Evening Star Newspaper, March 9, 1930, Page 96

12 THE SUNDAY STAR, W FIRST OBOE === One of the Prize Storfs This Story, Selected From the Short Fiction of the Past Year, Is Considered an Quistanding Example of Modern Story Writing—Another Prize Story, Written by Katharine Brush, Will Appear in The Star’s Magazine Next Sunday. 1k ;§§Egigt i i 1 11 1] i f : ] i z 0k ; 4 ERR MULLER mopped his brow and bumped his empty stein heavily on the table. “Noch eins!” Presently the waiter plumped down @ fresh dripping one with an obsequious “Als0,” and was off again. Dark, foaming Low- enbrau, straight from Muncheon. Herr Muller was not stinting himself in quality or quan- today. u“?Yea-—Zbe young rascal writes music. Real music.” He nodded portentously to himself. * Humming a fragment of a tune, he toyed with .the big stein, lifting it cautiously until the dlmpmtdmppedofl’mehmmmtomm His mild, round face was flushed. “and I know good music—even if an upstart writes it.” By way of emphasis he emptied a were 40 long years at the first oboe desk of _the excellent symphony orchestra of the small city of Preifurt. He was admittedly the ablest musician of the band, and his dependability s :;: almost a snperafit.lox:jn :n':cto,‘uw?e players Miiller, the ol86at eimbie' of 6k he had never been known to miss a performance, an excellent oboist, to be sure. blow a cracked tone, or even indulge in an ordi- “In five minutes I should have been late.” “I was almost going to say something, Herr Muller, but didn’t wish to presume. In all these years I have never known you to be late.” “S0?” Herr Muller looked up 3 m:!"'emkhkm I am just 40 years late, to- ‘The waiter had a light touch with customers the Master Spy of Germany, Terror of S don’t know anything. Let the French ap in it—and no rough atuff. There's en The chief rubbed his hands cheerfully. “Guess we've done & little master sp ourselves,” he chuckled. Sommwmmmm _ some one higher than any police officer 2 EE eer. - Social success to professional, for no born to excellent position, tered, knew seven languages. Y H no one whispered, passing him, “That’s Muller, the great composer!” He was just an oboist— but somehow, in all these years he had never seen it quite that way. So obvious to others. Composer and player—two different worlds! e « .« Well, he knew it now. He thought back, with a troubled look in his pale blue eyes, to that symphony he had started e0 blithely when he was 16. Yes, in those days he was to be another Beethoven. Did he not jot down themes in a little notebook from morning till night?—walk about, head high, hands behind back, as a young Beethoven would? A reminiscent smile tugged at the corners of his beard. And as for the oboe— why merely a practical solution for an am- :’thus young composer; a chance to earn an nest living while learning the ins and outs of the orchestra. He tried to whistle that ma- fnts, ‘i sngtnecred Wnring. doRN. jestic opening theme—in E flat, wasn't it? But To conceal his smuggling he set up a broker- it was gone, . . . * The steins which the waiter replaced un- bidden disappeared one after another; thoughts went flickering about his head. . . . é Books and papers in the apartment d Zurich bore out Zero’s charges, indicated greater flights of the Master's genius. the first Russian revolution of early 1817, German secret service had taken Lenin exile in Switzerland through Germany to R an easy tool, and had been a broker. As spy he or others for him conducted a }ES, it would be pleasant if tonight he were o st I* the straight young man at the conductor’s desk, his the new work. And some other old . workhorse puffing away on the oboe, mindful of “We've got him,” said the American chief. little holds . . . eyes glued to the music g “This clinches the thing. It's what the French « « «» countingvests . . . always count- ed, A have longed for. We'll give it to them——" mg. . . “If our American service gets the credit “One, two, three, four, five—ach!” Herr openly,” he explained, as the younger man Muller sald aloud, waiving his arm. The waiter looked disappointed, “we lose our greatest ad-