The Shadowy Third

By Marco Page

The Shadowy Third, first published in 1946, is a fast-paced noir mystery centering on New York City lawyer, David Calder, and his search for a stolen priceless violin. Author Marco Page (pseudonym of Harry Kurnitz, 1908-1968) was an American playwright, novelist, and screenwriter, writing more than 40 movie scripts during his prolific career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129830

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE SHADOWY THIRD

By

MARCO PAGE

The Shadowy Third was originally published as a Red Badge Mystery in 1946 by Dodd, Mead & Company, New York. Marco Page is a pseudonym of Harry Kurnitz.

DEDICATION

FOR RACHIE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

1 6

2 17

3 27

4 37

5 46

6 61

7 71

8 82

9 93

10 105

11 117

12 128

13 136

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 145

1

The rehearsal was scheduled for noon but by ten-thirty there were already a dozen musicians in the orchestra dressing-room and more were straggling in one or two at a time. A few of the men were practicing, playing different pieces on various instruments, but for the others it was an accustomed bedlam to which they paid no attention. Near the door, seated before an open iron locker, an elderly musician was patiently cleaning the lapel of an ancient dress coat, working with a tiny square of cloth and a can of fluid. He was humming quietly as he worked, and he looked up as a younger member of the orchestra approached, a violin and bow under his arm, an open score extended invitingly. Mr. Baranoff, the boy said, wouldn’t you like to run through this trio with me if I can get a viola player?

Baranoff smiled. No, Tony, I can’t. I have to clean my coat, and then I have to fix a bridge on my ‘cello. Then, as two men entered together, he said, Here come a couple of real artists—just the two you are looking for.

Tony Crestini regarded the newcomers doubtfully. You think so? I only see them playing cards all the time.

Because nobody ever asks them to play trios, said Baranoff earnestly. They love chamber-music. Go on, ask them.

All right. The two men were already at the battered round table near the front of the room, their coats off, and one of them was shuffling a deck of cards. He looked up as Crestini approached. Hi, Tony.

Tony laid the Mozart trio on the table. I was wondering if maybe you and Mr. Stainer would like to run through this trio with me, Mr. Clemens. It’s a Mozart, and it’s very beautiful. Clemens, a middle-aged, dour musician, said, What the hell for?

Why, for the practice, said Crestini. He turned to the other man, Ben Stainer, a ‘cellist. How about you, Mr. Stainer? Stainer pushed the music to one side. Get this crap off the table, will you, Tony? Can’t you see we’re busy?

All right, said Tony, but he added angrily, as he picked up the music, I just want to say it’s not a very nice way to talk about a fine Mozart trio.

Bring Mozart around later, said Stainer, and I’ll apologize to him personally. As the boy went off, he said to Clemens, It’s getting to be a regular conservatory around here. What’s happening?

The kid’s all right, said Clemens. He just happens to love music, that’s all. He dealt two hands of gin rummy, and they played silently, ignoring the mounting jumble of conversation, practice and quarrel that built up around them. Then two other musicians moved up to the table, and they abandoned the gin rummy in favor of pinochle.

When David Calder came into the dressing-room, at eleven-thirty, the room was full and it sounded like a badly run zoo. He picked his way through the rows of battered iron lockers and benches, down to the card game. Here there seemed to be a high-pressure cone of silence over the players and the kibitzers as a hand was being played out in considerable tension. Calder stood beside an elderly, portly kibitzer in carpet slippers, absently moving the slide of a trombone up and down as he followed the play of the hand. He whispered, Hello, Myers, and Otto Myers hoarsely murmured, Hello,. Counselor. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back with a surprised glance, but the next lead in the card game apparently fascinated him and he gave it his complete, entire attention.

Calder knew all the players. Facing him, also intent on the cards, was Arnold Storrs, a well-dressed, rather sharp-looking trumpet player; at his right and left were Saul Clemens and Phil Brand, the orchestra’s tympanist. In front of Calder, his back to him, was Ben Stainer.

Stainer was playing the hand, and suddenly he slammed down-the few remaining cards, and angrily called upon God and man to-witness that he had just been crucified by one of the worst breaks in distribution since the invention of the game. Then his shoulders-stiffened as the kibitzer with the trombone lifted his instrument and blew a rude, resonant note right in his ear. Angrily he shouted, God damn it, Otto! I’ve asked you a thousand times not to stand around me with that syringe!

I was only expressing my critical opinion of the way in which you played that hand, said Otto Myers calmly. My five-year-old boy—may he have long life—knows how to make a better lead than that one.

Is that so? demanded Stainer hotly. Well, you know what you can do with your five-year-old boy, and his long life, and your trombone, and— He stopped short when he saw Calder smiling at him. Well! A surprise!

Calder said, Hello, Ben. They shook hands. They’re still trimming you, eh?

Day after day, Stainer told him glumly. He turned back to the game. You guys remember Dave Calder, don’t you?

Calder shook hands all around, and then Stainer sat down in the game again. Just another hand, Dave. I won’t be long.

We’ll polish him off for you, one, two, three, promised Phil Brand.

Take your time, said Calder.

The kibitzer with the trombone moved closer to Calder. I’ll leave it to you, Counselor—the man has five hearts in his hand to the Queen, Jack, but does he use the brains God gave him? No. He leads out...

Stainer turned around. Are you starting on that lead again? he asked ominously.

I don’t know anything about the game, said Calder, and the trombone player gave up and walked away, blowing mournful sounds at the ceiling. Calder sat down on a bench not far from the card players, alongside a young violinist who was practicing. He had a mirror on the back of his locker and was studying his posture and his style. An older man on the same bench looked up dourly and said, You look great, Joe, but you sound terrible. What kind of phrasing is that?

"Phrasing? You’re asking about my phrasing? Would you be interested, Mr. Margolis, in what Olin Downes of the New York Times said about my phrasing?"

Times, Shmimes, said Margolis wearily. I’ve got ears, haven’t I?

That, Mr. Margolis, said Joe grandly, is strictly your own opinion. And believe me, he added heatedly, if I had a sandpaper tone and a fake technique like yours, I would not be in a hurry to criticize others. He tucked his violin under his chin and raised the bow. Here. Here is a free lesson for you. He played some brilliant runs very fluently.

All right, so you can play fast, said the older man apathetically, and Joe turned back to his mirror, attacking a section of the Glazunow Concerto savagely.

In the narrow aisle between two rows of lockers, Calder could lean back against the nearest section, his long legs jammed against the opposite bench. He put his heavy, strong hands behind his head and relaxed comfortably. His face was lean and closely shaved. His deep-set, dark blue eyes examined the room and its tenants with close and meticulous interest. The room was emptying, the confusion of sound dying down gradually as the members of the orchestra filed out into the wings and onto the stage. The pinochle game was breaking up, three players gleefully dividing up Stainer’s money. Calder sat up as he saw Stainer approaching.

Can we get a drink, Ben, or some coffee? I’d like to talk awhile.

I’ll find out. Stainer called to a man near the door. Hey, Artie, what’s first in the rehearsal?

Artie consulted a sheet of paper pasted to the door of his locker. Haydn. We don’t need you.

We can take a half-hour, said Stainer. As they walked out of the room, through the dark back-stage area to the exit, he added, For once we’ve got a conductor with sense enough to play Haydn with an authentic instrumentation. This is not only in the best classical tradition, but it occasionally gives me a few minutes to myself. Calder led the way to a little restaurant a few doors down from the stage entrance, and when they were settled in a booth he ordered drinks. He saw Stainer looking him over appraisingly. He smiled. Well, what do you think, Ben?

You lost a little weight. You look fine, though. We heard you were in the Army.

Calder shook his head. Not quite. I was working for the War Department, though.

The drinks came, and they touched glasses casually. What were you doing in the War Department? asked Stainer.

Investigating. You know, like when a man applied for a commission, or he was being considered for a confidential job, I checked on him to make sure he wasn’t a Jap spy, or a Communist, or a Prohibitionist or anything like that.

You always liked snooping, said Stainer drily. Were you any good at it?

Nabbed a Communist once, Calder told him with considerable pride. "Caught the skunk just as he was tearing open that week’s New Republic, and when I searched the house, damned if I didn’t find a whole cache of Tchaikovsky phonograph records. Enough to blow up the whole Capitol, along with Congress."

Half of that sounds like a hell of a helpful explosion, said Stainer. What’s on your mind now—the violin? When Calder nodded, he said, I knew it. I knew it the minute you walked in the door.

The insurance company is running around in circles, Calder told him. They had the violin covered for sixty thousand dollars. They asked me to pitch in—well, because they thought I had contacts in musical circles. Anything you can do, Ben, he said earnestly, I’ll appreciate a lot. It means a big fee, and I can use it.

Stainer shrugged. I don’t know. I’ll try.

How did it happen?

Stainer told him, and it seemed absurdly simple, a ridiculously easy way to make off with anything worth that much money. Igor Krassin arrived at the auditorium a half-hour before he was due to rehearse his appearance as soloist with the orchestra. He went alone to one of the dressing-rooms, unlocked his violin case and started to limber up with some scales. After ten minutes of these helpful exercises a stagehand knocked at the door and told Krassin he was wanted on the back-stage ‘phone. The virtuoso put the great Corelli Strad back in the open case, went through the gloomy passage to the booth and waited there with mounting impatience. He hung up, finally, and went back to his room. The violin was gone. That’s all, said Stainer, while Calder looked thoughtfully down at the ice in his glass. In and out. Neat, quick, and no clues.

It’s nice, said Calder glumly. One thing, Ben—what good is the damn violin? What would a thief do with it?

Search me, said Stainer promptly. A cheaper violin, something less well known, that you might handle. But Krassin’s fiddle is one of the finest, most famous instruments in the world. Maybe a crank did it, he added thoughtfully, or maybe it was somebody with a grudge against the maestro.

Could it have been anybody in the orchestra? asked Calder.

I doubt it. Nearly everybody was on the stage, and the police checked every possibility.

What about the people around Krassin—his personal staff?

There’s an accompanist, a boy named Martin Ford. He seems like a nice, honest kid but working for Krassin is a living hell anyway, so maybe he did it to get even. I doubt it, though.

What’s Krassin like, Ben?

Stainer didn’t hesitate over that. A heel, Dave, believe me. A big talent, but no character.

Any women?

You should only live so long, Stainer told him piously. A handsome guy, an artist, with an ego the size of the Lewisohn Stadium—there’s bound to be women. He sighed, and half of it was envy. Right now, for instance— He looked up at Calder suddenly and stopped.

You were saying? Calder prodded him politely.

I don’t see how this helps you about the violin, said Stainer.

I just want background on the guy. I have to see him after the rehearsal, and I didn’t want to walk in cold.

Oh. Well, you’ve covered the important parts, Dave. You take a man, even if he’s well balanced to begin with, and that’s extremely doubtful in a musician, and for twenty years the critics and the public tell him he’s a genius, and money pours in, and dames cluster around the stage door. You get the picture?

Most of it. Calder finished his drink and looked at his watch. I’d better go, too, said Stainer. They may have polished off the Haydn by now.

They walked back to the auditorium, and Stainer took him in the stage door to a spot in the wings from which he could watch unobtrusively. The men were taking a five-minute break, smoking and talking, and across the stage in the opposite wings Igor Krassin was tuning his violin for the rehearsal. He was a slim, handsome figure in slacks and a light sport shirt open at the collar. His dark, lean face was given a slightly sinister aspect by heavy, fly-away eyebrows, and the fingers busy with his violin were well shaped and strong. Then Leo Sorkin, the conductor, stepped back on the platform and Krassin came out of the wings and with a cool nod for both the conductor and the men, took up his own position at the conductor’s left.

The introduction? asked the conductor.

Krassin shrugged. A few bars, if you like.

Sorkin rapped on the desk, and when the orchestra was quiet, he announced, From letter B please, gentlemen. As they began to play Calder turned away and moved quietly out of the wings. He heard the solo opening, smooth and brilliant, sounding remote and distant in the high, still gloom of the back-stage area. He stopped a stagehand and whispered, Where is Mr. Krassin’s dressing-room?

That open door, the stagehand told him, pointing, and Calder went that way on tiptoe. A young man Calder didn’t know was framed in the doorway, and as Calder came up he stepped aside. There was another man in the dressing-room, bent over an open score on the desk, studying the music and listening intently. He waved to Calder, who said, Hello, Mr. Lear. They shook hands and Calder was introduced to Martin Ford, Igor Krassin’s accompanist. Ford was a good-looking lad, quite young, with shoulders like a half-back.

I haven’t seen you for a long time, said Lear. Were you in the service, Calder?

Something like that, Mr. Lear. I spent a lot of time in Washington. Still turning out prodigies down in the Settlement?

Lear smiled faintly. He was about fifty, of slight stature, delicate in dress and manner. We do our best. Nowadays, of course, children are more likely to be interested in jet propulsion, Superman, and such. Still, he added proudly, our classes are full, our standards are high. He sighed. You don’t happen to have an extra few hundred thousand dollars you want to give us, do you? Calder shook his head.

I was afraid of that, said Lear. There was a pause, and he added, You want to see Krassin?

I’m working for the insurance company. On the violin. Calder lit a cigarette, offering the pack to the accompanist, who refused with a curt gesture. They all sat quietly, listening to the music, Lear with the score open in his lap. It’s the Brahms violin concerto, he told Calder. His own cadenza. Beautiful, isn’t it? Calder nodded, and looked up at the accompanist, who didn’t seem anxious to commit himself one way or the other.

You won’t have to wait very long, Calder, said Lear. I think it was Igor’s intention to rehearse only the first movement today. They have already had one rehearsal, he explained. And the concerto is well known to the musicians.

I’m in no hurry, Calder assured him. By the way, where did Mr. Krassin get the instrument he’s using now?

Oh, there was such a rush to put violins in his hands. Dealers, collectors, fellow-artists—they all sent around their finest instruments. This violin is a Guarnerius. The great Joseph Guarnerius. Igor has admired it for a long time, and the dealer was only too happy to lend it for the balance of the tour. Naturally—his face darkened—it is not the same as the violin he lost, but it is a fine instrument.

The theft must have been a blow to Mr. Krassin, Calder ventured.

Like the loss of a child, Lear assured him. He

Reviews for The Shadowy Third

[Waldo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The success of the Thin Man movies in the 30s spawned another series of just three films featuring a husband-and-wife team who solved puzzles when they weren't dealing in rare books. They were Fast Company (1938), Fast and Loose (1938) and Fast and Furious (1939). The author was Marco Page (Harry Kurnitz) who also wrote the script for The Thin Man Goes Home (1944) among many other successful movies. This novel features a lawyer-cum-private eye and his secretary in search of a rare Stradivaius violin while solving a murder. It features the same wise-cracking humour as the movies and the usual comic misunderstandings between the hero and his fiancee because so many attractive women are involved in the case. I expect a Marco Page revival among crime-novel lovers. Kudos to the publishers for making this available again.