Locker 31 and the Cello With No Owner
The bus depot stored lost luggage in a back room, and on Saturdays Rennie helped his uncle sort it. That morning a cello case sat alone in the middle of the floor, and a paper tag tied to its handle read only "Locker 31."
"Every claimed bag has a name on its tag," his uncle explained. "This one has a place instead, which means somebody wanted us to look there."
Locker 31 was in the main hall, and its small door was locked. Rennie checked his uncle's ring of keys and found the one that fit. Inside lay a violin bow, a roll of rosin wrapped in a handkerchief, and a ticket stub for a concert at the college music hall dated nine days earlier.
"Whoever lost the cello also lost the bow," Rennie said slowly. "Nobody leaves a bow behind on purpose. It would be like leaving a pen and keeping an empty notebook."
He phoned the music hall, and a cheerful receptionist explained that a visiting student named Imogen had performed that night and then missed her bus home in the crowd. She had been frantic ever since, but she never realized she had left her things in two separate places.
Imogen arrived the following afternoon with a spare coat and an enormous smile. She tuned the strings right there in the waiting area, drew the bow across them once, and the long low note rolled through the whole depot. A few travelers stopped to listen, and one of them even forgot to board his bus.