The Golden Violin
Cigarette smoke blurred the room
Cigarette smoke blurred the room as Cole Phillips stepped softly over the threshold. He tutted at the lack of visibility, though he was as guilty as any, as evidenced by the stench of his tweed jacket, and the half-full pack of Lucky Strikes in his breast pocket. He felt his shoes sinking into the red carpet, and he couldn’t even see the red wallpaper through the fumes and crowds of people holding glasses, many brimming with red wine. Spotting an open bottle of whiskey on a sideboard, he stopped momentarily, eyes zoning in on a glass. No, he was here for work, not pleasure, and he was to look for clues, not drinks. His feet continued walking, and his eyes began roaming the room for any sign of the missing violin.
Cole didn’t see the man until he’d walked into him. His brown overcoat stunk of smoke and after he’d turned, Cole was overpowered by the stench of alcohol on his breath. He suppressed a cough and resisted the urge to put a hand to his mouth.
“Glen,” the man said, with an outstretched hand and a warm smile, “nice to meet you.”
”Cole,” Cole replied as he rushed a handshake and rearranged his jacket, “you too.”
”Would you like a drink, Cole? We have plenty of whatever you’d like, and I don’t see a glass in your hand.”
”No, no thank—”
”Come on Cole, have some fun! I can’t have someone at my party without a glass now, can I? How does that reflect on me as host?”
”No no, really, but thank you anyway,” Cole said, falling back into his thoughts like they were a bed on a cold night. It was a cold night now, and Cole did want his bed, and, admittedly, he did want a drink; usually, he would indulge in one on the job if it arose, but this was a big case, and he didn’t want to jeopardise it. He could already imagine complimentary tickets to the Royal Birmingham Orchestra, sitting in his padded seats, whispering about how he was the detective to solve the case of the missing violin, the centrepiece of the performance. Glen was looking at him now, and Cole realised he was waiting for an answer to something.
”No, no thank you Glen, I’m busy,” he said as he barged past him and tried to lose himself in the crowd. It was a rather small place, but full of people, and he managed to do so rather quickly. Glen didn’t bother to follow.
This violin had been reported as missing a handful of days back before the orchestra’s opening night, and instantly became the chief, if not only, topic of conversation in the station. The higher-ups had promised the orchestra their best detectives for the case and told them they’d have the case solved by evening on Friday, so the orchestra could still open at the beginning of the weekend. They appanrently hadn’t been too fussed about rearranging dates, there were rumours for a moment that they would begin their shows lacking the violin, which had travelled around the globe with the orchestra, attaining an almost mythical status, but New York wouldn’t let them dissapoint on their first show in the States, hence why Cole was, at 10:32 pm on a Thursday night, here, in a place which had tangentially been connected to one of many dubiously-associated suspects. He knew that the best detectives working this case were elsewhere, interrogating real suspects or at actual suspected crime scenes or whatnot, but in his mind, this was his chance to really show his worth. He had been standing in a corner, his elbow upon a countertop and wracking his brains for ideas when he had a sudden idea.
He found Glen again, who was now discussing bridges and paintings in depth with two older men. Cole tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.
”Oh, so you’ve come back for a drink have you Cole? What would you like?” Glen began, waving his arms in the direction of a table laden with bottles of all colours and names, “We’ve got something you’d like, I’m sure of it! How about—”
”No thank you Glen, I was wondering about a bit of music?”
Glen fell silent and gestured towards his stereo, “Can you not hear it?”
”Yes, but no— I mean, real music Glen!
Glen look mightily confused as he stood, glass in hand, staring at Cole, ”What, live music?”
“Yes!”
Glen stared at Cole, momentarily perplexed, “In an apartment?”
Cole nodded his head and fruitlessly tried to explain this bizarre request, stumbling around his thoughts even as he tried to articulate them.
”Where would the musicians even play?” Glen asked, throwing his arms around him in a constrained fashion, as if to illustrate the lack of space amongst the crowd, ”If you’d like a drink, I’m more than happy to oblige, but if you think we could fit a live band in here, then you probably don’t need one!” and with that, Glen turned on his heel and strode off, leaving Cole staring at where he’d been, rather downcast. It had been a foolish attempt at forcing Glen to show his hand, and having done it, Cole felt rather witless and impulsive. Slowly, he walked off.
While taking a stroll around the apartment, Cole began to really mull his predicament over. He’d tried and failed to get Glen to show him the violin, so now he must find it himself. Cole began to have a peek at various bits and bobs as he meandered around the flat, first looking behind the coats all hanging by the door, and then in a little cupboard in the kitchen. Beginning with only peeking when he was certain he was alone, he got gradually bolder and bolder with each unnoticed attempt. Checking underneath beds, in wardrobes, behind couches and tables, and even having a peek through the glass onto the little balcony, Cole found nothing. It was getting late, and the partygoers were getting more obnoxious by the minute, and Cole found himself in the narrow hallway deep in thought. He checked his little wristwatch and saw it had gone eleven o’clock! Hell’s bells! he thought, best be getting a move on. And it was as he turned to leave that he saw a door under the stairs which he hadn’t looked behind. Brilliant, a little broom cupboard! I mean, where better to store stolen property than somewhere so out of the way, where no one is going to look? Who in their right mind is going to go through the broom cupboard in the middle of a party? Cole Phillips, that’s who, he thought as a triumphant smile crept onto his face. He creaked the little door open and eased himself in, thinking about how no one else at the office would ever consider something like this. He’d worked cases where more experienced detectives had looked right over what they were searching for, not realising it was underneath a bed or on top of a cupboard; Cole wouldn’t make that mistake.
Once inside, he found it to be smaller than he’d expected. A lot smaller. He could barely move anywhere for fear of knocking something over or banging into a wall. It was a small apartment after all, and once again, Cole began to feel rather foolish. Of course, there was no violin here. In an abode so tiny, there was no space in the cupboard to store anything outside of the ordinary essentials. His head fell and his morale had certainly been taken down a few notches. It hadn’t been a good week and now he felt like even more of a clown, standing on his own in a cupboard surrounded by cleaning equipment, all while the sounds of a rather loud party slipped in behind him through the cracks around the door. He longed for a glass of that whiskey he’d spotted. He always hoped it’d warm him and cheer him up like it used to, but he’d begun to doubt it ever would, or that it ever did. Still, it was a nice companion in his hand for his worse moments. Resigning himself to go find it, he went to turn and reach for the door, but his foot got caught on a brush jammed between a small bucket and the wall, and he found himself falling headfirst over the handle and into the back wall of the cupboard, hitting his head on the floor behind it. Blinking and trying to regain his senses after a brief moment, he thought it was comforting that no one had come rushing to the commotion he had caused in the cupboard, and then he realised he was no longer in it, and that the cupboard was now behind him. Standing up and brushing his knees, he turned and found that in his fall, the back wall of the cupboard had swung out and now he found himself in what could only be described as another store cupboard, except a lot larger and full of boxes, crates and barrels rather than brooms and mops.
After a minute or so of confused blinking, his brow furrowed in thought, Cole let out a silent punch of joy: he’d found a secret room, surely it had to be in here! He would’ve whooped with joy had he not been worried about being caught; he was sure that this was not where partygoers were meant to go.
He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down, like his mother always told him, and then he began to think more about the situation he found himself in. A despondent sigh found itself escaping him: this violin could be anywhere. There were more boxes and cases than Cole could count, and he really didn’t want to start unpacking them. Closing the secret door silently behind him, he thought through the possible outcomes: if the violin wasn’t here, he’d be in for too much paperwork back at the office—that is, if he reported it honestly, but he knew he would—and it’d be him stuck with the hassle of returning all of the plundered goods to their original places, and perhaps he’d have to foot the bill of any of those damaged; however, if the violin was here, well, then he’d likely get his name in the paper, perhaps a photograph too, if he was lucky. He’d never had his photograph taken before, or his name in the paper, and he quickly decided it was a risk worth taking, and without further ado began pulling lids from boxes and prising the sides from crates. He was relentless in his search, only pausing when he sent countless sealed bottles of ‘45 Bordeaux rolling across the floor. Cole cringed at the noise they made, freezing until after the last one had hit the wall and come to a stop. A moment passed, then two, and still everything outside the door seemed to be continuing just as before.
It was only when Cole saw a gleam of gold from behind a chip in a case that he stopped again. Taking steady breaths, Cole got his fingers inside the crack and prised away a good chunk of the wood, and there it was. Through the hole he’d made, he could see the golden fingerboard and golden strings running down it. The instrument was glinting under the lamp hanging from the low roof above him in the dingy cupboard. Cole pulled more and more of the case away until he could reach in and touch it.
With Cole lost in his own little world of grandeur, victory and success, he almost didn’t notice the creak of the door opening. As soon as he registered the unexpected noise, however, he stopped still and slipped his hand to the revolver hidden at his hip, taking a deep breath.
”Who is it?”
”Glen. It’s Glen. What are you doing? Pillaging my storecupboard?”
Cole spun round, as quickly and confidently as he could manage. Trying to whip out his detective badge at the same time, it slipped out of one hand, and somehow he caught it in the other. Sweat trickled off his brow; he’d almost embarrassed himself.
”Detective Cole Phillips of the NYPD; I have found stolen items in your possession, Glen.”
Glen looked nonplussed as he stared back at Cole, “Okay detective. Sounds about right, I guess.”
”Save your admission for the judge. For now, I’ve got a few questions for you before we go to the station.”
Cole pulled his notepad and pen out of his pocket, pursing his lips in concentration.
”We’ll start with your name.”
Glen looked confused, “Um, Glen.”
”No, no. Your name, Glen. Your full name.”
Cole stared at him, doing his best impression of an intimidating cop.
”Abbot.”
”Glen Abbot?”
”Yes, Glen Abbot.”
”Two b’s?”
”Yes.”
”Two t’s?”
”No, just two b’s, and the one t.”
Cole wrote the name in the first line of his notepad, taking care to get everything right. He couldn't afford to screw this up.
”What are you here for, detective?” Glen asked.
”On the case of a certain golden violin,” Cole gestured in the direction of the cracked-open case with the instrument inside, now to his right-hand side, “Glen, why are you in possession of this stolen property?”
Glen shrugged.
Cole stared at him momentarily, his pen hovering above his notepad.
”What do you mean?” he asked, his displeasure making itself known through the frown beginning to form on his forehead.
Glen shrugged again.
”You are in possession of property stolen from the Royal Birmingham Orchestra, why?”
”It just ended up here, detective. Really.”
Cole could feel his face beginning to go red. He clenched and unclenched his fist around his pen a few times and tried his best to keep his mouth shut. Thankfully for him, Glen explained himself a little more.
”You see, there’s a whole lot in this room, as you’ve discovered in your carelessness, and this golden violin is just one among many. A friend of mine asked me to take care of it for a little while, but, well, ignorance is bliss in these situations and I haven’t the faintest clue as to why or how he acquired it, if that’s what you were going to ask me. I have my theories, I guess, but I’m afraid to say that I think I’ll be quite useless to you; outside of speculation, I’ll be making about as much noise as that violin will be.”
”Well, once I’ve returned it to the orchestra and brought you to the station, I’m sure you’ll both be singing to my tune,” Cole said as he tried to snap his notepad closed in a confident manner, “that settles it, you’ve admitted your guilt and you’re coming with me.”
”I mean, yes, I will go with you, detective, to protest my innocence, mind you, but no matter what I say, that instrument won’t make a sound.”
”What do you mean?”
”It might look perfect in every way, but in fact, it can’t play music.”
Cole stood in shock, his brow furrowed in thought as he tapped his pen on his notepad.
”It can’t play music?
”No.”
“But… they’d said it was for the concert hall on Wednesday night. That they’d be playing it.”
”Not this one, they won’t. I couldn’t get a squeak out of it, and I can actually play it. Those fools in the orchestra wouldn't have a chance.”
Cole sat on a crate against the wall and felt the energy leave his body. He felt deflated, like this man, the prime suspect on the case of his career, had just popped his balloon and let the air all fizzle out. He still held his notepad and pen in one hand, and cuffs in the other, but he knew that if the orchestra weren’t actually going to use this violin, it wouldn't make this the case he’d hoped for, but he wanted to finish the job nonetheless.
“But this is the golden violin, right?” Cole asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
”I mean, it’s a golden violin, and I ain’t never seen no other,” Glen said with a slight shrug, “and I was told on good authority that it is the golden violin. It came from the orchestra’s crew themselves.”
Cole stood silent, frowning.
”Why?”
”I mean, I don’t even know the real identity of the violin’s owner, let alone his motive behind the theft. It’s just here for a little while.”
Cole’s bewildered look refused to leave his face.
”I can tell you what little I do know?” Glen ventured.
Cole nodded.
”For a small price of course.”
Cole scowled and, after a moment, reluctantly nodded.
”Well, detective, from what little I do know, I believe it was a sort of protest. I can’t say it was for certain, mind you, but there are some people who aren't too happy with the orchestra and its violin.“
This was only followed by the sounds of the party outside, and Cole’s face still betrayed his confusion.
”Big billboards for the famous golden violin; it’s amazing, beautiful, the centrepiece of a world-renowned orchestra! All over Europe they have seen this show and raved about it, praising its grandiosity and musical prowess. And finally, the golden violin is coming here! Except it isn’t really, is it? Have you ever heard anyone describe the golden violin? Tell you of the sounds it makes? No, of course not. No one in Europe ever saw it play. They barely even saw the thing itself. It’s all a charade, one big pretend. Everyone wants to say they’ve seen the orchestra with the golden violin; no one even cares if they’ve heard its music, and the orchestra doesn’t care that people watch them for a violin they don’t even play. They promise you one thing and give you another. Everyone around smiles and claps all the same, so you join in, believe you’re meant to. Except someone, one day, didn’t. And now you’re arresting me for possession of a faulty violin.”
Glen held his hands out, “So handcuffs, if you would please, officer.”
New York Daily Insight Issue #207 p.79
Victory in the hunt for the violin
A source inside the NYPD has confirmed to the Insight that they have recovered the now-infamous golden violin, and it is safely in the possession of the Royal Birmingham Orchestra. The police allegedly had an unnamed suspect in custody, but they have been released without charge. Both the police and orchestra have declined to comment, and the orchestra has begun its series of shows in Carnegie Hall as planned.
He didn’t even get his name in the paper, let alone a photograph.
Excellent read my mate 🕵️♂️