Playing with Fire

by Gerald Elias

  ‘No body. No tuners,’ Jacobus said. ‘That wasn’t a waste of time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Yumi asked.

  ‘It means there were no violins in the violin shop,’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jacobus said. ‘So now we can add theft to arson and kidnapping.’

  ‘We don’t know if any of that’s true, Mr Jacobus. The investigation is still in its preliminary stages.’

  Yumi interjected.

  ‘What about the school instruments Mr Ubriaco said were at the shop? Shouldn’t there be traces of them?’

  ‘There should. But as I said,’ Benson replied, ‘we haven’t gotten to the basement layer yet. It’s possible we’ll find them there, and the rest of the instruments, though if we do I expect they’ll be two dimensional.’

  Jacobus was hardly assuaged.

  ‘A violin repairman might store some fiddles in the basement, especially the crappier ones. I’ll grant you that. But most likely that’s where he’d store extra wood and materials. The shop itself is where most of the instruments should be, at least the good ones and the ones he’s working on. There is something not kosher in Denmark.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Benson continued, ‘it’s not sound reasoning to base conclusions on the absence of evidence, so now that I’ve told you what we haven’t found, I suspect you’ll be interested to know what we have found, which might cause you to reconsider your conspiracy thoughts. For example, we found the source of the fire.’

  ‘Based upon what?’ Jacobus asked. Sitting in the old school chair he felt like Benson was talking down to him like his old school teacher, Dr Gunter, when he was a boy in Germany. Now, as then, he didn’t like it. ‘Daniel Jacobus, on what date did Martin Luther nail his ninety-five theses to the door of the Wittenberg Church?’ When he didn’t know the answer, Dr Gunter made him write out all the theses as punishment. It was one of the many reasons he’d become an atheist.

  ‘Based upon where the fire burned hottest and the patterns of how it spread,’ Benson answered. ‘We traced the source to a Bunsen burner that must have tipped over and ignited an open can of spirit varnish, knocking it over and causing the varnish to flow over the worktable and floor. And as I noted before, there’s probably no better fuel for a fire than a violin shop.’

  ‘That’s an inflammatory remark.’

  ‘The smallest items we found were the metal parts of some of his hand tools – the wooden handles are long gone. Chisels, scrapers, knives, what have you.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very interesting. All violin makers have that stuff.’

  ‘Except that two of the knife blades were found apart from the rest of his tools. One was outside the house, near the kitchen door in the back, and the other was next to his bed. That particular one was a cleaver, and since the bedroom didn’t burn, it still had the handle.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ said Jacobus. ‘I’ll bet you’re thinking what I’m thinking.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Benson, ‘you’re thinking that the cleaver next to the bed means Borlotti was worried about the possibility of an intruder, and the knife by the door means an intruder might have discarded it after paying a visit.’

  ‘And you’re not thinking that?’ asked Jacobus. ‘You’re thinking that Borlotti used the cleaver to trim his toenails before bedtime?’

  ‘I am not thinking of anything at this point,’ Benson said. ‘But I am having both knives tested for traces of anything that might be helpful.’

  ‘In case he had a hangnail?’ Jacobus mocked. ‘In Ye Olde Shoppe of Horrors?’

  ‘Any luck with file cabinets?’ Nathaniel asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, but only bad,’ Benson said. ‘Total loss. They were old wooden ones. Burned, then flattened by the collapsing roof, then saturated from the hoses and snow, then frozen, then thawed.’

  ‘Well, maybe not a total loss, sir,’ Miller said.

  ‘How so?’ Benson asked stiffly, as if his competence had been questioned.

  ‘Could make good mulch for the garden.’

  ‘To grow lilies over Borlotti’s grave,’ Jacobus muttered.

  ‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Benson continued, unperturbed, ‘we did find a Rolodex file by his bedside that’s still relatively legible, though it’s been damaged by water and smoke. I don’t think I need to deputize you if you’d care to borrow it. Might give you some leads.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Jacobus. With all this talk of smoke he suddenly craved a cigarette.

  ‘The only other thing of possible interest were some letters in a drawer in Borlotti’s bedside table.’

  ‘A cleaver, a Rolodex, and letters,’ said Jacobus. ‘Curious bedfellows. What’s in the letters?’

  ‘Sadly, we’ll never know. Illegible beyond reconstruction.’

  ‘Maybe someone on the Rolodex will know where Mr Borlotti is and we can find out what happened,’ Yumi said.

  ‘I doubt it. This story is no simple Dittersdorf ditty,’ Jacobus said. ‘For starters, take Benson’s Bunsen. The burner might have started the fire, sure, but it didn’t turn itself on. Someone lit it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nathaniel agreed. ‘And for the very reason that things are so combustible in a violin shop, the violinmakers I know keep their varnish at a safe distance from the flame in the unlikely event it would fall over.’

  Miller added, ‘And you also have to wonder if a little Bunsen burner falling could knock over a big can of varnish? Or did someone help it along?’

  ‘And come to think of it,’ Yumi said, ‘if the Bunsen burner was on, it means Mr Borlotti was working. Why would he have been working late at night on Christmas Eve?’

  Nathaniel chimed in. ‘And why was it that not only he disappeared into thin air after the fire started, but all the violins as well?’

  Miller added, ‘And what’s the deal with the knives?’

  ‘I’ve got my own question,’ Jacobus said. He rubbed his weary face, realized he hadn’t shaved for a long time, and decided he didn’t care. ‘Why the hell did I not find out from Borlotti what the trouble was when I had the chance?’ He inhaled the scent of the old schoolroom once more. ‘Class dismissed.’

  EIGHT

  By the time they returned to Jacobus’s poorly insulated house, the sun had gone down and the cold had seeped in. The thermostat in the living room had dipped to fifty-two and the woodstove was barely warm to the touch. Jacobus, exhausted, fell back on to his creaking couch and allowed his two friends to do one of the few chores that on all other occasions gave him pleasure – keeping the fire going. Nathaniel carried in an armload of logs from the shed where they kept dry, and dumped them into the woodstove. Jacobus heard Yumi tear pages from the Shopper’s Guide for kindling. When she abruptly stopped he asked her why.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just looking at some of these ads. I could have gotten you a kayak for Christmas instead of a CD player,’ she said. ‘Only eight hundred dollars. Like new, paddles included.’

  ‘I’ll give you a paddle,’ he replied.

  ‘You’d be up the creek without one,’ she said. ‘Then how about a three-hundred-gallon aquarium with free starter kit?’

  ‘Sounds fishy.’

  ‘Here’s one: “Vintage gas wood-splitter. Needs loving home”.’

  ‘You’re giving me gas.’

  ‘Hey, how about …’ Yumi stopped in midsentence.

  ‘How about what? Cat got your tongue? Is someone offering lessons on “how to be a mime in one easy lesson”?’

  ‘No. It’s a wanted ad for violins.’

  ‘Someone wants to buy a three-quarter-size Stradivarius?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It says, “Top price for violins, old or new, regardless of condition.” There’s no name. Only a phone number.’

  ‘I’m not planning on selling my violin anytime soon,’ Jacobus said. ‘Though if I don’t start practicing a little, you’ll wish I had.’
>
  ‘It’s not that. I think the phone number is the one you used to call Amadeo Borlotti. Could this mean he’s holed up somewhere?’

  Nathaniel stopped loading the woodstove, but Jacobus beat him to the obvious question.

  ‘If the phone number he used to call us was the number at the house that burned down, why would this make you think he’s holed up somewhere?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Yumi replied. ‘Maybe he wasn’t really calling from his house.’

  Nathaniel quickly went into the kitchen and eventually found the white pages under a dusty pile of user manuals for kitchen appliances that had long since become inoperative.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That phone number is listed under Borlotti’s home address.’

  ‘How old’s that Shopper’s Guide?’ Jacobus asked.

  ‘Current,’ said Yumi.

  ‘Puzzling. And why is it that someone who’s been in business as long as he has is still trolling for crummy violins from Granny’s attic?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s see if I can find out,’ Nathaniel said. He found the number for the Shopper’s Guide office and was connected to Astrid, the ad editor. Jacobus listened on his living room extension.

  ‘I hope this is going to be quick,’ Astrid said. ‘I was supposed to be out of here a half hour ago. Everyone’s trying to unload the junk they got for Christmas.’

  Nathaniel assured her he would be brief. He referred to Borlotti’s ad and asked how recently he had placed it.

  ‘Sure, I know the ad,’ Astrid said. ‘It’s been running a long time.’

  ‘How long is long?’ Nathaniel asked.

  ‘Years. Ads like his get automatically renewed from month to month as long as the customer keeps paying for it, and I see that the Borlotti account is still active. Small businesses do it all the time. It’s a very cheap way to advertise. Anything else?’

  With no great expectations, Jacobus asked if they knew who might have responded to Borlotti’s ad. He received the response he anticipated. Astrid told him the newspaper didn’t keep records of any of that.

  Yet another beguiling, unanswered question. Jacobus was about to hang up when Astrid added, ‘But you might want to check with Arnold Westerhauser. He’s a fancy-shmancy antiques dealer in Sheffield and runs quarter-page ads with us every once in a while. I think he’s had violins from time to time.’

  Nathaniel found the number for Westerhauser Fine Antiques in the Yellow Pages and called. There was no answer or even a recorded message to inform them when it would be open.

  Jacobus had had enough sleuthing for one day and wanted to listen to some more Vivaldi and Corelli over several tall glasses of Macallan, but Yumi suggested, ‘Why don’t we divide the alphabet in three and call the names on the Rolodex?’

  ‘Must we?’ asked Jacobus.

  ‘You have something more important to do, Jake?’ Nathaniel asked as he relit the woodstove.

  ‘Yeah. Take a crap. My physician ordered me to do my utmost to remain regular.’

  ‘Jake, you haven’t been regular since I’ve known you,’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘What if we just give you W through Z?’ Yumi suggested. ‘There can’t be many of those. I’ll do A through L, and Nathaniel will do M through V. When it’s your turn I’ll tell you the names one by one with the phone numbers.’

  ‘All right! All right! Since you insist on ganging up on a helpless, infirmed elder, what choice do I have? How unseemly of you both.’

  ‘What should we ask when they answer the phone?’ Yumi asked.

  ‘How about, “Excuse me, but are you holding Amadeo Borlotti hostage?” When they say yes, problem solved.’

  ‘Just for the sake of argument,’ Nathaniel countered, ‘Let’s say they don’t come right out and say they’re holding him hostage. I’d suggest we ask about their relationship to Borlotti and the last time they saw him. If it was a business relationship, maybe we can find out what their dealings with him were. Maybe they’ll know how to contact him. With violin dealers you never know what kind of shenanigans you’ll come up with.’

  As they were about to start dialing, Jacobus shouted, ‘Saved in the Saint Nick of time!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Yumi asked, but then heard what Jacobus had already heard, a car coming down the driveway.

  ‘That’ll be Roy Miller’s truck,’ he said.

  Miller knocking on the door and stomping his feet to remove the snow almost obscured another noise that instantly aroused Jacobus’s interest.

  ‘Ah! Santa’s brought us a post-Christmas present!’ Jacobus said, reinvigorated before Miller was even fully into the house. ‘I must’ve been a good boy this year. Yumi, pour the man a scotch. Double. We don’t want to put that wood in the fire, do we? That wood’s special, isn’t it?’

  ‘I confess,’ Miller said. ‘Tell me how you figured that one out.’

  ‘Why, I asked myself, would Roy Miller be stopping by the woodstove on a snowy evening? Must have something to do with the investigation, of course. When you knocked on the door you dropped that box you’re carrying, and I could hear there was wood rattling inside. But it wasn’t the mundane clunk of logs from the woodshed. Too high-pitched. And well-pitched! More like the sound of planks. Dried planks. Considering the theme of the day, I’d have to say it’s wood for making violins. So Benson was able to salvage something from the house after all?’

  ‘Well, you got most of that right,’ Miller said. ‘But this wasn’t in the house. It came in the mail for Borlotti. Today.’

  ‘Someone who didn’t know Borlotti was missing?’ Nathaniel asked.

  ‘Actually, it was sent it before he went missing,’ Miller answered. He withdrew one of the planks from the box and handed it to Jacobus, who gauged by feel that it was about fifteen by twenty-four inches and about two inches thick.

  ‘It’s no big deal for a violinmaker to have wood shipped to him,’ said Jacobus. ‘But since you brought it here, you and Benson suspect something more. Is that right, Roy?’

  ‘We do. It was shipped from Italy. Second, it looks pretty old. But that’s all we know. We thought maybe you folks could help us out.’

  ‘It does looks old,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Very old. It’s quite lightweight so it’s thoroughly dried. Maple. For the violin backs, ribs, and scroll. The edges are gray, but the face of it is fresh—’

  ‘Meaning it’s an old piece but was only sliced up recently,’ Jacobus said.

  ‘Yes, and the grain is really something, with a very striking flame,’ Nathaniel said. ‘You don’t see much of this quality around anymore. It’s got to be expensive.’

  ‘So in other words we need to wonder what a hack like Borlotti would be doing with such A-1 merchandise,’ Jacobus said. ‘Who’s the supplier?’

  ‘There was no name on the package. No note on the inside. Not even a bill. Only an address. Cerretello Secondo, from a town called Cassalbuttano. We’ll try to find out who it might be.’

  Neither Jacobus, Nathaniel, nor Yumi had ever heard of the place.

  ‘Just out of curiosity,’ Jacobus said, ‘how did Benson know the contents of the package?’

  Miller seemed reticent.

  ‘Marge, at the Egremont Falls post office, is also Sigurd’s part-time secretary. She called Sigurd and told him a package for Borlotti had arrived, and seeing how he was missing and his house had burned down, she didn’t know what to do with it – deliver it, hold it, or send it back. Sigurd said he’d pick it up and take care of it.’

  ‘So far, so good. But isn’t it against the law to open someone else’s mail?’

  Miller cleared his throat.

  ‘I suppose. Sigurd said he left it in his office with his door unlocked, and when he went back somehow it had been opened.’

  Miller downed his drink, hurriedly excused himself, and wished everyone a pleasant evening. Nathaniel, who after his Christmas vacation in the Berkshires would be returning to New York City, offered to take the wood to Boris Dedubian, the well-known inter
national violin dealer, for further analysis.

  Jacobus, who had known Dedubian for decades, said, ‘Just make sure he signs a receipt for it, or it’ll end up on his next violin.’

  After Miller left, they returned to the Rolodex and started dialing phone numbers, holding out the general hope that someone on the list would give their investigation some direction.

  ‘This is a conspiracy!’ Jacobus declared, when he found out there were more names on the list between Watkins and Zera than between Alden and Levine.

  After three hours of calling, they reconvened in the living room with what remained of the bottle of Macallan to compare notes. Some of the phone numbers either were no longer in service or had become marred by the effects of the fire, making dialing the correct number a roll of the dice. Those who answered the phone were indeed Borlotti’s business contacts who had bought or had violins repaired by him, though some of them hadn’t had any dealings with him for years. In general, they had been palpably, though understandably, reluctant to be forthcoming. Even a reasonable person might feel put upon when confronted out of the blue by such troubling events, especially in the aftermath of a holiday. After Yumi suggested they try beginning the conversation with, ‘We’d like to wish you a happy holiday and only need a moment to ask you about …’ the hang-ups diminished. Still, no one was particularly enthusiastic about discussing his or her relationship to Borlotti except to say he had gotten them good deals and they were absolutely content with the quality of his work. In response to their final question, the only question of consequence, really, the unanimous answer was, ‘No, I have no idea where Borlotti might be.’

  Nathaniel and Yumi chalked up the brusque responses to the unfortunate timing. Jacobus, who had a lower opinion of humanity than his friends, wasn’t ready to be so accommodating. He thought they sounded like they were hiding something.

  ‘Here’s to humanity,’ he said, and drained his scotch.

  Jacobus decided to call it a night, whether or not his friends agreed with him. He went to load some logs into the stove for the night, when the phone rang. It had to have been after midnight. He lifted the receiver. Maybe it was one of Borlotti’s customers who’d had a change of heart.