Friendly applause. I went back and pretended to get the envelope with the coded Swing parts from the piano but, in point of fact, did a double switch, keeping the envelope with the harmless parts. I said into the mike, “And if I could please have Mr. Fumio Dakuzaku step up to the platform at this time?” I waved him up. He looked vastly out of his element.

I said to the crowd, “Mr. Dakuzaku has been a champion of this composition Swing”—I waved above my head the envelope containing the new parts I’d just finished copying that morning—“not only by being on the committee in Japan that selected it, but by supervising its performance here.” Much applause for Fumio, led by me. “Mr. Dakuzaku: as thanks for all you have done to promote world harmony, I have been authorized to turn the copyright of Swing over to you and your government, with any future royalties on this work to go to the Japanese charitable organization of your choice, sir. Thank you, Mr. Dakuzaku!” I handed him the envelope and shook his hand as photographs were snapped.

He opened the envelope to check that all the right-named parts were there. He counted them and then went through them again, repeating a litany he had clearly memorized, “Alto, alto, tenor, tenor, baritone sax, trumpet one, two, three, four . . .” Reassured, he again shook my proffered hand.

“I believe the consul general was signaling to you, sir,” I said to him, pointing to the distinguished gentleman across the garden. Holding on tightly to the music, Fumio hurried across the courtyard.

I walked casually back to the piano and reached for the envelope with the “dangerous” version of Swing.

It wasn’t there.

A few steps away, I saw Kat peering into the envelope. He closed it and looked at me knowingly. “I saw what you did,” he said.

“Really.”

Kat nodded. “Yes. You switched parts right now, didn’t you?”

I was trying to learn from Lieutenant Culpepper’s book. I said nothing. Let Kat speak again.

“I believe I know why you did it.” He smiled and handed me the envelope with the top secret arrangement. “You took your name off the parts, didn’t you?”

Jurgen Haffner, as a courtesy to me, had put an “Arranged by Ray Sherwood” credit at the end of each part. Subconsciously, I’d forgotten to do the same.

“I do not blame you one bit,” said Kat, lowering the top of the piano. “That has to be the worst garbage I ever heard. You got away with it today, and boy, I thank you for that. What a performance! But you won’t be able to introduce this composition everywhere. You were right to remove your name. You have your reputation to consider.”