displaying from _any_ living pianist—not from the most famous master pianists of the age. Never had Elizabeth exhibited such a powerful technique. And her hands—rising up almost to the level of her eyes before descending powerfully to create massive fortissimos—David had never seen her—or anyone—play like that before. While Elizabeth's last performance had shown her absorbing much of Liszt's spirit into her own style, this performance was different. It was as if Elizabeth herself had disappeared; it was as if her personality had been absorbed completely by Liszt's.

As the last, powerful notes died away throughout the auditorium, the audience had at first reacted with stunned silence. Then—almost to a person—the members of the audience jumped to their feet, yelling, _screaming_ bravos! Elizabeth seemed to ignore them at first, but then got to her feet slowly, faced the audience, and bowed in a sweeping gesture. A new wave of frenzy took control of the audience at that; it seemed to surge forward, almost threatening to come onto the stage and take possession of Elizabeth. But there were no more bows. With the deafening applause in her ear, Elizabeth calmly walked off to the wings. The audience demanded that she return to the stage. But she would not. The concert was over, the audience bursting into excited patter as soon as the houselights came on.

Chapter 24

"I tell you, it is not natural," said Danko, shaking his head vigorously as he lowered his cup. "You must know this. You must know that this is not natural."

David cast a quick glance at Frederico, both of them unsure of how to respond.

Frederico spoke first. "Well, of course it was exciting...an exhilarating evening. You are still excited. We are all excited." Frederico sipped his espresso with an exaggerated air of calmness.

"Don't patronize me," snapped Danko. "I am no child. And you can no longer ignore what has happened."

"I'm not trying to ignore anything," David said calmly. "But at this point I really don't understand what you're trying to tell us."

"Wake up!" demanded Danko, turning to face David directly. "That is what I'm trying to tell you. Wake up and pay attention to what is going on. I'm told that you have feelings for the young lady. Fine. Act on them. Do something to help her. I can promise you that she needs a great deal of help if she is to survive."

"To survive?" interjected Frederico. "That seems a bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

"You were there. You saw everything I did," said Danko darkly. "That young woman is treading dangerously close to her own destruction."

"Oh, please," Frederico said, moving his coffee cup in circles casually. "Can we please avoid the high drama?"

"You're a fool, Frederico," said Danko, shaking his head sadly. "You're a fool if you turn your back on this." Danko again transferred his gaze to David. "So your friend is too preoccupied with himself to notice that Elizabeth is not in full possession of herself. Do you also refuse to see what is so plainly obvious?"

David sighed. "I know Elizabeth has been distant. Maybe even mysterious. But her playing has been..."

"Don't you see?" pleaded Danko. "That's part of it. She has not acted like herself. She has not played like herself. The performance last night...it was astounding. It was beyond her. You know that. You know it was well beyond anything the timid little American Midwesterner I met a week ago could have performed."

"The progress has been remarkable, I'll admit," said David softly. "I never suspected..."

"You never suspected because it was never inside her to play like she did last night. She was not capable...she _is_ not capable, by herself."

"Oh, please," said Frederico. "She played well. The audience loved her."

"The audience worshipped her. The newspapers idolized her. It was a conquest. But it was a conquest that was beyond her," said Danko, his voice growing quieter.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" said Frederico, a smile emerging slowly.

"There is no envy. There is only concern. I fear for the girl's safety."

"Safety?" cried David. "Just what are you saying here? I really don't understand what you're getting at."

"Yes, yes...all these dark threats," added Frederico. "Who can take you seriously?"

"Are you saying that just because Elizabeth is now a front-runner in the competition, some competitor will try to do her harm?" asked David anxiously.

"I'm telling you that harm has already been done," said Danko. "I'm telling you that she is not herself...that she has been possessed."

"Oh, your stupid Gypsy nonsense," Frederico spit back angrily.

"Don't you dare!" demanded Danko. "Don't you dare mock things you know nothing about!"

"Look, Danko. Nobody's mocking anything," said David. "But you've got to speak plainly. I...we...have to know exactly what you're talking about. What do you mean when you say Elizabeth is _possessed_?"

"It's Liszt! Of course it's Liszt," cried Danko angrily. "It's clear to everyone but you. Why can't you see it? It's a plain as can be. She has all but become Liszt."

"Well, of course she played well..." began Frederico.

"She did not play _well_ ," Danko grunted. "She was superb. She was electrifying. She played in a way that only one human being has ever played—Franz Liszt"

"She was exceptional last night," agreed David, "And she hardly seemed herself..."

"So she was inspired, my friend," Frederico declared jovially. "That is certainly a good thing."

"No," asserted Danko. "It was more than that...much more than that. She _became_ Liszt."

"So she became Liszt. She played beautifully. What of it?" Frederico barked, his cup coming down hard on the table.

"You know nothing about Liszt!" Danko snapped back. "Liszt only played as he did because he was in league...with special powers."

"Ah, yes," said Frederico, faking a yawn. "The famous diabolical pact. A great way to sell tickets to middle-aged ladies for Sunday matinees."

Danko's lips curled back. "It was not about middle-aged ladies and matinees. It was about becoming the greatest pianist the world has ever known. Liszt knew...he knew what he had to do. He knew what he had to surrender to achieve his goal."

"Please, Danko," pleaded David. "You're really getting scary now. What are you talking about and what does it have to do with Elizabeth?"

"It has everything to do with Elizabeth. Don't you see?"

'Oh, of course, of course," mocked Frederico. "Don't you see it, David? The great Franz Liszt sells his soul to the dark forces in order to become the greatest pianist that the world has ever known. Elizabeth channels Liszt for one concert so she too must be in league with the devil."

David shuddered. "Danko, you can't be serious about this."

Danko shook his head. "One must be serious about this. You yourself are aware how this has happened. You mentioned it days ago. Elizabeth found a score—a Liszt manuscript. You said she took it from the library. And it changed her."

"Look, Danko," said David. "I don't know what changed her. She has been somewhat moody. But the score was nothing more than some counterpoint exercises for one of Liszt's students, a Count Sebastian. There was nothing special about it. And she returned the score to the library. She said she did."

"Can you be sure?" Danko asked quietly.

"Yes...no, what does it matter?" Frederico growled impatiently. "It was nothing. It was a teaching manuscript with a few Liszt scribbles in the corner. It meant nothing."

"And yet it meant something to her," said Danko. "She saw something in it. And it changed her."

"The competition changed her," replied Frederico coolly. "The pressure. She was not ready for it. The pressure can get to anyone."

"But she's played so well," said David. "Amazingly well. I never thought..."

"People react differently," snapped Frederico. "She has played brilliantly but her mind has become foggy. That sleep-walking incident..."

"If that's what it was..." interjected Danko.

"What else could it have been?" Frederico shook his head. "David, you saw the whole thing. She must have been sleepwalking..."

"I still don't know," David said quietly. "It was all...so mysterious...and yet I thought somehow that she was in full control."

"Or someone else was in control," said Danko.

"This is rubbish!" exclaimed Frederico. "This is pathetic Gypsy rubbish and you know it, Danko."

"And what of the 'accident' that befell our young friend?" said Danko, gesturing toward David. "Did he strike himself on the head that night?"

"Some prowler...some pervert...who knows who it was?" Frederico responded angrily. "But I can tell you for certain that it was not the ghost of Liszt seeking revenge!"

"Danko," pleaded David. "Please tell me that this is all not just some superstitious nonsense!"

"Look, David," said Danko. "No one is talking about ghosts. I have no idea who knocked you unconscious that night. But you must know that this is a serious matter and that there are things going on here which are hidden to us."

"Speaking plainly now, Danko," said David, "what exactly do you think has happened with Elizabeth?"

Danko looked directly into David's eyes. "I think she's come under Liszt's influence. I don't mean that Liszt has inspired her. I don't mean that somehow—miraculously—she has developed the ability to play like Liszt. I mean quite simply that she has fallen under Liszt's spell."

"Ah," said Frederico, throwing up his hands in mock horror. "What a terrible thing! To have fallen under the influence of one of the greatest pianists of the ages!"

Danko continued slowly. "I think it may be the score...something in the score. It doesn't matter how trivial Frederico finds it. I don't care if it's a teaching manuscript with a few words penned in by Liszt. The fact is that it's a Liszt manuscript. In a state of heightened sensitivity—such as your friend must have been feeling ever since the competition began—it's not impossible that she has been somehow taken in by it. Have you seen the manuscript itself?"

"I've just glanced at it," said David. "It didn't seem to me that there was much to it."

"My point exactly," interjected Frederico triumphantly.

"What exactly does the writing by Liszt say?" asked Danko.

"I didn't notice. Instructions to his student, I suppose," said David.

"Find it," demanded Danko. "You say that she's returned it to the library? If she really has, then go back to that library and find it. Examine it."

"What's the purpose of this dramatic little plan?" whined Frederico, twisting in his seat.

"To see if there is something in the score that has affected Elizabeth in some unnatural way...something that holds a power over her," replied Danko calmly. "Perhaps she has absorbed Liszt's spirit from the score. That may be innocent. It may be a brief, transitory thing, influenced only by the stress of the moment. Or it may not be innocent."

"This is the worst kind of nonsense, Danko," argued Frederico. "So the girl absorbs Liszt's spirit. So she _becomes_ Liszt and plays like she never has before. There is no harm..."

"There could be great harm," interrupted Danko. "Liszt was not a docile, domesticated man. There were aspects of his spirit that could be dangerous."

"Dangerous," said David. "I don't understand. How..."

"Liszt's spirit was forever tainted. Liszt made bargains that no one should ever make. It gave him consummate skill. It gave him unmatched brilliance...but it may have cursed him."

"I'm sorry," interjected Frederico, rising to his feet, "but I have had my fill of fairytales for the day and it's too early for a bedtime story. I think I'll leave you gentlemen now and return to my practicing. That's a part of my life that's very real and requires my full attention. I'm sure you'll understand."

Frederico stood up and walked quickly away. David continued to stare into Danko's face.

"Don't take a chance, David," said Danko earnestly. "Find that score. Look at it. Look at it closely."

Chapter 25

Early the next morning, David walked quickly through the narrow back streets, the Church of St. Boniface just coming into sight. Frederico struggled to keep up.

"Is this really necessary?" panted Frederico breathlessly. "I mean, it is a charming church, but I am a busy man and..."

"You're not that busy, my friend. You said you needed a break from practicing."

"Certainly. A fifteen-minute break would have been delightful. I started today at 6:00 AM. But spending an hour dashing through the streets of Vienna was not what I had in mind."

David stopped and put his hand gently on Frederico's shoulder. "Look, I know you think that this is a silly wild goose chase."

"It's worse than that, my friend. We're giving in to lunacy. Danko and his gypsy-inspired fantasies about Liszt. We're following the advice of a crazy man."

"He's not crazy, Frederico. You know that as well as I do. He's an intelligent young man who's concerned about Elizabeth and has a theory about what's going on."

"Theory? He has no theory. He has only his overly rich and somewhat demented imagination. What I find absolutely incredible about all this is that you're actually buying into it."

"What can it hurt to take a closer look at the manuscript? If something set Elizabeth off, I want to know what it is."

"There's nothing there. Fingering patterns. Tempo markings. Who gets possessed by reading a few tempo indications in Liszt's hand?"

"Probably no one. And if that's all there is, we'll rest better knowing that Danko's wrong. That it's just his imagination and there's nothing to worry about."

"The only thing to worry about is me missing my practice time. We are to perform again in just three days."

"I know, I know. And I apologize for taking you away from the piano. But I still think that this is a lead we have to pursue. And I need another pair of eyes on this manuscript just so I can be sure I'm not missing anything."

Within minutes, David and Frederico arrived at the church and made their way quickly into the small library.

"Doesn't exactly look like the birthplace of great and ominous mysteries, does it?" Frederico said as he gestured toward the small room and its single inhabitant, the elderly librarian they had encountered previously. "Here, let me handle this." Frederico addressed the curator briefly, who rose slowly and made his way through a side door into the archival holdings. A few minutes later he returned with a small box. Frederico signed for it quickly and the librarian and placed it in his hands.

"This is it," said Frederico, setting the box down at one of the long tables as he gestured to David. "The entire holdings of their Count Sebastian archive. You know, I have a feeling that this particular part of the collection doesn't see the light of day very often."

"Maybe not," said David, "but we're going to go through it with a fine tooth comb."

David and Frederico carefully opened the box, taking out from it a number of thin folders and spreading them on the table.

"There's only one problem, "said David, a puzzled look on his face. "The score isn't here. Are you sure that this is the complete Sebastian archive?"

"This is all there is. One container...same as last time. The curator was clear enough about that."

"Well, it's gone. The score is gone."

"Could someone else have taken it?"

"The curator mumbled something about the fact that we're the only ones who've looked at this stuff for at least a year."

"I guess that settles it. Elizabeth must still have the score. She must be hiding it away somewhere."

"Well," said Frederico cheerfully. "I guess we'd have to say that it's bad form on Elizabeth's part, but how serious is it, really? I mean, it's pretty clear that not many people in the world care about this score."

"Still, I'd feel a lot better if I could get a good look at it. Here, let's look around in these other papers a little. Maybe something else can cast a little light here." David quickly began scooping up the first of folder of papers to examine them. Frederico shrugged and then grabbed a second folder to read through.

Minutes later, Frederico chuckled. "Well, there's nothing much about Liszt here but I'm getting the distinct impression that Count Sebastian himself was a bit of a character."

David put down the handful of papers he had been browsing. "What do you mean? I haven't come up with much."

"Well, there's a letter here, apparently from a certain Fioro Allegri," Frederico said, gesturing toward the paper in his left hand. "And it appears that there may have been a little bad-blood between Count Sebastian and Mr. Allegri."

"Why? How can you tell?"

"Oh, it's simple enough. In this letter, Allegri warns Sebastian to stop threatening him. Says he'll go to the authorities unless Sebastian leaves him alone."

"Threat? What threat?"

"That part's not so clear," said Frederico moving to the second page of the letter, "but it seems that Sebastian and Allegri were both pianists. And Sebastian must have warned Allegri away from coming to Vienna to give a concert."

"Well, I've never heard of Allegi, but there must have been dozens of virtuosi coming through Vienna to give concerts in the later nineteenth century. It was one of the hotspots for traveling pianists, a great place to make a name for oneself."

"Well, my guess is that Allegri never had a chance to make his name in Vienna because he was scared off by Sebastian."

"But I don't get it. How...and why... would Sebastian try to scare him off?"

"Didn't want the competition, I guess." Frederico shrugged.

"That's ridiculous. There was competition all over the place. Even if one pianist stayed away from Vienna, there would be plenty of others who would show up in his place."

"Perhaps so," said Frederico, studying one page closely. "But the impression I get is that Allegri was another Liszt student, like Sebastian. And Sebastian didn't want another Liszt student competing with him in Vienna."

"But that's silly. Sebastian was never a major pianist. How would the competition from one more Liszt student have caused him such a problem? Liszt traveled the world and must have given hundreds—maybe thousands—of lessons. There were scores of pianists in a dozen countries who could claim that they'd studied with Liszt, even if they had only taken a few lessons. Besides, as far as we know, Sebastian only had a few lessons with Liszt himself and never came to much. He isn't mentioned as one of Liszt's more talented students in any of the biographies I know."

"Well," said Frederico, cracking a slight smile, "all I can tell you is what this letter says. It's a little hard to make out—Allegri's German isn't that good—but it seems clear that Allegri felt threatened by Sebastian. He refers specifically to Sebastian's 'dark threats.' Allegri is clearly upset. He's not just concerned, but maybe even a little frightened of Sebastian."

"Frightened?"

"It appears so. It explicitly states that Sebastian must stop 'trying to scare him.' Allegri tells him that he, Sebastian, has no power over him. That Sebastian isn't the only student Liszt ever had and that Allegri is no usurper. He's just trying to make an honest living in music and he won't be intimidated."

"Fascinating," said David, shaking his head slowly. "It's beginning to sound very much like this Sebastian character was a bully at least and maybe worse. Let's keep looking. Maybe we can find something else that will cast a little more light on this guy, especially his connection with Liszt."

A few minutes later, Frederico stretched his arms out in front of him. "I am finished my friend. I find nothing here worth talking about. A few bills. Instructions to his lawyer. There is nothing here to see."

"Maybe not," said David, peering intently at a small black volume, "but there is something here that's a little strange. It's in his diary. There's really not much here, although it's pretty clear from what he's written that Sebastian had delusions of grandeur...certainly about his playing, but also his relationship with Liszt. He tells his diary that he's so fortunate to be on such intimate terms with Liszt...that Liszt has shared these deep, dark secrets with him, whatever that means. But then there are a number of pages that seem to be missing, especially at the end. I thought that Elizabeth at least glanced at this diary when we were here before. It's funny that she didn't mention there were pages missing. I guess she didn't think it was important. But wait...there's something else here...some sort of drawings. It's some sort of a zodiac, but not a normal one. It looks like Sebastian has created some of his own symbols. Say, what was our boy up to? Sebastian's little symbols look at bit ominous. It seems that the count had mayhem on his mind. I'm beginning to see why Allegri may have been a bit nervous."

Frederico peered over David's shoulder. "Why? What have you discovered?"

"This set of zodiac symbols...at least I think that's what they are. But there's a hangman here, and someone...or something...with an axe. It looks like a combination of standard zodiac symbols with some weird tarot card symbols. Looks a bit demonic, actually."

"Tarot symbols?" said Frederico, reaching out his hand. "Where? Let me see?"

David handled Frederico one badly torn page.

"Well, as you can see, this isn't in great shape and some of it may be missing," said Frederico as he held the paper closer. "But there are some numbers here and some ominous-looking signs or symbols that the old boy seems to have drawn up by himself."

"That's crazy," said David, shaking his head. "What can this stuff mean?"

"It probably means absolutely nothing. Sebastian was probably just doodling and somebody mistook it for an important document after he died."

"What did he die of, anyway?

"No idea, but I wouldn't expect any of this stuff to make sense. And yet," Frederico paused, squinting at the paper in front of him. "And yet, some of it does. Look," he said, pointing at a group of figures at the bottom of the page. "See those two groups of dots?"

"Yes, I guess so," replied David. "Do they really mean anything?"

"I don't know. Maybe. An old girlfriend of mine was big into Tarot cards. Just one of many scary things about her and not the worst. She used to go on and on about these symbols. See the first one over here? That's an 'Amissio'; it's a geomantric sign that refers to a loss, or something that's been taken away."

"What kind of thing? Loss of what?"

"And this symbol over here...again a pattern of dots. I think it's a 'Cauda Draconis,' a sign that refers to the dragon's tail. Unless I'm mistaken, this is a bad one. It indicates betrayal, lies or cruel behavior. It can also refer to dangerous or lethal partners."

"I hope you're kidding about this," said David faintly.

"I'm not kidding, but I may be wrong about this. I don't think he's got the drawings quite right. He looks like he's added a few things of his own. Who can be sure?"

"My God, Mr. Sebastian was a strange one. I wish I knew more about him but there's not much more to see in the diary."

"Well, it seems obvious to me that Count Sebastian was a bit of a sicko," said Frederico, leaning back in his chair. "But so what? What's that got to do with anything?"

"It matters because Elizabeth's got his score."

"Ah, yes...the terrible score. But I thought Danko was all shook up about it because it supposedly brought Elizabeth under Liszt's spell. So what if Sebastian were a bit odd? I thought it was Liszt we were worried about."

"At this point, I'm worried about everything. I realize that none of it probably means anything, but I'm just not taking any chances with any of this stuff."

"And so our next move is...?"

"To get you back to your practice room and to get me to a computer. I've got to email an old professor friend of mine who's done a lot of research about Liszt's piano students. We know that Count Sebastian never became a famous pianist, but it's just possible that the professor will know something about what did happen to him."

"No harm in trying. Back to the piano mines for me."

Chapter 26

Vaclav Rajki picked up his pace as he walked along the tree-lined sidewalk heading to the pianist's apartments. He glanced ahead and saw Frederico, several yards in front of him. "Gasparini! Hold there for a moment! Wait for me!" he shouted ahead.

Frederico, walking with his head down, paused for a moment and glanced around.

"Here, Frederico! In back of you. Slow down for God's sake," said Rajki, breathless now from running.

Frederico turned and smiled broadly. "Rajki, my friend! Good to see you. Does the practicing go well?"

"I guess we'll find out in a couple of days," replied Rajki dryly.

"I'm sure you'll be brilliant!" Frederico said cheerfully. "You have to admit that this year's Radovsky Festival has been marked by some absolutely extraordinary playing!"

"That's not all it's been marked by," grumbled Rajki, still wheezing slightly.

"Yes," said Frederico more quietly. "The festival has had its stranger moments. Even some tragedies..." Frederico brightened up. "But I'm sure that's all behind us now. Smooth sailing ahead. We'll all play wonderfully in the final concert and every one of us will be signed by a major recording label."

"Every one of us who remains standing. Who's to say how many that will be? I'm not so confident that these strange events have run their course. Broken limbs, poisonings, nocturnal wanderings...and let us not forget that infernal mysterious music in the practice rooms. And don't say you haven't heard it. Everyone has heard it."

"My friend, my friend. We must all relax. Everyone is getting so agitated. My American friend David is almost beside himself with worry over his friend Elizabeth."

"Humph," mumbled Rajki. "It doesn't seem to me that Elizabeth McDermitt has all that much to worry about. If she plays again as she played in that benefit concert, the rest of us can simply go home."

Frederico smiled again. "As I'm sure you know, David is worried about the young ladies' health, not her pianistic abilities."

"She looked healthy enough to me the other night, although I will admit she might have looked a little pale," said Rajki.

"Exactly," replied Frederico. "Combine that with her little sleep-walking episode..."

"Is that what it was? I've heard so many rumors."

"Apparently. David's reward for looking after her on that particular night was a bad bump on the head."

"Yes, what about that? Are there muggers running rampant on the conservatory campus these days?" asked Rajki anxiously.

"Oh, I seriously doubt that," replied Frederico confidently. "Just an isolated event, I'm sure. Although I'm told that the festival officials have promised to increase security for later in the evening."

"Well, they've got to do something. We can't be held hostage in our apartments or the practice rooms."

"Not to worry, Vaclav. Things will be fine. But come...walk with me if you've a minute or two. I must head back to the apartments. I stupidly left one of my scores there and I need to have it for this afternoon's practice session."

"It's not that I don't have anything to do," Rajki grumbled.

"I'm completely aware of that my good man, but come on—it won't take but a moment."

Arriving at Frederico's apartment minutes later, Frederico smiled broadly. "You see? Only a moment or two out of your time and we both arrived safe and sound."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Rajki, "Maybe we ought to all go about in pairs these days. It would be safer."

"Now Vaclav, you know you're overreacting to a few isolated incidents. There is nothing to worry about. The rest of the competition will go beautifully. You wait and see. Perhaps I'll see you this evening in the practice rooms."

"Where else could I be?"

Frederico smiled, patted Rajki's shoulder warmly, and unlocked his door quickly. "Until this evening then."

Rajki returned a weak smile and turned to leave. After a few steps, he realized he had not asked Frederico if the order of the program had been set for the next performance. Rajki grunted to himself and headed back toward Frederico's apartment. Suddenly, he heard a thud, and then what sounded like a body collapsing to the floor. "Frederico!" he cried. "Are you in there? Are you all right in there?"

***

"So you say it was nothing—absolutely nothing," said David, smiling gently at Frederico who tried to get comfortable in his overstuffed chair.

"Next to nothing, David," said Frederico, rubbing the side of his head gingerly. "Next to nothing. One moment I am entering my apartment, searching around for a missing score and the next I am lying on my back looking up at the police."

"You don't remember anything else about what happened?"

"Nothing. All I know is that it's an hour later and I have lost an hour of practice time."

"And the police? What do the police say?"

"The police? They say nothing...or at least nothing that makes sense. They say I was obviously struck from the side, probably with the Beethoven statuette that lay on the floor next to me. Apparently I wasn't hit hard—or so the doctor states—but it's left me with a bit of a crushing headache, I can tell you that."

"Any theories as to why you were hit on the head with a Beethoven statuette?"

"Do you mean police theories? Oh, you know...the usual. Someone was caught in a burglary, didn't really know what to do with me, so decided to give me a bit of a vacation from consciousness for a few minutes while he made his escape."

"His escape?"

"Not difficult to do, you know. We're on the first floor. The drop from the open window is all of three feet."

"So the police are calling this a burglary. Is anything missing?"

"Just a few papers on my desk messed up. If there's anything missing, I haven't discovered it yet."

"And yet the police insist on calling it a burglary?"

Frederico smiled. "What do you expect, David? They react according to their own experiences. In their world, people do not break into other people's rooms just for the purpose of hitting them on the head."

"I assume that you don't think it was a common burglary."

"Do I think that someone wearing a black mask happened to stumble into my room searching for something to steal? No, I don't. Do I think some lunatic is terrorizing the festival, poisoning people here, and conking them on the head in their apartments? No, I don't really believe that either. Really, David, I don't know what to believe. I must admit that I am a little more concerned now that I'm the one who's been hit on the head."

David smiled weakly. "It does appear that you've been dominating all the action lately, Frederico. But I do have a little news of my own."

"News? News of what?"

"News of Count Sebastian. Do you remember my professor friend—Professor McGregor— the one I told you about who had done some research on Liszt's piano students? Well, he knew something about Count Sebastian. Not a lot...but a few interesting tidbits."

"Is this Sebastian as dubious a character as we thought?" asked Frederico, wincing as he rubbed the side of his head gingerly.

"Dubious would be giving him the benefit of the doubt. And he's a very mysterious character on top of that. You recall we agreed that he was by no means one of Liszt's more famous students?"

"Of course. I had never heard of him."

"Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. Apparently he was wealthy, having inherited a substantial fortune from an uncle he never knew. He invested a great deal of this fortune in trying to launch a successful musical career for himself. He played endless recitals to which relatively few people ever came. A couple of Vienna's smaller newspapers reviewed a few of his recitals in the early 1850s but apparently weren't impressed. Professor McGregor claims that the reviews were not only negative, they were positively insulting. One critic was particularly harsh...called Sebastian a complete incompetent, the worse student Liszt ever had."

"But he was really a Liszt student?"

"Oh, yes, although apparently not for very long. Liszt was known to give lessons to wealthy amateurs from time to time and Sebastian was certainly wealthy enough."

"Was he really intimate with Liszt as he claimed in his diary?"

"Who knows? The professor thinks it unlikely. But Liszt did have some quirky friends and may have found a kindred spirit in Sebastian somehow."

"A kindred spirit? How? What could Sebastian offer Liszt, besides money of course?"

"Well, that is a problem. But remember, Sebastian was a bit of an occultist judging by some of those things we saw in his diary. It's possible that Liszt found him interesting."

"Interesting? What do you mean by interesting? I always assumed that Liszt's 'dark side' was a just a marketing device designed to make him appear more exotic and mysterious. What does the good professor think about that?"

"Professor McGregor made it very clear that no respectable scholar since the beginning of the twentieth century would take very seriously the idea that Liszt was a dabbler in the dark arts. But around the time that Sebastian was taking lessons from Liszt, there were a lot of rumors about it, some of them quite possibly stemming from Liszt himself, who knew a good public relations ploy when he saw it."

"So there's nothing to it."

"That would be the modern consensus, yes."

"You don't sound completely convinced."

"Well, the professor admitted that there were some nineteenth century writers and fellow-travelers who took very seriously the possibility that Liszt was in some way in league with the devil."

"And you're assuming that Sebastian was one of them?"

"Who can say? His diary makes the claim that he was intimate with Liszt. And who lies in their diary?"

"Lots of people lie in their diary, especially if they're suffering delusions of grandeur like Sebastian probably was. So whatever happened to Sebastian?"

"He spent years trying to make a name for himself. Eventually the critics stopped coming to his performances, but that didn't stop him. He hired some major vocalists to concertize with him, brought in string quartets to play with him. A couple of times he even hired an entire orchestra to accompany him playing Liszt's first Piano Concerto, and his 'Totentanz,' with Liszt's 'Mephisto Waltz' thrown in for good measure as an encore."

"The 'Mephisto Waltz'...I had almost forgotten about it. He wrote three of them, didn't he? Liszt was nothing if not a good Faustian."

"Right. Certainly helped to create the image he seemed to be going for."

"So did Sebastian have a hit on his hands with his performances of the 'Mephisto Waltz' and the 'Dance of Death?'"

"Apparently nothing came of it. It received a single line in one of the smaller newspapers. There is no record of Liszt having attended. I can imagine Sebastian getting very frustrated."

"So did he just fade into oblivion?"

"Not quite. Sebastian's name disappears from the music pages but it reappears on the crime pages."

"The crime pages? You're kidding."

"Remember the critic who called Sebastian an incompetent? About a month after that episode, the papers refer to the critic breaking his leg in a collision with a runaway carriage. Guess who the driver of the carriage was?"

"Incredible. Was he arrested?"

"No. Apparently Count Sebastian managed to convince the police that it was an unavoidable accident."

"An accident? Too bad the police didn't get a chance to read the Count's diary. That might have opened their eyes about this guy's dangerous tendencies."

"But that's not all. Only about five months later, Sebastian makes the news again. Do you remember Mr. Allegri from the diary? Another one of Liszt's students who was planning to come to Vienna to make a career. But, as you'll recall, Sebastian wasn't exactly welcoming the idea of having another Liszt student coming to town. Based on the copy of Allegri's letter that we saw, Sebastian had clearly been threatening him."

"Yes. That's right. Allegri sounded like he was being intimidated."

"Well, it got worse. Allegri was murdered. Poisoned...the night before he was to perform in his Viennese debut. It was in all of the papers. The strange thing was that there was what appeared to be a somewhat vague suicide note, or at least that's how some people interpreted it. But no one really believed it was a suicide. Strychnine is a terrible way to go. The police seemed confused at first. It certainly wasn't a random killing and no one could figure out how Allegri could have any enemies in Vienna since he had just moved there. And then somebody pointed Sebastian out. The Count pleaded his innocence of course, claimed he could prove that he was nowhere around when the death occurred. But the police were persistent. Then, one night, Sebastian completely disappeared. Never a trace of him in Vienna again. Rumor had it that the police found some strange things in his abandoned apartment—some books on magic, even sorcerer's stuff."

"Did he turn up elsewhere?"

"Depends on whom you ask. Some people claimed he turned up in Bulgaria where he was once again trying to establish his career as a pianist. Others claimed he descended into the underworld and immersed himself in the dark arts. There was even talk of necromancy."

"My God! Could any of that be true?"

"Who knows? As Professor McGregor said, at some point the stories about Sebastian all merge into myth."

"So what does it all mean?"

"I wish I knew, Frederico."

"Are we going to tell anyone about this?"

"I honestly don't know who we could tell. Elizabeth? She wouldn't be happy about me warning her to stay away from a manuscript because some peculiar and maybe even dangerous nineteenth-century count cursed it."

"No, I suppose not. As interesting as the professor's story may be, it doesn't exactly qualify as a lead in the current mystery."

"No, it doesn't. Still, it's spooky and if I can get that score away from Elizabeth without her knowing it, I will."

Chapter 27

"We're of course grateful that you could come in and speak with us so quickly after this last incident, Mr. Wurtler," said Inspector Fischer, gently twirling a pencil between his fingers.

Wurtler nodded, his hand going to unloosen his collar.

"Of course this latest little episode isn't earth shaking by itself..." began Detective Hermann.

"No...no, I wouldn't think so," Wurtler interjected.

"But you can see why we're concerned," finished Hermann. "Just as we know you must be concerned. We're all interested in having the famous Radovsky Festival go as smoothly as possible..."

"Although it's really a bit too late for that now, isn't it, Mr. Wurtler?" interjected Fischer, taking a seat across from him. "I mean...it's really impossible to say that things have been going smoothly, isn't it?"

"Smoothly?" said Wurtler quietly. "Well, I suppose not. Things have not really been smooth, I suppose." Wurtler's face suddenly brightened. "And yet we do have an extraordinary group of young pianists this year, absolutely extraordinary!"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Fischer. "And yet, with all these incidents...I'm sure you're as anxious as we are to get to the bottom of this."

"Really now, Mr. Fischer," Wurtler said in an annoyed tone, "I really thought you _had_ gotten to the bottom of this when you arrested Mr, Deiner."

"Ah, but Mr. Wurtler," protested Hermann gently, "you must remember that we didn't really _arrest_ Mr. Deiner. We simply brought him in for questioning."

"In handcuffs, Detective Hermann. Don't forget that he was in handcuffs," said Wurtler stiffly.

"Yes, he was in handcuffs, Mr. Wurtler," replied Fischer. "We had gotten a tip that he was leaving the country after he'd been told to stay in Vienna for at least a couple of more days. When we heard that, we felt we had to move fast. Our officers found him at the airport about to board a plane. So we brought him back and questioned him again."

"In handcuffs, Mr. Fischer."

"Indeed, Mr. Wurtler. Perhaps the officer in charge should not have been so zealous. He was annoyed at Mr. Deiner for trying to leave the country without permission."

"Are you implying that this man is _not_ responsible for all of the...interruptions to our festival?" demanded Wurtler.

"We brought Mr. Deiner back for questioning primarily to tell us why he felt he had to leave the country prematurely," said Hermann quietly. "I can tell you that he had no compelling explanation for his behavior other than the fact that he was frustrated with having been eliminated from the competition and had no desire to continue to attend festival events. We informed him that he had made a bad decision and we expected that he would remain readily accessible to the police for the next few days. He agreed to do that. As far as the accident with Mr. Allen and the poisoning of Mr. Peirera, we have no more reason to think Mr. Deiner guilty than any of the other pianists or anyone else who's been hanging around the competition for the last two weeks...and that includes any of the staff."

"But this latest incident—the assault on Frederico Gasparini? Surely Deiner had something to do with that," demanded Wurtler.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Deiner was still in custody when that event occurred. Therefore, it's impossible for him to be connected with it," Fischer replied calmly.

"Humph," grunted Wurtler. "So then, who is responsible for this latest outrage?"

"We don't know," said Hermann. "About the only contestants we can rule out at this point are Deiner and Vaclav Rajki, who called the police. But of course there is no clear indication that it was any of his fellow pianists who gave Mr. Gasparini his bump on the head. It might have been a conservatory student snooping around where he shouldn't have been. It might have been a common burglar. It would not be the first time that thieves took some interest in those apartments. I recall an incident or two within the last three years."

"But have you any evidence? Any clues?" asked Wurtler anxiously.

"None. Or virtually none," responded Fischer. "We have the object that was used to hit Mr. Gasparini, but it doesn't tell us much. Not so far."

"Well, if it wasn't Deiner, then I'm sure that it could not have been any of the current participants," Wurtler said stiffly.

"Really? And how can you be so sure?" asked Fischer.

"It simply stands to reason. Why would any of them want to terminate the Festival? This is the greatest opportunity of their young lives. The winner will be instantly catapulted into a wonderful career."

"Assuming that the competition continues," said Fischer.

"Of course it will continue," replied Wurtler. "As you point out, this latest incident could well be completely unrelated to the former...events."

"Is it possible that one of the contestants does _not_ want the festival to continue?" asked Fischer. "How about some competitor who doesn't really think he or she can win and so wants the competition to end before a winner is chosen?"

"I cannot see who that would be," replied Wurtler, shaking his head. "There are four competitors remaining: Vaclav Rajki, Danko Sulek, Frederico Gasparini and Elizabeth McDermitt. They are all strong pianists. Any one of them could win."

"Even the American?" asked Fischer.

"Absolutely," Wurtler replied firmly. "She was, I'll admit, unknown when she came to the festival, a surprise winner at the American semifinals. But she has performed brilliantly...beyond anyone's expectations. The critics have fallen in love with her."

"And the others?" asked Herman.

"They all have a reasonable chance. I cannot believe that any of them would throw away a chance to win the Radovsky Prize."

"Well, then. If not the competitors, then who?" asked Fischer. "Some hanger-on with a vendetta? What of the other American, David Currant? He seems to be somehow intertwined with Elizabeth McDermitt."

"Perhaps," said Wurtler. "I do not follow these intrigues. I can't see what he has to gain by destroying the Radovsky Festival."

"Well, is there anyone who _does_ have something to gain by destroying it?" asked Hermann.

"Gentlemen, when you have had the most successful competition for young pianists in the world for several years, you have competitors," said Wurtler. "The Radovsky Festival is unparalleled, but there are other competitions that would like to steal its thunder. A Russian competition, a well-financed one—has just emerged. There is the competition for young pianists at Torino, Italy that has attracted some attention from the press in recent years. Of course these other competitions have not the stature or the reputation of the Radovsky Festival. But they are competitors and they are ambitious. They would probably enjoy seeing me—I mean, the festival—fail ingloriously or end in controversy. This, gentlemen, may be the best target for your energies."

"An international plot to discredit the Radovsky Festival? Somehow I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Wurtler," said Fischer.

"Nevertheless, gentlemen, nevertheless. You have asked for my opinion and I have given it to you. Perhaps there is a plot to discredit the festival; perhaps there is nothing but a series of unfortunate and completely disconnected incidents. Like you, I pray it is the latter. But one must always be alert to all threats."

Chapter 28

Sung Lee Kim knocked purposely on David's door. Seconds later, the door swung open slowly. "David," said Kim. "We have to talk. Right now."

"Of course, of course," said David, gesturing her inside. "I'm delighted to see you. Frankly, I'm a little surprised, though. I mean, I wasn't sure you were still in Vienna."

Kim smiled slightly. "If you read your letter of agreement for the festival, David, it makes it pretty clear that those performers who have been eliminated are obligated to stay to the bitter end, or at least to the final press conference. Don't forget, we're all gracious losers here."

"Ah, yes," said David. "The letter of agreement. Fortunately, we alternates don't pay much attention to the legal niceties. I could have disappeared after the first few hours of the competition and I doubt if anyone would have noticed."

"I guess there are advantages and disadvantages to every position," said Kim, her smile broadening.

"Yes, I suppose there are," said David. "Won't you please sit down?"

"Thank you, although as you can imagine, this isn't exactly a social call," Kim said, taking a seat quickly.

"No, I didn't imagine it was."

"David, remember that when I last spoke to Elizabeth and you, I told you that there were a number of strange things going on at the festival and that you had to watch yourselves carefully?"

"Of course."

"Well, things have obviously gotten a lot worse. And since neither the festival officials nor the local police have come up with any brilliant explanations for all these troubling events, I decided to do a little checking myself."

"Checking? On whom?"

"On Vaclav Rajki."

"Rajki? Why him? He's always struck me as pretty harmless."

"You wouldn't have said that if you had seen the murderous way Rajki was glaring at Elizabeth as she took her bows after the benefit concert. I'm not sure I've ever seen such a pure embodiment of hatred in my life."

"Rajki? I almost can't believe it. I mean...I'm sure he was jealous. Everyone was jealous of Elizabeth that night. She didn't play like any mortal human being that night. But murderous?"

"His teeth were clenched, his arms shaking with anger. He was beyond jealous that night."

"Still, it's hard for me to imagine..."

"His reaction led me to do some checking on Mr. Rajki. I remembered that a pianist friend of mine had been a competitor against him in a Chopin Festival last year. Rajki was the winner of that event and she had some very distinctive memories about him."

"Not all good, I gather."

"Very few of them good. It turns out that Rajki went far beyond the bounds of what would normally be considered competitive behavior for that festival. He insulted the other performers and lodged complaints against them for petty matters."

"He certainly sounds obnoxious, but it's a large leap from that to actually causing physical harm to people."

"It's not that far when you take into account what Kurzen, his teacher, did."

"Alois Kurzen? How was he involved?"

"In every way possible. Before the last concert of the competition, he went to see three of the other performers. He told them that they didn't even deserve to be there. Told them they had no chance of winning and that they should withdraw from the competition so as not to embarrass themselves."

"You're kidding. What did they do?"

Two of them just ignored him, including my friend. But one young woman seemed to be very bothered by it. She later lodged a complaint. And she played poorly at the final concert. Maybe she would have played poorly anyway. Maybe it had nothing to do with Kurzen's browbeating. But a lot of people were very angry. There was an investigation."

"Did Kurzen get in trouble?"

"Some. Not as much as he should have. He wasn't banned from future competitions. Just told basically to watch his step next time."

"Well, he seems to have kept a low profile here, at the Radovsky Festival."

"Has he? He's been seen lobbying the judges again and again."

"That can't do any good."

"Probably not. But who knows?"

"But it's all just talk, right? We can't prove he's actually done anything, can we? I mean, in terms of breaking into people's rooms."

"Obviously not. I don't know if the police are even considering him a suspect. But keep this in mind. At the Chopin Festival I was referring to earlier, there were a couple of instances of pianists losing their scores, or having their scores stolen out of practice rooms and trashed. Could it be traced directly to Kurzen? No. But a lot of people, including my friend, had their suspicions."

"Do you think Rajki approves of this sort of thing?"

"Well, as I told you earlier, he's no boy scout. Still, I'm not sure he has it in him to do physical violence. Frankly, I don't think he's got the guts to do it, considering that if he got caught, his career would be over. But Kurzen is obsessed. He's not getting any younger and I think that he sees Rajki as his last chance to have a spectacularly successful student. I think Kurzen would do anything to guarantee Rajki's success."

"He would actually push someone down a flight of stairs or poison them?"

"I think it's possible, yes."

"How ironic it would be if Kurzen was behind some of these disruptions, given the fact the Rajki was one of the first to complain about the odd events in the practice rooms. And Frederico told me that Rajki actually seemed worried about the attacks when he first heard about them."

"Rajki isn't dumb. Be the first to complain about a situation and it never occurs to anyone that you—or your allies—are behind it. And now...well, it's in his best interests to seem uneasy now, isn't it?"

"Well, Sung Lee, I have to admit it's a possibility. And I'm certainly going to keep a closer eye on Vaclav Rajki. Of course Rajki was with Frederico right before he was knocked on the head so he couldn't have had anything to do with that one."

"Sure he could. Kurzen could have been in there waiting for Frederico. Once again Rajki would have the perfect alibi and Kurzen would do the dirty work."

"But really, what did it accomplish?"

"It added Frederico to the list of competitors who now feel threatened."

"Yes, but Sung Lee...you know Frederico enough to know that it's going to take a lot more than that to spook him...throw him off his game."

"Maybe so, but it keeps the feeling of intimidation in the air for everyone to experience. I'm sure Elizabeth was unnerved by it, even if Frederico wasn't."

"Frankly, I haven't talked to her about it. It seems that I make myself more unpopular every time I see her."

"She has not been herself. Those last two concerts..."said Kim slowly. "She has not been herself."

David shook his head sadly. "I know. I just wish I knew what to do about it."
Chapter 29

The man in the black overcoat walked quickly down the hallway, pausing suddenly about a third of the way through when he thought he heard a faint noise. Trying to appear casual, he glanced over his shoulder in a leisurely manner. It was nothing. The old creaking floor of the ancient apartment building made noises for no reason. He had just left the practice room annex and had seen Elizabeth there. She seemed engrossed in practicing and would not be returning to her apartment any time soon. There would be no interruptions.

Fortunately, the door guard, an elderly gentleman from the campus security force, had been paying little attention to his duties, never even glancing at the side entrance to the building, the one that had required a special key. But finding the key had been no difficulty for this visitor. Once inside, he knew that he simply had to look casual—look liked he belonged there. That shouldn't be hard.

Of course this was a mission he had not sought. He had fervently hoped it would not be necessary. But things had gotten out of control. Things were coming apart. Elizabeth McDermitt's behavior had become extreme. Everybody had started to ask what was wrong? Why she was behaving so peculiarly? While everyone had been amazed at her playing, especially the evening of the benefit concert, there was a sense that something bizarre was happening right in front of the audience's eyes. And later, after the concert when the reporters had rushed up to her with questions about her remarkable performance, she had seemed completely unable to focus on what they were asking her. Her responses were weak, ambiguous at best. Dissatisfied, the reporters had pushed her, trying to get something quotable from the star performer of the evening, one who had played a perfectly remarkable concert. But she wouldn't respond. Maybe she couldn't respond. She excused herself and faded away.

Of course he knew why she had behaved so strangely. She had been overwhelmed by forces that she had been much too weak to resist. And now he had to step in.

Arriving at the door to Elizabeth's apartment, he paused again to glance around. These halls would almost certainly be empty at this time of the day. The remaining pianists would all be practicing and the others—those who had been eliminated—would have cleared out long ago and moved to other quarters.

He forced the old lock quickly and within seconds had stepped inside the room. It was fairly dark. The curtains were drawn and he couldn't risk the light switch. Squinting slightly, he surveyed the room quickly. Somehow he had expected a different quality. So what did he expect? That the score would give off some sort of mysterious glow? That the room would reek of incense or some faintly exotic odor? Of course there was nothing.

He went immediately to the old piano. Of course the pianists almost never touched them, preferring the grands in the practice rooms, but it was the logical place to put the score. No. There was nothing. A collection of Beethoven sonatas, standard edition, nothing more. Would she have taken the score with her? Probably not. She wouldn't want anyone else to see it. So it had to be here. He examined the bookshelves, but there were no scores in sight. He moved slowly into the small kitchen area, the old appliances looking particularly dingy in the poor light. He quickly scanned the cupboards but found nothing. He moved into the tiny bedroom, hesitating briefly at the doorway. Nothing was immediately visible. He grabbed the quilt and blankets from the bed, shaking each of them out. Nothing. With his foot, he pushed up the top mattress. There it was, sticking part way out of a manila folder. He reached in and grabbed the folder and slowly opened it.

Two seconds later, he heard the key in the door. Dropping the manuscript on the bed, he moved swiftly into the small bathroom, closing the door quickly behind him.

Elizabeth entered the apartment wearily, finding the only comfortable chair in the small living room and collapsing gently into it. For a few seconds she sat perfectly still, eyes half-closed. Then, in a flash, her eyes flew wide open and she jumped to her feet. She went immediately to the bedroom. There, on the disheveled bed, she saw the score, one of its pages projecting at an angle from the folder. "No!" she screamed and whirled around quickly. Suddenly the man stepped forward, out of the bathroom, and came for her.

***

"Surely, Ms. McDermitt, you must remember something," said Detective Hermann, exasperation in his voice.

Elizabeth shook her head forlornly. "Mr. Hermann, I must have told you a dozen times. I came home early from practicing with a headache. I sat down in the chair. I thought I heard a noise. I started to turn around and then...well, I guess I passed out. About a half hour later, I regained consciousness and asked the door guard to call the police. He did, but then he said that they had already been called by someone."

"The problem is this, miss," said Hermann patiently. "You say you had just gotten out of your chair but, given your description of the events, you were over there, by the bedroom, when you came to. Do you remember walking over to the bedroom? Can you think of why you might have done that?"

"No. I have no idea why I regained consciousness over there. I have no recollection of walking into the bedroom."

"Perhaps you heard a noise from in there, miss. It's obvious that someone had been in that room. Fairly tore the place apart from the way it appears."

"As I told you, I don't remember going into the bedroom. After I came to, I noticed someone had been in there. But I didn't know it at the time, at least not as far as I can remember."

"So the question now becomes, what was the intruder looking for?" asked Hermann, flipping pages in his notebook and looking Elizabeth directly in the face.

"I'm sure I have no idea," said Elizabeth.

"So nothing is missing?"

"I haven't been able to discover anything. My check card and all my cash were with me in the practice rooms."

"I see," said Hermann. "And yet, it does seem that the perpetrator was looking for something in particular."

"Detective Hermann," said Elizabeth wearily, "I have no desire to contradict you and it's not that I'm not trying to be helpful, but I don't have a clue of what you're talking about."

"As you can understand, ma'am, we're just trying to get to the bottom of this."

"Look, Mr. Hermann. Is it really all that much of a mystery? By all accounts, there have been a number of these intrusions, each one directed at one of the competitors for the Radovsky prize. It wasn't that long ago that Frederico Gasparini's room was invaded, isn't that right?"

"To be sure, Ms. McDermitt. I'm just not positive that the circumstances are really the same here."

"Oh really, Mr. Hermann? And what exactly would the difference be?"

"Well, ma'am, it seems pretty clear that in this instance, you could have been killed."

"But as you can see, Mr. Hermann, I was not," Elizabeth replied brazenly.

"Indeed not," said Hermann, ignoring Elizabeth's aggressive tone. "We were lucky this time. I'm just trying to collect enough information so we can take measures to make sure this sort of thing doesn't happen again."

"Perhaps you might begin by improving the security for this building," said Elizabeth.

"Well, Ms. McDermitt, the security man was placed there by Mr. Wurtler and the conservatory security force. He is not one of ours."

"He doesn't seem to be particularly competent, does he?" said Elizabeth.

"Well, ma'am, he was paying more attention to the front door, since you can only enter the side door with a special key. It looks like that's how our man must have entered."

Elizabeth hesitated. "So it was someone with a key?"

"Possibly," said Hermann, "but not necessarily. I'm told that these old locks are easy to force and it looks like this one may have been. I'm assuming that Mr. Wurtler and the conservatory officials will take steps to remedy the situation."

"I certainly hope so," said Elizabeth. "I can't say I enjoy being a target."

***

"David, I'm starting to get a little nervous about all this," said Elizabeth in a half-whisper, leaning forward in her seat.

"Of course you are, Elizabeth. There's no shame in admitting that," said David eagerly, digging in his pocket for change to tip the waitress as she reached down for their plates. "I went past worried a long time ago."

"All of this has seemed so strange. Sometimes it seems that none of these things have anything to do with me. It seems that I'm alone in my own world...and the only thing that matters is the piano...my music. I know terrible things have happened...to Allen and Peirera...that you and Frederico were attacked...but somehow, none of it feels quite real. Most of the time, I can just get lost in my practicing. It's just as if no one else really exists. And then at times, I get these enormous headaches and all I can do is lie down and wait for time to pass."

"The headaches are that bad?" asked David. "Were you having one earlier? In your room, when you discovered the intruder?"

"I...I think so," said Elizabeth. "I was certainly starting to get one. I know that I almost fell asleep in the chair."

"And you heard a noise? The intruder woke you?"

"No. Something else woke me. Just a strange feeling that something was wrong...something was in danger."

David lowered his voice. "Elizabeth, you said that you told the police that nothing was missing. Is that true?"

"No."

"Was it the score? The Liszt manuscript?"

"Yes. I still had it. I'm not sure why I felt I had to keep it, but I just couldn't take it back to that old library...let it lie there...untouched...probably for years."

"So you had it, but now it's gone?"

"As soon as I regained consciousness, I looked. I couldn't find it."

"But you didn't mention anything to the police?"

"How could I? How could I complain about someone stealing something that I had already stolen?"

"Okay. At least that's done with now. You won't have to worry about the score any more."

"David, what are you talking about? I wasn't worried about the score. Having a Liszt manuscript in my possession—even a minor one—was a great thrill. It gave me strength I didn't even know I possessed."

"I know...but..."

"You don't know!" Elizabeth snapped, "So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't pretend that you did."

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It's just that..."

"David, you know I like you a lot better when you're not fussing over me like a mother hen."

David smiled. "No more fussing. I'll try not to fuss. But as you said yourself, things have been getting out of control lately. I just want to make sure that if there's anything I can do for you..."

"There might be," Elizabeth said coolly.

"What? What can I do?"

"David, I might know who the intruder was."

"You know who it was? Great! Now the police can..."

"No! Not the police. I didn't tell the police. I'm telling you I _think_ I might know who he was. But it doesn't really make any sense."

"Who was it? Someone you know?"

"Someone we both know. I just got a glimpse before I passed out, but I think it was Danko Sulek."

**Chapter 30**

"I've been expecting you," said Sulek coolly, his hands in back of his head as he stretched out his legs in front of him.

"You've been expecting me?" asked David, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Of course. I thought that Elizabeth probably got a glimpse of me before she fainted. I wasn't sure, of course, but then I figured you'd probably put two and two together yourself and come looking for me."

"Danko, what are you saying? Are you the one who's been causing all the problems? Allen and Peirera? Knocking me and Frederico on the head?"

"None of the above," said Danko quickly. "You disappoint me, David. You're not using your head at all."

"Well, pardon me," said David sarcastically. "I guess that sharp blow made it a little less functional."

Danko smiled. "Oh, you don't have to apologize to me. The whole thing has been very confusing. I thought I knew who was responsible for all of this, but I must admit that now—at this moment—I'm not sure myself."

"You thought you knew? And who exactly did you think it was?"

"I think that should be pretty obvious. Breaking and entering isn't really in my regular weekday routine."

"Elizabeth? You thought Elizabeth was responsible for all the mayhem around here?"

"Look," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "If you're wondering if I think Elizabeth McDermitt—in her normal state of mind—is capable of pushing one person down a long flight of stairs, poisoning another and crushing the skulls of two others, including her supposed boyfriend—I've never really understood if you're a boyfriend or an ex-boyfriend or a wannabe-boyfriend, you know..."

"Skip it," snapped David.

"Very well," replied Danko coolly. "We'll let that go for now. Anyway, as I was saying, it's not that I think Elizabeth is, under normal circumstances, capable of doing any of those horrible things. But as I painstakingly tried to explain to you, we're not talking about normal circumstances at the point."

"The Liszt possession you referred to earlier?" asked David.

"Such a charge can easily be made to sound absurd. I am aware of that. Frederico did his best to make me appear a fool the last time we discussed this."

"Of course it sounded ridiculous. You had me scared to death."

"But you did not act. You did nothing."

"Danko, I looked for an opportunity...to ask her about the score..."

"You did nothing. I took action. I had to know whether Elizabeth McDermitt has become involved in some way in dark forces...prompted by her idolization of Liszt. And when you mentioned that score, the Liszt manuscript, I became even more certain that something dangerous was going on. I knew that she had not returned the score she had stolen as she had claimed. And I knew that if I could find it...hold it in my hands...then I would be able to know for sure."

"Well, you were certainly right about the score. We did some research on it—Frederico and I—or at least we did some research on Count Sebastian, the original owner of the score."

"And?"

"I'm not sure if it really makes any difference, but he was an odd duck. Maybe even dangerously odd. Dabbled in the occult, or so it appears."

"I see."

"So what did _you_ think of the score? You said she still possessed it, so you must have seen it."

"I saw it, briefly."

"Well?"

"I held it in my hands for only seconds. I looked only at the first page."

"So? Was it the dangerous document you thought it was?" David asked eagerly.

Danko spoke slowly. "I'm not sure. There was something peculiar about it. The music on the page wasn't very interesting, just some simple counterpoint exercises. There was some writing, between the staves and in the margins. Some of it seemed to be by Liszt, but it was mostly trivial...reminding the composer about the rules of counterpoint. Most of the writing was in another hand, especially on the margins. I suppose that was Count Sebastian's. It was blurred, distorted. I couldn't make much of it out. But it was done hurriedly...or angrily. In places it was just an unintelligible scrawl. And there were drawings of symbols. Zodiac symbols, I suppose. And it was heavy—surprisingly heavy for only a few sheets. It was almost as if each sheet consisted of layers and layers, but you couldn't separate the layers. They were all fused together and yet you had the feeling that the layers held different meanings—that there were meanings beneath meanings. I felt that I could only read the words on the top, but that others might be able to read the messages on the other layers."

David shook his head. "Look, Danko. I know you're trying to help and I'm trying to take everything at face value. But, as usual, much of what you say just confuses the hell out of me."

"Don't be foolish, David. I don't know whether having possession of this manuscript score has affected Elizabeth in any way. Perhaps it hasn't. Perhaps she's become involved with hallucinatory or mind-altering drugs. Perhaps she's developed schizophrenia..."

"Danko, that's absurd," snapped David.

"No, David, it isn't. I don't know if any of those things are true, but none of them are absurd. You have to take all of this seriously. I was originally of the notion that her mind had been affected by possession of the score. I still think that's possible, but I'm no longer sure that she is responsible for all that has happened."

"Well, I'm delighted to hear it. May I ask why?"

"Because she was afraid. For an instant, she was afraid that the score was not safe, so she ran quickly to the bedroom where she had hidden it to make sure it was still there. And then, when she realized someone else was in the apartment with her, she experienced a real spasm of fear."

"And because she was afraid, you no longer think that she is somehow 'possessed' by this mysterious score?"

"No. I still feel there is a real possibility that she has been somehow altered because of her contact with the score, although I cannot begin to guess how and why that has come about. But I know longer feel that she has been the cause of any of the violence that the festival has suffered...at least none of the serious episodes."

David shook his head slowly. "I guess I should be grateful for that little vote of confidence on Elizabeth's behalf. But it still sounds like you think she's in danger."

"I do. I will admit that I can't be very specific about what form that danger will take, especially since I had so little time with the manuscript, but I do feel that she may well be in danger."

"But surely, now that the score is in your possession..."

"It is _not_ in my possession."

"But Elizabeth said that the score was gone! She said that when she became conscious, she searched for it and it was nowhere to be found. She assumed that the intruder—you—must have taken it with him when he left."

"No," said Danko, shaking his head emphatically. "I did not take the score. As I told you, I had it in my hand only for a few seconds. When I heard Elizabeth entering the apartment, I dropped it on the bed and fled to the bathroom so as not to be seen. Later, when I tried sneaking to the door to get out of her apartment, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of me and screamed. At that point I knew I just had to get out of there as quickly as possible and I did. I gave no further thought to the manuscript."

"But Elizabeth doesn't have it. I'm sure she must be telling me the truth."

"Are you? Her track record on this subject is less than impressive."

"No. This time I'm sure. The score is gone. Frankly, I think she's worried about it."

"When you talked to her about the break-in, did she seem normal, like her old self, or was she still distant?"

David paused. "As much like her old self as I've seen her for quite a while. She was apologetic about not returning the score but she was still touchy about it."

"Did she want you to try to find it for her?"

"She didn't make a direct request about it, but it was clear that she wanted me to confront you about the matter."

"Hmm, maybe she really doesn't have it in that case."

"But if she doesn't have it, and you don't have it, who does have it?"

"I guess that's the mystery of the hour. There obviously was a gap of time between when I exited the room and when the alarm was sounded. Obviously someone heard Elizabeth scream and called the police. But whoever sounded the alarm apparently did not come to investigate or they might have run into me. Of course the person who sounded the alarm may have been the same person who took the manuscript, although it isn't clear why most people would find it an interesting prize."

"No one knows who sounded the alarm," said David. "It was a male voice, but he didn't leave his name."

"So we don't have much to go on, do we?"

David sighed. "Well, at least it seems pretty clear that Elizabeth won't be a target anymore."

"Does it? She may no longer have the score in her possession, but she's still competing for the Radovsky Prize. That fact in itself has been enough to get a few other people in trouble."

"I guess so," said David. "But at least we can assume that Elizabeth will no longer be affected in some strange way by that score...that she'll be herself again."

"Maybe," said Danko. "But I really don't think we can be sure of anything."

"Great!" said David, rolling his eyes. "So you're suggesting what?"

"Stay watchful. Maybe this is all over now and the festival can go on as normal. We can certainly hope for that. But I'm not sure that life is going to be so simple. I'd say you have to continue to keep an eye on Elizabeth—a close eye. I realize she resists your hovering over her, so you're just going to have to be clever about it. Do you trust Frederico?

"Absolutely!" said David firmly. "He's been completely helpful from the beginning."

"Good. It will be useful to have another pair of eyes and ears available. I'll help as well, if I can. But of course Frederico and I are still in the competition and we must give that our full attention."

"I understand. I won't let down my guard."

Chapter 31

Alois Kurzen paced quickly back and forth in his small room. He stopped for a moment, popped a CD in the player and fell into the overstuffed armchair. Rachmaninov always relaxed him, especially his second concerto. But not today. Not now. He rose quickly, turned off the machine and returned to his pacing.

Somehow things had gotten out of control. Arriving in Vienna with Rajki just two weeks earlier, he was bursting with confidence. Rajki was playing well. He had recently won some minor prizes and seemed ready to excel. But Rajki had always had a tendency to become nervous and edgy before major competitions. His tempos would rush, his touch would become brittle, and occasionally he would even have brief memory lapses. But there had been no sign of any of these in recent months. Rajki had been cheerful, seemingly relaxed and playing very well. There was no reason not to think he would do very well at the Radovsky Festival, even though it was the world's premier competition for young pianists.

Of course there would be serious competition. The festival drew the best young pianists from around the world. He had been particularly worried about Geoffrey Allen. Although one of the youngest competitors at age twenty, Allen had been playing brilliantly and it was clear that he would become one of the major virtuosi of his generation. Sung Lee Kim was also a danger; no one played with more sensitivity or finesse. And of course Juan Peirera's playing was as dynamic as any pianist around, including a number of famous veterans who were twice his age.

Of course they were all gone now...all eliminated from the competition. But there still remained some dangerous adversaries. That damn Italian! Kurzen had done everything he could to get the police after him, to get him out of the way. But his attempts had failed. Gasparini continued to strut around as if the Radovsky Festival owed the prize to him. So, although Rajki's chances were now much better than they had been, there were still dangers. Elizabeth McDermitt, an American unknown to him before the competition, had played astoundingly well. She had shown remarkable growth since her first, somewhat uncertain performance. Whether she was stable or not was another question. The sleepwalking episode he had heard about was macabre at best. And now, more recently, the episode with the intruder in her room was equally strange. So her mental state had to be considered questionable. Still, he had to admit that it had not affected her playing to this point. My God! That last performance—at the benefit concert—had been almost miraculous! She had a connection with the music of Liszt that was uncanny. But her demeanor was just as extraordinary. She had clearly been in a strange state—disconnected, almost completely unaware that the audience existed. So although she had played fantastically well, there was reason to think that she might not stand up to the final test. Her connection to reality seemed tenuous and subject to failing at any moment. One more distraction might do it. Perhaps even the unexpected "visitor" to her room yesterday. Time would tell.

Of course he had no idea who had broken into Elizabeth McDermitt's room the previous day. But he knew about some of the other things that had happened in the last two weeks and the time had come to make use of that information. He had no qualms about doing it. He should probably have taken steps earlier, but he was afraid to draw attention to himself. But he knew now that he could hesitate no longer. Rajki had played passably, but not brilliantly in his last performance. Could he bring home the prize by his skill alone? Probably not. If he were to win the competition, every advantage had to be taken and the time to take them was now.

As Kurzen fell back once again into his chair, there was a sharp knock on the door. He rose and walked slowly to the door.

"Who is it?" Kurzen barked through the door.

"You left a message for me," said the voice.

Kurzen opened the door quickly and stepped backwards. "Yes, come in. I've been waiting for you."

"Yes, I'm sure you have."

"Listen," said Kurzen, gesturing his visitor inside and closing the door. "This isn't pleasant for either of us. But you know we've got business to conduct."

"Business? Is that what you're calling it these days?"

"Yes, business. Grow up. You're no child and you're certainly not innocent."

"No one is innocent."

"Yes, yes...wonderfully philosophical. Now can we get serious? I have some information that you can't afford to have made public."

"You have nothing. Other than a reputation for blackmail."

"I can't tell you how much you're hurting me with your righteous indignation. I have what I need to put you in jail. When I first saw you nudge Allen down the stairs, I couldn't get myself to believe you had really done it. But after that I was watching you carefully and I saw how you handled Peirera."

"And yet you did nothing. You just sat on information that would be crucial to the police. They'll love to hear that."

"They're not going to hear anything, because you're going to cooperate with me for your own good."

"If you think I have any money, you're fantasizing."

"I don't want your money. I want you gone. Develop a physical problem...have a nervous breakdown. I don't care. But leave. Bow out of the competition and leave."

"And what exactly makes you think that I'll go along with this?"

"You have no choice. You leave this competition willingly or the scandal will finish your career with a single press release."

"Mr. Kurzen, I've always been told that you were an excellent piano coach, if a bit greedy and perhaps not terribly bright. I can now see for myself that the last part is uncomfortably true. Mr. Kurzen, you've miscalculated on this one."

***

"How did it happen?" asked Inspector Fischer, leaning forward at his desk. "Were there witnesses?"

Only to the end result, I'm afraid," replied Hermann, shaking his said sadly. "And it wasn't very pretty."

"Fifth floor of his hotel"?

"Sixth, actually. He didn't stand much of a chance."

"No, I guess not. Any evidence of a struggle?"

"Nothing obvious. But of course there was a note."

"A note? A suicide note?"

"Not exactly. There was a note on the table, scribbled on the back of a concert program—apparently in Kurzen's handwriting. It said, 'I can't live a lie'."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Short and sweet."

"Not exactly conclusive as a suicide note, is it?"

"Hardly."

"How about his student, Vaclav Rajki? Does he think it was a suicide?"

"No, not particularly. He says he has no idea why Kurzen would commit suicide. Rajki had spoken with him earlier that morning and he said Kurzen seemed just fine to him. Not just fine, as a matter of fact. Up-beat...excited."

"Excited?" said Fischer. "About anything in particular?"

"I don't know. Excited about Rajki's chances to win the competition, I guess," answered Hermann with a shrug.

"I thought piano teachers—or coaches...or whatever you call it that Kurzen was—I thought they were always supposed to be optimistic about their student's chances."

"Well, apparently Kurzen wasn't the bubbly, optimistic type most of the time. But he was this morning."

"Hmm, I wish I knew what brought about the change in heart."

"We may never know. Rajki wasn't interested in speculating."

"At any rate, we have no reason to expect he was despondent about anything. I mean...the so-called 'suicide' note notwithstanding...we have no reason to think he was feeling depressed or guilty or anything."

"No, but Rajki said more than once that, although Kurzen has been his teacher for a couple of years, he didn't feel that he really knew him...not personally...certainly not intimately enough to know what he might have been feeling guilty about."

"Right," said Fischer, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "Still, it seems to me far-fetched that this would be a suicide...not after two of the competing pianists have been damaged enough to have to withdraw from the festival and two--maybe three others—have been assaulted."

"And yet this is clearly a different matter," said Hermann. "After all, Kurzen wasn't a competitor. Eliminating him doesn't help anyone's chances of winning the competition."

"It hurts Rajki's chances, doesn't it? And if it hurts the chances of one competitor, doesn't that help the chances of the others?"

"I don't know how Rajki will react to this. I mean, he's upset of course. But he didn't mention anything about withdrawing from the competition. As far as that goes, it's not completely certain that the competition will continue. The director, Wurtler, has called a meeting to discuss the situation with the remaining competitors for tomorrow morning."

"Really? And yet the final stage of the competition—the concerto performances—are scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Do you think that Wurtler is really giving serious thought to canceling the festival now—only a couple of days before the climactic conclusion?"

"I have no idea. I'll admit that his response to this point has basically been to turn a blind eye to all the disturbances and sing 'on with the show.'"

"But, of course, now we have a death on our hands."

"True, but as long as Wurtler can claim it to be a suicide..."

"But there's been no ruling on that."

"No, but the maid, who was called in to report if there anything significantly out of place in the room, apparently saw the note and mentioned it to a reporter. The morning newspapers have already reported it as a 'probable suicide.'"

"Wonderful," said Fischer with a roll of his eyes. "I hope you can find a moment today to inform Mr. Wurtler that we are by no means sure what happened to Mr. Kurzen last night and so we'd appreciate it if he didn't try to fill in for the coroner just now."

"I'll get in contact with him this afternoon," said Hermann, scribbling quickly in his notebook. "But you know Wurtler; when it comes to protecting his precious Radovsky competition, he isn't always prone to listening to reason."

"Well, try to keep him uncommitted at the very least. The fact is we don't know what happened and it'll be a while before we can make sense out of this."

"There's one more thing," said Hermann, lowering his pencil. "It may or may not be important."

"What's that?"

"There's just a chance that Kurzen may have had something to feel guilty about, or at least be worried about. We found a gray hoodie in his hotel room."

"Not quite the right generation for that, was he?"

"Not at all. More importantly, we found a make-up kit...almost more of a disguise kit."

"A disguise kit? Why would Kurzen have to disguise himself?

"He would need to if he had been the one that pulled those two aborted assaults on the other side of campus."

"But why on earth..."

"To incriminate someone....one of the contestants. We found a fake moustache."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not. Looked pretty amateurish, but Kurzen might have convinced himself that he looked like Gasparini. If one of the victims I.D.s Gasparini as the one who attacked her—Poof! Another of Rajki's competitors bites the dust."

"Sounds pretty far-fetched," said Fischer, a smile beginning to cross his lips.

"I'm just trying to explain what Kurzen would be doing with a gray hoodie and a disguise kit."

"So now you're thinking suicide in a spasm of guilt?"

"I'm just saying it's possible. I'm not saying it's likely. And there are still other possibilities. Maybe Gasparini found out that Kurzen was trying to frame him..."

"But how?" said Fischer, shaking his head slowly. "We never focused on Gasparini. Never had any reason to suspect him. You can't convict someone for having a big, black moustache."

"Inspector Fischer, I'll be the first one to admit that there's a great deal I don't know about this case. But there's simply been too much skullduggery around here for me to rule out anything at this point—suicide or murder."

"And yet, why would anyone take the chance of committing a murder if they don't gain any great advantage?"

"You have me there, Inspector. You have me there."

Chapter 32

Wurtler cleared his throat ceremoniously and focused his gaze on the four young pianists sitting directly in front of him. "I suppose it's clear enough why I've called us all together," he said. "We've all had some upsets in the last couple of weeks, but what happened yesterday was an absolute tragedy. I can't tell you how deeply mortified I was—myself and all of the directors of the Radovksy Festival—how deeply mortified we all were to hear about what befell Mr. Alois Kurzen. I want to particularly express my heartfelt sympathy to Mr. Rajki." Wurtler paused briefly and nodded slightly toward Rajki. "Mr. Kurzen's loss is a blow to all of us—it is a blow to the entire pianistic world—but it is of course a deeply personal loss to Mr. Rajki, the young man who had for two precious years been the beneficiary of Mr. Kurzen's teaching."

Rajki lowered his eyes and nodded slightly as Frederico reached out to gently pat him on the shoulder.

"But," Wurtler continued. "I think that we can transcend this tragedy. In fact, I think it is our duty to transcend it and carry on with our mission—the mission of producing the greatest music we can possibly produce. I'm sure that Alois Kurzen would want it that way."

David, sitting off in the corner of the room, gasped. "My God," he choked in disbelief. "You're saying that you know what Kurzen would want us to do"?

"Please, Mr. Currant," Wurtler objected. "Some restraint is in order here. I am not suggesting anything unseemly...I'm just suggesting that a man as devoted to music as Mr. Kurzen was would surely..."

"That's garbage," snapped David. "If the man committed suicide, it could easily have been because something that has happened here at the festival drove him to it."

"Oh really, David," objected Danko Sulek. "How on earth can you say that?"

David continued quickly. "And if, as I suspect, his death did _not_ come about as the result of a suicide..."

"So you're saying what?" demanded Sulek. "You're saying he was murdered? You're saying that someone threw him out of a sixth story window? And why? Why would anyone do that?"

"I have no idea," said David quietly. "Just as I have no idea why Allen was pushed down a flight of stairs or why Peirera was poisoned. But we're fools if we think that the violence has necessarily come to an end with Kurzen's tragic death."

"Young man, are you suggesting that the remaining pianists in the Radovsky Festival are in personal danger?" cried Wurtler, raising himself up to his full height.

"Now why on earth would I do that?" David shot back angrily. "Given the festival's track record, I can't imagine a more secure environment."

Frederico shifted in his seat and began to speak quietly. "The situation has certainly been a difficult one. I understand David's concerns. I really do. But in the end, I have only one concern. Frankly, I fear for Elizabeth. The pressure on all of us has been enormous. Elizabeth has already fainted twice, although once under extreme duress, I will admit..."

Elizabeth bristled. "No one speaks for me, Frederico. I am as capable of competing in the final event of the competition as anyone in this room. Don't you dare lecture me about my mental health..."

"I can assure you, Elizabeth..." began Frederico.

"Enough, please... enough!" exclaimed Wurtler. "I believe that we are all of one accord. The Radovsky Festival will hold the final event of the competition tomorrow and the prizewinner for the festival will be announced at that time. Right now, I entreat you all to make yourselves prepared for the final rehearsals with the orchestra this afternoon. We have already lost too much time with these unfortunate events and it is time to remember why we have gathered here in the first place."

David hurried to catch Elizabeth as she quickly exited the room. "Elizabeth, please wait," he said softly.

Elizabeth stopped and turned quickly to face him. "David, it's not that I think that what you're saying about Kurzen is stupid or even misguided. Frankly, I don't know what to think about his death. But one thing is very clear to me. This is too important for me not to continue. I just feel that I can't let anything stand in my way."

"I think you're making a mistake. Even Frederico believes this has gone too far, although he can't bring himself to state it plainly."

Elizabeth snapped back. "Frankly, David, I don't want Frederico's advice any more than I want yours right now."

"Why? Has he been offering any?"

"Yes. He's called me three times in the last two days, telling me that it would be safer if I withdrew. He says that I'm too fragile to continue...It might be dangerous."

"I had no idea," said David, his eyes widening.

"You had no idea? You heard him just now. I am his 'only concern'? I am the only one he worries about? Apparently, he also thinks that I'm the only one too fragile to continue on in the competition." Elizabeth looked hard into David's eyes. "And how about you? I suppose you think I'm too fragile as well."

"Elizabeth, you've been as gutsy as anyone here in the face of all this. I don't think you're fragile at all, but I don't think you're stupid either, and the circumstances of this festival have now clearly become dangerous. I don't care what anyone says—particularly Wurtler, who's only capable of seeing dollar signs at this point. You've got a whole career in front of you...a whole life. The Radovsky Prize simply isn't worth putting your safety in jeopardy for."

Elizabeth peered intently into David's eyes. "You know that tomorrow is the biggest day of my life. Maybe at some point in my life there'll be even more important days. But right now I can't imagine what they would be. I'm going to perform tomorrow and I'm going to win the Radovsky Prize. Nothing is going to stand in my way, David. I don't want your well-intended warnings and I certainly don't want Frederico's. Please tell him to stay away from me between now and the concert tomorrow night. I am not in the mood to debate what is or is not in my best interests. After this is all over, maybe we can be one big happy family again. But between now and the concert, everyone is just going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

Chapter 33

David sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. Danko Sulek was on the stage with the orchestra and had just finished rehearsing the second movement, the Allegro appassionata, of the Brahms' Piano Concerto No. 2 in Bb Major. So far so good for Danko. He was a fine musician and he sounded better today in rehearsal than he had in his last performance at the benefit concert. He was still a little timid in places, and David knew that when the real performance occurred that evening, Danko would have to pull out all the stops. This was a concerto that demanded a rich, luxurious tone and a sustained lyrical quality. Danko was showing flashes of that but he wasn't exactly consistent. But of course soloists often had a tendency to save a little intensity for the real performance, not "leave it all in the practice room" as musicians often said.

And of course the somewhat casual and occasionally condescending attitude shown by the conductor didn't exactly help matters. He was certainly a prominent name among European conductors and in many respects it was a coup for the Radovsky Festival to have convinced him to come and conduct the final, triumphant concert. But the conductor had just flown into Vienna earlier that morning and it seemed that perhaps his head was not really into the music yet. Or perhaps he thought it was beneath his dignity to deal with a group of relatively unknown young pianists.

Danko's performance of the Andante movement has been very solid, even sensitive, although conductor and soloist were not always perfectly aligned in regard to tempos. The cello soloist was excellent, as was the entire orchestra. The standard conservatory orchestra, although a fine young orchestra under any circumstances, was supplemented by a number of professional musicians from top Viennese orchestras for this special occasion and the overall sound was first-class.

As Danko launched into the finale of the Brahms' Concerto, David relaxed further into his seat. Now it appeared that Danko was really hitting his stride. His playing was sprightly, warm, powerful, and tinged with just a hint of pathos. For the first time in the rehearsal, Danko seemed to be really enjoying himself. Finishing the last movement with a flourish, Danko leapt up to shake the conductor's hand robustly as the orchestra applauded his efforts. Danko was obviously pleased with his performance and deserved to be.

Vaclav Rajki was next to take the stage. Rajki was to play Schumann's Concerto in A Minor for the final concert of the competition, a risky choice in some respects. The work, although a great audience pleaser, would appeal a bit less to the somewhat jaded judges who had heard it so often. So it was Rajki's job to make the work sound fresh—not an easy task given the circumstances.

Rajki was all business, dispatching the famous first movement of the Schumann concerto with a firm hand but seldom pausing to add any expressive nuances. The equally famous Intermezzo movement went better, Rajki showing a delicacy that had been missing from his previous performances. The Allegro vivace was rhythmically precise and almost jaunty. David shook in head in amazement. There was no certainly no evidence in Rajki's rehearsal performance that he had been traumatized by the shocking death of his teacher.

After a twenty-minute break, the orchestra once more took the stage and Elizabeth took her position at the piano. She was again playing Liszt, this time the Concerto in A Major. This was a difficult work and David had questioned her choice a week earlier when Elizabeth announced that she would play it for the final concert of the competition if she reached that stage. Unlike Brahms' second concerto and particularly the Schumann concerto, the Liszt was not immensely popular. But Elizabeth was insistent. She had originally intended to play a Mozart concerto—which David thought was probably the better choice for Elizabeth given her strengths as a pianist—but her increasing preoccupation with Liszt had ruled that out. The Liszt certainly had some lyrical moments, and David—as well as various critics over the years—had considered her lyrical playing to be her great strength. But there was also a lot of powerful, bravura playing required in the concerto, or a lot of "empty bombast" as some of the critics who were not fond of Liszt would label it. No, this was not a choice that would please everyone. And it made technical demands on Elizabeth that David was not sure she was up to. But maybe he would be wrong on that score. In the last two weeks, Elizabeth had shown abilities that he had never dreamed she had possessed, playing works of great technical difficulty almost effortlessly. So perhaps the "new" Elizabeth was up to this very difficult piece. Besides, it would do no good whatsoever to challenge her on this, to suggest that maybe she had played enough Liszt. David knew this was non-negotiable; he knew that she would play Liszt and only Liszt for the final concert of the competition.

The conductor was saying a few words to Elizabeth that David could not make out. Elizabeth just nodded and within seconds the orchestra launched into the piece. The orchestra attacked the piece boldly, but David immediately sensed that something was not quite right with Elizabeth. Her entrances were a split-second behind the beat, her passagework blurred slightly and occasionally seemed a little ragged. She appeared to be pressing...almost overwhelmed by the speed at which everything was happening.

The conductor cut the orchestra off and looked hard at Elizabeth. She kept looking down, refusing to make eye-contact with him. David winced, aching with sympathy for her embarrassment.

"Miss McDermitt," the conductor said sternly. "You must concentrate. You must focus."

Elizabeth nodded her head silently.

"Again," he said to the orchestra and raised his arms for the downbeat.

This time the piece went better. While Elizabeth continued to avoid eye contact with the conductor, much to his annoyance, her playing was more precise and her tempos steadier. While she hadn't played particularly well, she had not embarrassed herself. The orchestra applauded politely, the conductor ignoring Elizabeth and immediately starting a discussion with the concertmaster.

"Well, that's not going to contribute a lot to her confidence," David said under his breath. But it's just a rehearsal, he thought. A bad dress rehearsal means a good show.

Elizabeth left the stage quickly and within minutes Frederico had taken his position at the piano. Frederico had chosen Beethoven's Concerto No. 5, the "Emperor" Concerto, a popular choice that played to his strengths. And the rehearsal went well; pianist and orchestra had coordinated effortlessly and Frederico played heroically, producing vast cascades of sound. He was masterful, completely in control and playing with more confidence than David had ever seen. The third movement cadenza was a thing of beauty and the conclusion of the movement was triumphant.

Following the third movement, the orchestra applauded enthusiastically. Frederico was beaming and the conductor obviously pleased.

Great job, Frederico, David thought to himself. You nailed it!

Chapter 34

Minutes after the rehearsal ended, Frederico bounded down the aisle to meet David.

"So what did you think?"

"It was great, Frederico. You were in great form...unstoppable."

"Modest fellow though I usually am, I'm going to have to agree with you. Beethoven suits me, especially the fifth concerto."

"You play it as well as anyone I've ever heard."

"Well, of course that's not true, but for the moment I'm all for any complimentary lie you can come up with. But what about Elizabeth? I was only able to hear her from backstage, but it sounded as if she would not be pleased with her rehearsal."

"No, I'm sure she's not pleased."

"Have you seen her? Offered a bit of consolation?"

"No, I haven't. I expect she'll prefer to be left alone for a while."

"Oh, no, David! You must go to her. If you will not go to her, then I will," said Frederico wheeling around.

"No, Frederico," said David, reaching his hand out to hold Frederico's shoulder. "That would not at all be a good idea."

"Oh, please, David. Where is your compassion?" said Frederico, turning to face David once again.

"Frederico, the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt your feelings, but the fact is that it's best for you to leave Elizabeth alone right now."

"David, what are you talking about?"

"Elizabeth told me that she feels that you've been pressuring her lately. She wasn't at all happy about what you said about her in the meeting with Wurtler. And she said that you've called her three times in the last few days and suggested she withdraw from the competition."

"That's ridiculous!" Frederico said angrily. "I've done no such thing. Yes, I've called her to express my concern. Of course I have. But she's been through so much...I'm just not sure that her health can stand the stress. But I've certainly never told her that she should bow out of the competition."

"Well, she feels that you have. Maybe you didn't intend to give her that impression, but you have. So she told me that—at least for now—she doesn't want you to approach her or speak to her."

"That's simply outrageous. Believe me, David, when I tell you that I've not said anything inappropriate to Elizabeth."

"Frederico, at this point it doesn't much matter. The fact is that she wants you to stay clear of her until the competition is over. After that, I'm sure things will get back to normal quickly."

***

"Possible suicide," that's the best we're going to get out of the coroner's office, at least for a few days," said Hermann, glancing at his notes.

"That's dandy," said Inspector Fischer, sighing softly. "That little gem of ambiguity pretty effectively ties our hands and at the same time gives director Wurtler the opportunity to proceed with the festival with no guilt whatsoever."

"The point is that there was no evidence of a struggle on the premises. So at the moment it would be premature to suggest that foul play had been involved in bringing about the demise of Mr. Wurtler," said Hermann.

"And I suppose the coroner's office is all excited about what they take to be a suicide note?"

"Yes sir, they are still referring to Kurzen's brief message—which is in his handwriting—as a suicide note. Furthermore, the injuries on the body itself are completely consistent with the fall from the window. There is no other indication of violence done to the body."

"Well," said Fischer, "I suppose I can't blame them for reaching that conclusion. But I'm still not completely convinced."

"Are you're convinced it _wasn't_ a suicide?" asked Hermann, putting down his notebook and seating himself beside the inspector's desk.

"Of course not," said Fischer, shaking his head disgustedly. "But you said it yourself. There's been too much funny business around here to take anything at face value."

"The problem, of course," said Hermann, "is that we're not exactly knee deep in suspects if it wasn't a suicide."

"We have just as many suspects as we had when we were dealing with Allen's accident or Peirera's poisoning. Or, as far as that goes, with the various minor assaults and intrusions we've been subjected to over the last two weeks."

"So it's inconceivable to you that Kurzen was himself responsible for those things."

"I'll admit that you could make an argument—perhaps a strong one—for Kurzen having been the perpetrator of the crimes against Allen and Peirera. Maybe even the assaults and breaking and entering episodes, although I'm less certain of that. I'm still not completely convinced about his role in the aborted assaults on the other side of campus either, although, as you've pointed out, the hoodie and the fake moustache do make one wonder. One could, of course, make the point that in every case Kurzen was simply trying to smooth the way for his boy in one way or another, although you would have thought that he could have come up with more subtle ways to do it. But what is absolutely not explainable—even given that scenario—is why Kurzen would, at this point have then taken his own life? If his goal was to eliminate competition for Rajki and spook all the other pianists, he had already accomplished that quite nicely. And," added Fischer, shaking his head robustly, "I don't for a minute believe he killed himself because he suddenly became overcome by guilt."

"Granted," agreed Hermann, "And, if he was the one to do all those things, he managed to do them quite effectively without implicating himself, so he didn't seem to be in much danger of being exposed as some sort of dastardly villain."

Fischer nodded vigorously. "Right! From Kurzen's point of view, everything was going swimmingly. It's true that he hadn't successfully implicated Gasparini in the assaults on the undergraduates, but he must have known that that was a longshot from the beginning. And everything else was going his way. The field of competitors for Rajki was shrinking rapidly. Given all that, why on earth would he want to throw himself out of the sixth floor of a hotel room?"

"So you still think that there is some single suspect who is responsible for all of those other incidents?"

I don't know," said Fischer, a scowl crossing his face. "Maybe Kurzen _did_ do those assaults on the other side of campus in a misguided attempt to implicate Gasparini. But do I think that he's the one responsible for everything else? Even when I try to sell myself that idea, I can't do it. But if Kurzen wasn't responsible for all of those other acts, who was? Are we any closer to eliminating anyone than we were after Peirera's poisoning?

"I've always tilted toward Rajki," said Hermann, nodding his head gently. "He's always seemed to me the most unsavory of the group."

"Fine. So we just have to understand why he would have killed his teacher. Did his teacher somehow betray him? By doing what? Did Rajki find out that Kurzen had been engaged in criminal acts? Even if he had, would he have reacted by throwing him out of a window? It's very unlikely. Or could the two of them have been in this together? Was Kurzen eliminated because he knew too much? Was Rajki our perpetrator all along and Kurzen somehow found about it? Rajki might just be ruthless enough to eliminate his old friend and teacher under those circumstances."

"And if it wasn't Rajki?" asked Hermann, tossing his notebook on the inspector's desk.

"Then we're stuck with Danko Sulek, Frederico Gasparini, Elizabeth McDermitt or David Currant."

"Currant's somewhat of a long shot, isn't he, sir?"

"Is he? Why? Because he got bumped on the head in the practice room annex? Somehow I'm not convinced by that."

"Do you mean it could have been staged? With whom?"

"I see your point, unless of course Currant is in some way in league with Ms. McDermitt. You mentioned several times that there was some sort of connection there."

"There was some sort of connection, although I think it's grown a bit more tenuous in the last two weeks. They're on speaking terms, but my impression is that they're not particularly close at this point."

Fischer put his hand to his forehead. "Fine. Then young Mr. Currant is working on his own, putting aside the bump on his head for a moment. But I'll bet he's still working on _behalf_ of Elizabeth McDermitt, even if he's operating on his own."

"Because...?"

"Because he's smitten with her...because he's got a thing for her. However you want to put it. He wants to protect her—that's obvious. So maybe protection extends to eliminating her competitors."

"There's some doubt whether he was actually in a position to push Allen down the stairs."

Fischer sighed. "Fine. It doesn't matter. Maybe that really was an accident. After all, we've no proof it wasn't. But perhaps that accident caused Currant to hatch a plan and all the things that have happened since really are his doing."

"It's a possibility, sir. But I can't say I think it's a very likely one, based on my interviews with him about the case."

"Ah, but Detective Hermann, you must never underestimate the power of the young to mislead the middle-aged. You and I may be perfectly skilled at judging the veracity of people of our own generation, but put us up against someone of the age of these young pianists and I'm not sure our gut instincts carry much weight. Some of them always sound guilty to us. Some of them never do."

Hermann chuckled. "I see your point, sir. But I still lean toward Rajki. Or perhaps Sulek. He's a mysterious one."

"No thought at all to Gasparini or Ms. McDermitt?"

"Well, of course they've both been attacked."

"So has Currant. I honestly don't think we can eliminate anyone on that basis. Both attacks could have been faked. Especially McDermitt's. She apparently fainted in both cases and suffered no damage."

"As you say, sir. Do you want me to bring them all back in for questioning once again?"

"On the basis of what? A death widely assumed to be a suicide? Not unless you really think it would do some good."

"Not particularly, sir. But what about stepping up security for the final concert tomorrow tonight?"

Fischer sighed. "I've offered of course but, predictably, Wurtler doesn't see the need. He said that he sees no reason to overreact to a suicide, as tragic as it might have been. And he had a meeting with his Board of Directors and the conservatory officials and they concluded that the conservatory's security personnel would be sufficient to oversee the situation. Apparently, they will have a security guard backstage and two or three others distributed on the mezzanine and lower and upper balconies."

"Just one backstage? That's a large area. There's an awful of territory to cover from what I've seen."

"I realize that, but on the other hand it seems unlikely that anything will happen in such a public venue. Director Wurtler may be right for once when he says that this particular event will be perfectly safe."

"Just the same, sir, I think I'll be hanging around the concert hall tomorrow night for the big event. You can never tell what's going to happen."

Chapter 35

The crowd buzzed with excitement as they found the way to their seats in the large conservatory concert hall. A close inspection of the ornamental details of the hall revealed that the building was a bit past its prime, but in general the gilt ornaments, rich red tapestries and neo-classical statuary made an elegant impression.

David had to almost fight his way through the lobby, over-crowded with well-dressed, mostly middle-aged patrons. His eyes swept the crowd for someone he knew. Elizabeth and the other performers would be backstage by now, or in the Green Room. Still, he thought that perhaps Kim would come or maybe even Deiner. On the other hand, he had to admit that, if he were in their shoes, he'd probably have skipped the glitzy final event.

But you can never be sure how people will respond to a major disappointment. Deiner had reacted to be his elimination from the competition with anger and disgust. His alienation was so complete that a number of people, apparently even the police, suspected for a while that he might have been behind all the disturbances.

Kim, on the other hand, had seemed remarkably at peace with her elimination from the competition. But David knew that her composure couldn't have been real, couldn't have been completely authentic. Any musician who practiced six or eight hours a day for months, who had achieved a glorious victory in one of the international semifinals, and who had convinced themselves that their level of artistry was superior to that of any other young pianist in the world would have to be heartbroken when they were eliminated from the Radovsky competition. Of course Kim realized that she did not play as well as she could have. Was it better that way? Was it better to know you had lost because on that one day you didn't play to your full potential? Or was it better to believe that you had played very well—perhaps better than anyone else—and you had been eliminated because the judges were somehow unfair, as Deiner seems to have felt? And of course both pianists must have been seriously distracted by the strange occurrences that had begun to mar the festival almost immediately. Kim seems particularly to have been a target of those disturbances in the early days of the festival, although Deiner certainly complained about being subject to them as much as anyone.

In fact, looking back on the last two weeks, David wondered how anyone had kept their sanity. Wurtler had kept a steady stream of cheerful babbling, assuring anyone who would listen that nothing was seriously wrong, everything was under control and this year's version of the Radovsky Festival would be the most brilliant the music world had ever seen.

Well, it had certainly been the strangest. The opening days had been filled with joyful anticipation, not just for the finalists but even for him, a mere alternate. But then the gloom had begun to spread. The spooky disturbances, the shock of Allen's tumble down the stairs, the horror of Peirera's poisoning. And then there was Elizabeth's bizarre sleep-walking episode—if that's what it really was—and his knock on the head as he was trying to be her guardian angel. And she had certainly not wanted a guardian angel. He winced as he thought of how much their relationship had deteriorated in such a short time. He had not come to the festival just to pursue her, even though she increasingly seemed to think that. He came because he was honored to be an alternate and he was badly in need of an adventure. Did he welcome the opportunity to get to know her better, particularly after their relationship had had such a promising start? Of course he did. But that wasn't the only reason he had made the trip to Vienna. And a good thing, too. Elizabeth's interactions with him had become increasingly negative. She was sometimes distant and moody, sometimes defensive. Of course he was not under the same pressure she was; he had to keep reminding himself about that. Still, her behavior had bordered on the macabre, and there was the matter of the Liszt autograph score. He couldn't believe half of what Danko was saying about how possession of the score had influenced Elizabeth—had somehow taken control of her—but he was at a loss to explain the change in her personality. That wasn't just a case of nerves; it was a lot more than that.

But in the last day or so, she seemed both more vulnerable and more open to his assistance. Would that continue? What if she won? What if she lost? He had no idea. At least he knew it would all be over soon. No more disasters would tarnish the Radovsky competition. There wasn't time for anything more to go wrong now.

The lobby was thinning out, people beginning to find their seats. Seeing no sign of Kim, David made his way into the auditorium.

It was an excellent audience, no doubt a full house. He looked up to the upper balconies, several floors above the main orchestra seating area. He had to admit that the conservatory concert hall was quite a place. And the people—buzzing around, chatting happily and laughing as they made for their seats. How many of them were real music lovers, eagerly waiting to hear the best young pianists of their generation perform? And how many of them were here because of all of the media attention given the festival?

Well, maybe it didn't matter. Wurtler certainly wouldn't care. Attendance at the festival events had been very strong from the beginning and this final concert was obviously no exception. However many "incidents" may have occurred during this year's competition, Wurtler could claim that it was yet another spectacularly successful Radovsky Festival.

David worked his way to his seat as the second warning bell rang. It was a decent seat, considering the festival had made it available for free, one of the perks that were even extended to the alternates for the Radovsky Festival. After a minute or so, the orchestra tuned and the audience quieted. Seconds later, Danko Sulek strode confidently out on stage in front of the conductor, took a deep bow to the eagerly applauding audience and placed himself at the piano. After briefly making eye contact with the soloist, the conductor provided a firm downbeat and the most important performance of Danko's life began with a surge of energy.

Although Danko had played somewhat timidly in the dress rehearsal, there was no sign of that now. After a solid opening horn solo, the opening passages for solo piano were delivered with great power and rhythmic precision. His tone, thought David, was incredibly rich. Where did that come from? And the orchestra was his equal in power and fullness of sonority.

Danko was remarkable. Each movement was a conquest. Clearly, he had never played better. As the last chords of the final movement echoed through the hall, the conductor leapt down from the podium and embraced Danko warmly. The audience rose to its feet and roared its approval. David had never seen an audience at the Radovsky Festival respond with so much energy. What an extraordinary performance! What a wonderful time to peak! Elizabeth had a tough act to follow.

It was a fully five minutes later by the time the audience stopping buzzing and the orchestra had made some fine adjustments to its tuning. Then Elizabeth entered, once again escorted by the conductor. She was greeted by lively applause, many in the audience remembering the remarkable performance she had given at the benefit concert a few days earlier. But this did not appear to be the same Elizabeth. Whereas in the earlier concert, she had seemed oblivious, almost machine-like as she took her place at the piano, this time she seemed hesitant, halting. She bowed quickly, glancing uncertainly at the audience as she did so. As she took her place at the piano, she kept shifting, unable to find a comfortable position.

Elizabeth's lack of comfort continued after the downbeat was given. The orchestra played robustly, but Elizabeth seemed tentative. Just as in her dress rehearsal, she did not seem fully involved with the music—there was no intensity. Her playing in the Benefit Concert had been breath-taking and passionate. But that passion had been missing in yesterday's dress rehearsal. David had hoped fervently that it would return for this performance, but so far it didn't appear to be. As the piece continued, the conductor—sensing Elizabeth's discomfort—slowed down some of the tempos. But that succeeded only in making the music seem plodding. The Liszt concerto was not an audience favorite like the Schumann or Brahms concertos and it would have to be played impeccably to win the audience over. While Elizabeth rallied somewhat in the final section of the concerto, there was no energy, no exuberance. There was polite applause as Elizabeth rose from the piano and—looking incredibly tired—acknowledged the audience.

David shook his head sadly. This was not a performance that would win the Radovsky prize.

***

"David! I found you," said Danko eagerly, pushing his way gently through the crowd to reach David, who was standing somewhat dejectedly over in a corner of the lobby.

"Danko," said David, making an unsuccessful attempt to sound excited. "You played wonderfully. In fact, you were extraordinary. But...did you see Elizabeth?"

"Yes, I did. She seemed down-hearted...and very weary."

"She did not play badly...she just played..."

"Certainly not up to her potential. I'm sorry, David. I'm sorry for you and I am very sorry for Elizabeth. She has played so brilliantly of late, but today...nothing...she seemed a shell of herself."

"Where is she now?"

"Huddled in the Green Room. She's by herself, although I believe I saw Frederico heading in that direction."

"Frederico? Are you kidding? Why would he pick this time to talk to her? Why isn't he getting ready for his performance in the second half?"

"David, the intermission will be a long one—forty minutes according to the program. I'm pretty sure that Wurtler wants plenty of time for the critics to absorb the ambiance."

"Well, it doesn't matter. Frederico should _not_ be with Elizabeth. It will only upset her more. I've got to get back there."

Chapter 36

Elizabeth sat alone in the Green Room, collapsed into a large chair. She was bitterly disappointed. She hadn't played well, certainly not well enough to win the competition. And yet her strongest feeling was simply fatigue. She was exhausted. She had been unusually tired for days, ever since she discovered the intruder in her room and the Liszt manuscript was stolen. Somehow she knew that she had never recovered from that. She had struggled to concentrate in the days since, struggled to get her intensity back.

But it had never returned. She had played poorly. And yet she realized that she had not been crushed by the experience. In some ways, it was like a weight had actually been taken off of her shoulders. She was sorry that she had not played up to her potential, but she was not sorry that the whole thing was over with. The whole experience had been dream-like, although not necessarily a pleasant dream. She had been nervous when she first came to Vienna, trying to convince others—and herself—that she really had a chance to win one of the most prestigious competitions for young pianists in the world. Initially, she did not really believe it herself. But then something had happened: she had come to feel confident, secure...as if the Radovsky medal was sure to be hers. As if she deserved it as no one else ever did. Ever since she had found the Liszt score and taken it back to her apartment, she felt she was unstoppable.

But the feeling was unsettling. It did not seem real. And she did not always seem to be completely in control—the sleepwalking episode, the memory lapses. Had the obsession with winning been that complete? Had she forgotten everything else...and everybody else?

Frederico entered the room quietly. He was there at least a full minute watching her before she sensed his presence. Finally, Elizabeth turned in her seat, her eyes opening in surprise. "Frederico, what are you doing here? You must be performing in just a few minutes."

"There is plenty of time, Elizabeth. I knew that I had to see you now. I knew that the time had come."

"Frederico, it's not really necessary...it's just over. That's all."

"But it _is_ necessary, Elizabeth. It _is_ necessary...right now. You played well, Elizabeth. Not as well as I'm going to play, but you played well. I didn't think you'd be capable of doing so much without the Liszt score to give you strength. But of course we have been friends, you and I, so of course I would wish you well. And I'm sure you must know that I am sincerely sorry that everything will have to end this way. But then you are an unstable young woman, Elizabeth. We are all aware of how you've struggled to maintain your sanity in the last few weeks. Of course you've been under so much pressure—some of us can't stand the pressure; everyone knows that. Some people simply break in two. It's a sad fact, but we all know it's true and soon everyone will realize that you are one of those people. You thought you played poorly and couldn't stand the thought that you had lost the competition. So you took your life. Here...now.

"Frederico? What are you talking about? Please leave me alone, Frederico. I have to be alone."

"Of course you do. You're a sensitive soul...almost a poetic soul. And of course that is what made the whole plan possible. I knew you would be open to the power of the manuscript. You were desperate to win and you were desperate to believe that you _could_ win. If something came along to give you the power to win the competition, I knew you would embrace it, clutch it to your heart."

"Frederico," Elizabeth said haltingly, "I don't know...what...what are you saying?"

"You and Liszt...the precious Liszt manuscript. You weren't even aware that it held a power over you, were you? You felt that it gave you some deep, profound connection with Liszt. Bah! Liszt barely touched the manuscript. It was the power of Sebastian you felt...and you weren't even aware of it. Oh, I know the manuscript well. I discovered it last year and I too felt its power. Sebastian was no fool. He knew that life did not always turn out the way it should. He knew that the true artist would not always be rewarded if things were simply allowed to run their random course. No, Sebastian knew that you had to summon all of your powers to succeed. And Sebastian had those powers. He had studied long and deep in the darker powers, far deeper than that fool...that dilettante Liszt. Liszt was no master of the dark arts. He was a theatrical dabbler at best. But Liszt had his value; he at least managed to inspire Sebastian. But it was Sebastian who became the master. And his mastery—his power—is embodied in that manuscript."

"Frederico..." Elizabeth said weakly, her hand reaching out to a chair for support. "I don't know what you're talking about. I must go now...I must see David...please..."

"Sebastian could have been twice the pianist Liszt was...but no one would listen to him. No one would give him a fair chance. And one man after another rose up to stand in his way. Sebastian had no choice; he had to eliminate them...they could not be allowed to stand in the way of great art. So Sebastian acted...and he acted skillfully as only a master can."

"But Frederico...what does that have to do with me...with you?"

"Can you be so stupid? You've been under the spell of the manuscript. You've read its messages. And you acted on them, whether you know it or not. I knew you would. I knew you would be susceptible to Sebastian's power. For all your timidity, your fragility...I knew how much you wanted to win and that you would do anything to make it happen...if the manuscript freed you of your foolish inhibitions."

"What are you saying? What do you mean? What have I done? What have I..."

"You little fool. You did just what the manuscript told you to do. You thought you were reading Liszt's words...but you were reading the words of Sebastian, the true master. Sebastian told you to take action against your enemies...those that stood in your way. And of course I was there to help you along. Some of those messages were mine. I told you that Allen must be eliminated."

"My God...did I...?"

"No. In the end, you were... too weak... too indecisive. You weren't fully under the manuscript's spell at that point. I had to take care of Allen myself."

"And Peirera?"

"That was me as well, but you saw me do it, didn't you? Your saw me poisoning the drink before I handed it to him. But you did nothing...you convinced yourself that you saw nothing...and so you said nothing. Because by then, the manuscript was beginning to take control...the messages about how to deal with your enemies."

"I didn't..."

"That night...that night you fainted outside the practice room annex. That night I thought you were truly ready...ready to do what must be done. That pest, David, was following you, so I had to take care of him. But in the end, you fainted. Nothing was accomplished. I had to do it all. You failed me again and again, Elizabeth. You failed Sebastian. He gave you the strength to focus your energy...your power... but you were incapable of following through—you could never find the strength to defend yourself against your enemies. So I had to do it—I had to step in against our _mutual_ enemies.

"But what about Kurzen," Elizabeth said weakly. "Did I...?"

"Kurzen was getting too close to the truth. He had a feeling that I was the one who pushed Allen down the stairs. First he tried to frame me...try to make the police think that _I_ was responsible for those assaults. And when that failed, he decided to confront me about Allen's 'accident.' He told me that he would keep it quiet if I would bow out of the competition...wanted his boy Rajki to have a better chance. Hah! Rajki is a weakling. I could never have let him take my prize away. Kurzen was strong, though. It took all my powers to deal with him...make him write that note. But in the end, I knew you would be blamed for everything. Everyone knew you had been acting strangely. And of course, you would confess your guilt...to me. Right before the end...just before you took your own life in despair."

Frederico calmly produced a small vial of colorless liquid from his pocket. "You see, Elizabeth, now that you have tasted of the manuscript's power, you cannot be trusted with its secrets." Frederico edged slowly toward Elizabeth.

"Frederico...this is inhuman..."

"Evil is not inhuman. That's one of the things that Sebastian can teach us. Evil is all around us...and we will succumb to it if we don't control it. Sebastian knew that, so he learned to control evil for his own purposes. And that's what he teaches us. Your precious David thought he had Sebastian all figured out. But he only saw the diary. He never saw Sebastian's most important book—his Book of Mysteries, because I had slipped that out of the library the previous year. That book contained all the secrets that Sebastian knew. It showed his true power. Without seeing that book, David could never have understood Sebastian...could have no idea what was really going on in his mind."

"Frederico, I must think...please let me go," Elizabeth said, rising out of her chair slowly.

"There is very little time, Elizabeth. Very little time," said Frederico, shaking his head slowly. "I realize you've become weaker—the score gave you the strength to carry on...but I had to take the score away...after you surprised Danko searching for it. I couldn't trust you to take care of it anymore. And without the score, you've become weak. But that's just as well. It's appropriate for you to be weak now...to fail. And now the time has come when you must give up all your strength...and your life...surely you must know that this is true."

Suddenly there was pounding on the Green Room door. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth! It's David! I know you're in there. Please let me in."

"This has nothing to do with you, David," roared Frederico, keeping his gaze steadily on Elizabeth. "This is Elizabeth's affair. She does not want you here now."

"David, please..." Elizabeth said weakly, collapsing back into her chair.

"Open this door immediately!" screamed David.

"Elizabeth," said Frederico quietly, walking toward her with the vial. "Now. The time is now. You know you must do this."

David rammed the door with his shoulder. It splintered into pieces at the lock and he and Danko quickly pushed their way into the room. David saw Frederico, the vial in his hand, beginning to pull back on Elizabeth's throat.

"Frederico!" screamed David. "You leave her alone!"

Frederico shook his head, a thin smile crossing his face as he turned to face David and Danko. "Don't you realize that it's too late to save her? This is the only way. She's under the power of the manuscript—she's come under Sebastian's power now. Without that score, she'll fade and die."

"You're mad!" screamed David. "Right under my nose all this time...it's been you from the beginning. You used Elizabeth...right from the beginning...you used me...You're absolutely crazy."

Frederico reached quickly into his coat pocket and pulled out a small revolver. "You fool! Don't you realize you're ruining everything? And why? She doesn't love you! She could never love you! You're nothing to her!"

"Frederico," said Danko calmly. "You don't have to do this. There's no reason to do this. You've succeeded...you've accomplished everything you wanted..."

"That's right, Frederico," said David eagerly. "All your plans have succeeded. You're sure to win the competition...you're sure to play brilliantly and win the competition. Just give me the gun, Frederico. You've got to get ready...you've got to get ready to play. The second half of the concert is about to begin."

"No, you fools. I'm afraid the audience will have to be disappointed tonight. Oh, I would certainly have won the competition. There's no question about that. Because of you, David...you stupid, lovesick pest...and you Danko, you meddler in things you can't possibly understand...there will have to be a slight change in plans."

David inched toward Frederico, who pointed the gun directly at his face. "Don't presume I won't shoot you, David. It would give me great pleasure to pull the trigger and end your feeble life."

"Just let Elizabeth go," David said.

"Her life is meaningless now," snarled Frederico. "You're welcome to her." Brandishing his pistol, Frederico quickly charged between David and Danko and out through the door.

David rushed to Elizabeth's side. "My God, Elizabeth! Are you all right?"

"David! He's crazy. He's gone mad. He said that the manuscript—Sebastian's manuscript—had taken control of me...that I..."

"You did nothing, Elizabeth. Nothing!" demanded David. "It was all part of his plot..."

"He's getting away, David!" said Danko, looking down the hall as Frederico disappeared up the stairs to the next level of the building.

"Let him get away, Danko," said David, holding Elizabeth tightly in his arms. "It doesn't matter now. He can't do us any more harm."

"David!" cried Danko. "He's a lunatic! He's got a gun. My God, he could just go up to the upper balcony and start shooting at people!"

David paused, then spoke quickly. "Elizabeth...you'll be fine. But we've got to stop Frederico. Tell security. Go and find a security officer and tell him what's happened."

"Quickly, David!" said Danko, starting after Frederico. David kissed Elizabeth gently on the forehead and burst out of the room after him.

Frederico charged up the stairs quickly, his gun shoved back into his coat pocket. People on the stairs, making their way back to their seats for the second half of the concert, scattered in front of him, complaining and cursing. Ignoring them, Frederico continued up—two more flights of stairs. He paused briefly, hearing the sound below of David and Danko in pursuit, and then climbed the final staircase to the upper balcony.

David and Danko hurried up the stairs, taking a few seconds to alert one of the ushers and ask him to call security. They arrived at the top of the stairs, the third level of the balcony, breathless. They saw Frederico; he had once again drawn his gun. There were no audience members milling around. All had sought the relative safety of the auditorium.

Frederico, standing in front of a large window, turned to face them. He stifled a laugh. "You're braver than I'd given you credit for, David. But you're not as bright. There's nothing you can do here."

"Come back with us, Frederico. Come back downstairs. No harm has been done yet," said Danko.

"You know better, Danko. Much harm has been done. And more will be done before the evening is finished. Did you know that Sebastian perished violently? There is no record of that, of course. But somehow I know he did. With all of his power, he could not defeat all of his enemies. There were...too many and they were too cruel."

David and Danko edged slowly toward Frederico.

"But Sebastian is not gone," continued Frederico. "Even now. His power...and his influence...lives on...just as mine will."

Danko held out his hand to stop David. He then began to walk slowly toward Frederico, his palms extended outward. "I believe it's all over now, Frederico. There's no reason for anything more to happen to anyone."

Frederico smirked. He held out his gun, and then threw it to the floor.

"You fools! Don't you realize that my life is just beginning?" He turned quickly, put his arms over his face then crashed through the large window, fragments of glass exploding throughout the room.

David stepped forward, craning his neck to see through the shattered window to the street below.

"Gone," he said.

"I know," said Danko.

Chapter 37

"So he was just a lunatic, then?" said Inspector Fischer, smiling gently into the faces of David and Elizabeth as they sat, somewhat uncomfortably, in his office.

"No...somehow I don't think it can be that simple," said David, shaking his head slowly. "I still can't explain what really went on in Frederico's head—I think Danko understood that much better than I ever have. But I know that he was a wonderful artist and—at least in the beginning—was as dedicated to his music as anyone I've ever met."

"Perhaps too dedicated?" suggested Hermann quietly.

"I don't know. I suppose you'd almost have to say so. When he discovered the manuscript, it obviously unhinged him in some way. He certainly came to believe that the manuscript held some power."

"So who was this Sebastian fellow? Something of a magician?" asked Fischer.

"I suppose something of a sorcerer more than a magician as we'd understand the term," replied David. "We know that Sebastian himself was in some ways completely mad. He'd done violent, desperate things in his life. Whether he really used the dark arts to accomplish those things, I guess we'll never know."

"But do you really think he had some power? I mean, could he really somehow control things supernaturally?" asked Hermann.

"And could that power be somehow transferred to the Liszt score, just by writing a few incantations and symbols into the score?" added Fischer, shifting his gaze in the direction of Elizabeth.

Elizabeth started to speak, then hesitated slightly. "I realize that you're really asking me these things. I wish I could tell you one way or another. I wish I could tell you that it was somehow all done with mirrors and there was nothing supernatural to it. But I felt something. I know I did."

"And of course some of those 'messages' written in the score were actually added by Frederico—the messages that referred to the other pianists," said David.

"But wouldn't that have made a difference?" asked Fischer. "I mean...Frederico Gasparini was no magician—no dabbler in the black arts."

"He certainly became a believer though, didn't he?" responded David. "And not just a passive one. He entered into Sebastian's psyche as much as anyone could have a century and a half later. And remember, he didn't just read the diary; he also studied Sebastian's so-called 'Book of Mysteries.'"

"What was that all about, anyway?" asked Hermann, scratching his head. "Did either of you ever see it?"

David shook his head. "Not really...I glanced at it—no more than that. When it was discovered among Frederico's things after his death, one of the investigating policemen asked me if I would return it to the library that Frederico had stolen it from last year. The policeman obviously didn't think it was an important document and I'm not sure if it was."

"But you say that you did glance at his 'Book of Mysteries.' What was in it?" asked Fischer.

"A number of incantations and spells. Some of them were just silly. Others were a little more serious—how to punish your enemies—that sort of thing. I doubt if Sebastian actually invented any of them, and I doubt that Frederico actually understood what they were all about. It seemed to me to be just a lot of mystical mumbo-jumbo."

"But perhaps not to Frederico," said Hermann. "Did any of these 'spells' actually appear on the Liszt manuscript?"

"I don't know. Strangely enough, the score itself seems to have disappeared. It couldn't be found among Frederico's possessions or anywhere. All we know for sure is that Frederico added some things of his own, doing his best to imitate Liszt's handwriting in the process. Apparently he just counted on the fact that by that time Elizabeth was so mesmerized by the score that she would take any writing that appeared on it as some sort of 'message' or instruction from Liszt."

"But Elizabeth never really followed though on any of his so-called instructions. Isn't that right?" asked Fischer, again looking toward Elizabeth.

Elizabeth again hesitated. "I guess not. I don't know. In those last moments with Frederico, I think he said that I never carried through with anything...that I had somehow failed both Sebastian and him. I just can't be sure. All I know is that I feel like I've woken up from a terrible nightmare. I only remember parts of it, but I don't care. I'm glad I don't remember more. I'm just happy that it's over."

"Of course you are, Ms. McDermitt. Of course you are," said Fischer, nodding sympathetically. "And I think this discussion has gone on long enough. There's probably not much to be gained from going over the same ground again and again."

"So you'll be on your way now...back to America?" Hermann asked cheerfully.

"I guess so," replied David. "There's not much reason for either of us to stick around now."

"It's such a shame that the final concert of the Radovsky Festival was suspended and the prize was never actually given," said Fischer.

Elizabeth smiled weakly. "I guess there was not much they could do. It would have been too difficult to announce a winner when the second half of the final concert never took place."

"And one of the pianists threatened the life of another and then leapt several stories to his death," added David.

Fischer nodded in agreement. "Well, I realize it's been a terrible experience for everyone. So we don't want to hold the two of you up any longer." Fischer rose to his feet and extended his hand to Elizabeth.

Shaking his hand, Elizabeth said, "Thank you Inspector. We would be lying if we didn't admit that Vienna has lost its fascination for us." She looked at David. "At least for now."

David smiled in agreement and shook first Fischer's hand and then Hermann's.

Chapter 38

David put his hand gently on Elizabeth's shoulder as they walked from the cab into the airport terminal. "You know," he said, "I'd be lying if I said that the festival had been a complete disaster from beginning to end."

"Really?"

"Well, of course. It's true that I felt next to useless for most of it, watching you and the other pianists play so well concert after concert. But in the end....let's just say that I felt like I finally accomplished something."

"Oh, I see," said Elizabeth, fighting back a smile. "In the end you were able to rescue the fair damsel in distress and that made it all worthwhile?"

"It's wasn't all me, of course. It was definitely a team effort. Neither of us would have made it through that night without Danko."

Elizabeth nodded, slipping her hand inside his. "But I suppose you still think of yourself as the primary knight in shining armor?"

"The armor may not have been completely lustrous, I'll admit, but..."

"Oh, I thought it was shiny enough," Elizabeth interrupted playfully.

"I'm happy to hear that, Elizabeth, but still I've been thinking of returning to my other persona—you know, David Currant, brilliant young piano virtuoso."

"Oh, _that_ persona. I had almost forgotten about that one."

"That's just the problem. But we can't let the world forget. And with that in mind, I've decided that I have found just the perfect working vacation for both of us."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Absolutely. It just so happens that beginning in slightly less than a month, there is another young artist piano competition...in the good old U.S.A.—Texas as a matter of fact—which needs nothing to make it complete and successful other than our participation."

" _Our_ participation?" laughed Elizabeth. "So you've signed me up for this festive occasion as well?"

"Naturally," replied David. "I wouldn't have you miss it—or me—for the world. And it just so happens that I have recently got my hands on some wonderful old Schubert scores for piano four hands, the perfect way to get in shape for our upcoming performances."

Elizabeth squeezed his hand and smiled. "Right now, David, I can't think of anyone I'd rather make music with."

###

If you enjoyed _The Mephisto Mysteries_ , you might want to check out _The Beethoven Quandary_ by the same author. In this mystery novella, pianist Jeremy West comes across a nineteenth-century music manuscript in an old London book shop. He becomes convinced that the manuscript is a newly discovered symphony by Beethoven and worth a fortune. But part of the manuscript is stolen and he enlists the aid of two musician friends, David Currant and Elizabeth McDermitt, to help him try to get the missing pages back. But things quickly get more complicated when Jeremy's girlfriend is assaulted and a man is murdered before David and Elizabeth and their friend Detective Sean McGill are able to unwind the many threads that are interwoven in this complex and surprising case.

