hand.
Andy,' Ollie said.
A name he had used many times before. Andy. Sounded like a large man's name. Andy Fulton was the whole handle he often used on undercover. Big large name. 'Reason I'm here
'Yeah, Andy?'
'. . . is I heard some chick was handing out hundred-dollar bills
'Wish I knew a chick like that.'
'. . . for delivering letters, was what I heard.'
'Right,' Jonesy said.
Ollie didn't know whether the man thought he was shitting him or whether he knew something about Melissa Summers buying messengers. He waited. Nothing seemed to be forthcoming.
'Figured I might pick me up some change,' Ollie offered.
'Right,' Jonesy said again.
Ollie waited.
Traffic zipped by, horns honking, this city.
'You know who might know about that?' Jonesy said.
'Who?' Ollie asked.
Jonesy stood up abruptly. He swung one arm over his head, waved to a bench on the other side of the statue, and yelled out, 'Emma? C'mere a sec, okay?'
Which is how Ollie came face to face with the man who'd stolen his priceless manuscript.
'DO I REALLY have to read all this stuff?' Melissa asked.
He hated questions that did not require answers. Would he have gone to all the trouble of picking up a program and all these reviews if he hadn't wanted her to read them?
'It will familiarize you with what's about to come down,' he said, falling into the vernacular, but perhaps that was all she understood.
Melissa pulled a face.
She looked at her watch.
In twenty minutes, she would have to leave here for Grover Park, where she would watch the stationhouse from across the street, to make sure the last letter of the day was delivered by the Chosen Junkie of the Hour. Meanwhile . . .
The title page of the program read:
Three at Three
'An inadvertent palindrome,' the Deaf Man said. 'What's that?' 'A palindrome?'
'All of it.'
'Inadvertent means accidental. A palindrome is something that reads the same forwards or backwards. I doubt very much that the people who designed that program realized that 'Three at Three' is a palindrome.'
'Oh. Yeah,' she said, her eyes widening. 'Three at Three! It is the same forwards or backwards.'
'Actually, a palindrome should read forwards or backwards letter by letter. 'Three at Three' only partially qualifies. Then again, I'm sure its use was accidental.'
'So what's 'Three at Three'?'
'Three concerts at three o'clock.'
'Oh. Is this our Saturday concert?'
'The very one,' he said.
'Well, well,' she said, and opened the program.
There was a performance schedule and program for the first of the 'Three at Three' concerts, which had taken place last Saturday and Sunday. She turned several pages and found the schedule for this weekend's performances. First, there was a full-page picture of Konstantinos Sallas, the guest soloist. He appeared to be a man in his late thirties, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking as he peered at the camera past the curved neck of the violin he was holding in his left hand.
The following page offered a biography of the man. Melissa skimmed it. Born in 1969 — she'd guessed his age about right — began studying violin when he was six, continued his studies at the Greek Conservatory, and then Juilliard in New York, won an Onassis Foundation scholarship, made his concert debut in Athens when he was sixteen years old, won the International Sibelius Competition in Helsinki when he was seventeen, and won both the Pa-ganini International and the Munich International while he was still in his teens. Before his concert debut with the
London Symphony, he had also taken top prizes in the Hannover, Kreisler, and Sarasate violin competitions.
On the next page, there was a program of what would be performed at this weekend's 'Three at Three' concerts. The first half of the bill would be Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, opus 61 . . .
'That's the one Sallas will be playing,' the Deaf Man explained.
The second half would be Brahms' Symphony No 4 in E Minor . . .
'Is he playing this one, too?' Melissa asked.
'No. Poor man would need a rest after the D Major.'
'So he's just playing that one thing, is that it?'
'That's it. A lovely piece. Starts with four timpani beats
'What's a timpani?'
'A kettle drum.'
'Oh.'
'Four soft timpani beats,' he said. 'Read the man's reviews, he's truly phenomenal.'
Melissa picked up the glossy sheet he'd handed her along with the program. She looked at her watch again. Sighing, she began reading.
'This wizard of the strings played Stravinsky's Violin Concerto and Ravel's Tzigane. His interpretations were humorous, fiery, and breathtaking . . .'
'Every sound that the extraordinary Sallas produced on his Stradivarius was like a shimmering crystal, which, against the heavy brass lines . . .'
'Konstantinos Sallas plays with consistent commitment, exquisite clarity and a thrilling
'It takes rare charm and brilliant execution for a solo violinist to hold the entranced attention of an entire
'Konstantinos Sallas brought singularly lustrous tonal
effects and colors to the Sibelius
'I get the picture,' Melissa said, and handed the program and the publicity sheet back to him.
'Anything else you get?' he asked.
'What?' she said.
'Look again,' he said, waving the program back at her.
She turned to the schedule for this Saturday and Sunday.
Konstantinos Sallas, solo violinist with the . . .
'Oh,' she said.
'Yes?'
'His name.'
... Sallas, solo violinist. . .
'Yes?'
'It's what you said before. A whatchamacallit.' Yes?'
'The letters,' she said. 'They spell the same thing forwards or backwards.'
... Sallas ...
'Sallas,' she said. 'His name.'
'Good girl,' he said, and wondered how many other people were beginning to catch on along about now.
'DON'TYOU SEE?' Carella said. 'It reads the same forwards or backwards.'
They were all clustered around his desk now, studying the Deaf Man's final note of the day.
