by Joan Smith
“I don't come in here very often. He doesn't like to be disturbed,” I said. “I don't see any sign that he's been here."
Sean began tugging at the locked drawers of the desk, which struck me as rather presumptuous. “You won't find him in there, Sean. That's his personal stuff. Love letters, bank books, whatever work he's composing. He wouldn't have been at his desk tonight."
Sean left the desk and walked back to me. “What do you want to do next?"
I put my hand on my forehead, which had developed a nagging ache and felt warm to the touch. “I don't know what to do. Eleanor Strathroy may have heard something. Maybe he phoned her about the party—to cancel it, I mean, or...
But I couldn't really picture Victor canceling a party devised for his sole honor and glory when it would have given him such pleasure to attend it. The mayor was going and everything. If this were a publicity stunt, he would have cancelled the second concert.
“It's worth a try,” Sean urged.
We went back to use the phone in the living room. When Eleanor, with three servants, answered her own phone, I knew she was in a state of distraction, too. Her voice was strident, querulous. If she hadn't been worried, she would have been doing her imitation of Bette Davis.
“Cassie, where are you?” was her first question.
“I'm at the apartment."
“Is he there?” she asked, almost before I finished speaking. “No, I was hoping you'd have heard from him. He's not with you, then?"
“I haven't heard from him since ten o'clock this morning. He's had an accident,” she decided dolefully. “Victor would never disappoint me like this without a good reason. Did you try the hospitals?"
“The people at Roy Thomson did. He's not in the hospital,” I assured her, trying to get confidence from a vacuum.
“I can't understand what happened. He wasn't drinking today, was he?” Her voice was carefully lowered, to hide her words from listeners at her end.
“No. He wouldn't before a concert. You'll let me know right away if you hear from him? And I'll call you if he turns up here."
“Yes, of course. What a shambles! Half the party came on here and I'm trying to entertain with my head in a whirl. I wish they'd go home.” There was a trace of the Bette Davis growl in her last speech. I thought that pretty soon Eleanor would find some entertainment in her role of worried and loyal mistress.
“I'm awfully sorry about the party."
“Dear child, your mustn't apologize. It's not your fault, and not Victor's either. Something has happened to him. If only Ronald were here,” she sighed, her voice petering out.
“He's not home yet?"
“Not till tomorrow. I must get back to my guests. Thanks for calling, Cassie. Bye."
I hung up and sat frowning into the receiver. I had run out of ideas of how to find Victor. As I sat thinking, Sean came out of the studio. He was frowning, too.
“Maybe it's time to call the police, Cassie,” he suggested hesitantly.
“And report a missing adult, gone for all of three or four hours? They'd think I was neurotic."
His look of hesitancy deepened to doubt. “Is there any chance he got loaded somewhere? Pre-concert jitters— something like that? I read the newspapers. If you think he's tied one on, I could take a run around his favorite bars and get him home."
“He'd never get drunk in public. He's too proud and too jealous of his reputation. He'd hole up in his own digs for a binge. Besides, he was looking forward to this concert. He wasn't in a drinking mood."
“If you say so.” We looked dejectedly at each other for a minute, then Sean spoke. “I don't know about Victor, but it's time you and I had a little something. Where's the liquor cabinet?"
I hate the woody, poisonous taste of Scotch, but it's part of my diplomatic training to take it without wincing, so I made two Scotch and sodas. No calories in the mix anyway. A diplomat can hardly order a piña colada. We took our drinks to the sofa to talk. I went over when I'd last seen my uncle, what his normal routine would be before a concert, and the reasons why I thought he hadn't been in the apartment, though his car parked below suggested he'd been here. I told him about the tuxedo being gone from his room when I got home from work after five. Actually I hadn't seen it since yesterday.
“I imagine a guy like Victor has a housekeeper?” he said.
“Yes, Rhoda Gardiner. She leaves at five. I'll call her and ask when she last saw him."
I know Rhoda mostly through notes, as she comes after I go to work and is gone when I get home, but I'd met her a few times and knew she was no jewel of a woman. Her chocolate cake is about the best thing about her. She told me with an utter lack of concern that Mr. Mazzini had played his violin in the morning and left the apartment sometime during the afternoon, taking his tuxedo and violin with him. She couldn't pinpoint “sometime” more closely.
“Did he seem like himself?” I asked.
“Who else would he seem like?"
“He wasn't nervous or anything?"
“He ate some salami and bread. He wasn't too nervous to eat anyway, but he was a bit jumpy. The concert, I figured. He was in the studio all morning. Did you get my note about dinner?"
“Yes, thanks."
“That's all I can tell you.” The TV was playing in the background. Rhoda had adopted the stars of the nighttime soaps for her own family. I knew she wanted to get back to them and hung up to tell Sean what she'd said.
Sean rubbed his moustache. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“We could have a look in his car and see if his tux is there,” I decided. “There's a spare set of keys on a hook in the kitchen."
We got them and went down the service elevator to the parking garage. Victor drives a white Corvette. It's not really all that comfortable, but he likes the looks of it. The tux was still there in its bag, hung over the passenger seat. There was no sign of his violin. We examined the rest of the car while we were there—glove compartment, floor—but didn't discover any clues.
“He's disappeared. Just disappeared into thin air,” I said, defeated. “The only thing I can think of is that somebody murdered him."
Another of my visions sprang into my head—a gruesome scene of two masked men jumping out of the shadows, hitting Victor on the head with a blackjack and dragging him into a dark alley. Except that it must have happened in broad daylight and it must have happened here, in or near this underground parking lot, as he'd never made it to the apartment. Someone must have been following him or been waiting in the garage.
“If he was here, and he wasn't upstairs, then maybe he's still here,” Sean said logically, and began looking around the parking lot. Into cars, around and between them, even under them, but of course my uncle wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. Logic bedamned, he'd vanished.
“Maybe he didn't drive to the Casa Loma. Maybe he took a cab,” Sean suggested.
“He drove. I asked him. He drives half a block. Any excuse to get into his car. Besides, Rhoda said he left with his violin and the tuxedo. The tux is in the car, and the violin's gone. He had the violin at the Casa Loma.”
“He could have parked here and taken a cab to the hall. He wouldn't need the tax for a sound check. He'd need the violin, so maybe he left the suit in the car. I wonder if the car's broken down."
Despite my aspersions on his logic, he got in and started it up. It worked just fine. I knew Victor wouldn't have taken a cab.
“I dread to think of going back to that damned empty apartment,” I said, with a sudden shudder.
He put a consoling hand on my arm and gave me a bracing, tender smile. “Come on, don't get yourself psyched out. Let's think about this logically. There's got to be an explanation. He was here after five, and he had a concert at eight. Now if he was a rational man, what would he do in the three hour interval? He'd get himself something to eat, right?"
“Rhoda left supper. He didn't touch it. He wasn't in the apartment.” I had a sudden jolt of inspiration. “Maybe he
ate out, in a restaurant close enough that he didn't bother to drive."
“That's probably it. Where would be the likeliest spot?"
“We sometimes eat at the Four Seasons, just up the road. Let's go there and talk to the manager."
He took my arm and we left. I was suddenly very thankful for Sean's sane company. I didn't even want to think about enduring this evening alone.
We walked over to the restaurant in the hotel. It was a lovely spot, but I wasn't there to soak up glamour. The maitre d’ recognized Victor Mazzini's niece. “Good evening, Ms. Newton,” he smiled.
“Good evening.” I asked if my uncle had been here for dinner.
“Not today,” he said. He seemed a little surprised at the question. “A table for two?"
“No, thanks. We're—just going to have a drink at the bar,” I said, as I felt some explanation was necessary for being in there.
We walked off toward the bar. “We're wasting our time,” I said to Sean.
“We might as well check out the bar while we're here.” I gave a mutinous stare but kept walking. The actual bar was populated solely by men, though there were women sitting at the tables in the lounge. We were shown to a small table and handed a list of drinks.
“You won't want to go up to the bar, with all those guys leering at you,” Sean said, making it sound plausible for him to accost the bartender.
“It's a waste of time,” I repeated.
“But since we're here...” He was already on his feet, heading for the bar.
I watched as he did his questioning. I noticed a bill being discreetly palmed by the bartender, and tried vainly to overhear the conversation. I had to interpret by their expressions— Sean's querying, alert, the bartender nodding his head first, smiling, but soon the nod became a negative shake. Yes, he knew Victor Mazzini but he hadn't seen him this evening.
“Zilch,” Sean grimaced when he came back to me.
When the waiter came with our order, I decided to resume control of the investigation. “You're pretty busy here tonight,” I smiled. “That's a good piano player."
“The crowd from Roy Thomson Hall—I hear the violinist didn't show,” he replied.
“Victor Mazzini,” I nodded. “Do you know him at all? Does he ever come here?"
“To the dining room, but no the bar. I've never seen him here.” He left.
I sipped my Scotch and tried to plan a new strategy. “I think I should go back to the apartment,” I said to Sean.
“You're right. This is wasting time.” He gulped the last half of his drink in one swallow, and we left.
At the door to the apartment, I clutched the knob to steady the door while I inserted the key. The knob turned under my fingers, and the door opened inwards. I felt a spasm of shock followed by fear. Something told me I should be glad, that obviously my uncle was home, but I didn't believe it. I felt more frightened than before. Sean stared at the door, then at me. “I left the door locked,” I whispered.
Strangely enough, he didn't show any sign of hope either, but only a tense, wary stiffening of his body, ready for action. He stepped forward, listened a minute, then kicked the door inward. There were no lights on, so he reached in and flicked the switch.
“Christ on a crutch!” he exclaimed.
I peered over his shoulder into a scene of chaos. The strewn pillows, the opened drawers, the disarranged furniture told us the apartment had been ransacked while we were out.
For one brief moment, everything went black. My head felt light, giddy. My knees suddenly turned to water. I'd never fainted in my entire life, but this shock, coming on top of a whole evening of worry, was enough to do it. Through the singing in my ears, I heard Sean's rumbling voice, and felt the reassuring pressure of his hands on my arms.
“Steady now. Let me go first."
I didn't give him an argument, but went in behind him, on shaking legs, waiting for some new calamity to befall me.
CHAPTER 3
“Was Victor a sloppy uncle, or would you say this is someone else's work?” Sean asked. It didn't strike me as the optimum moment for a joke.
“Like a pin."
I walked in, picked a gold velvet cushion up from the floor, tossed it on the sofa and took a good look around. The first impression of vandalism was unfounded, the place was only messed up. There weren't any slash marks, no sofa or chairs with their stuffing pulled out. I automatically began tidying up, and was glad to have something physical to do, while Sean made a quick tour of the apartment.
When he came back he said, “Is anything missing?"
“I don't think so."
“Maybe you ought to leave that till the police have a look around."
“I'm not calling the police.” I didn't know when the decision had been made, but suddenly I said it, and knew I meant it. “Victor has a European tour Lined up for early autumn. He doesn't need a scandal at this juncture. I want to find out what's going on before I call the police."
“You realize whoever got in here has a key?” he asked calmly, and waited for this news to sink in. When my face had turned white and my mouth fallen open, he continued. “Who'd have one, other than yourself and you uncle? Does this Eleanor lady have one?"
“As far as I know, she only comes when she's invited. Of course I'm away all day. It's his place—I don't ask questions."
“There's another thing to consider, Cassie. We were gone for under half an hour. Whoever did this must have been watching the place, waiting for his chance
A surge of emotion, part anger, part terror, welled up in me. “Comforting thought,” I said, trying to sound as calm as he looked.
“You ought to talk to the doorman while things are still fresh in his mind."
“That sounds like a good idea,” I agreed, but I felt incapable of moving. I sat down, crossed my legs and drew a deep sigh. He looked surprised. “I'm just catching my breath."
“Do you want me to go?"
“If you feel up to it."
He went out, setting the lock on the door behind him. I just sat, staring at the wall and the lap of my expensive dress till he came back.
I knew by his dour expression he hadn't learned anything. “No luck,” he said. “Anybody who came into the building the last half hour either lives here or had been invited by somebody who does. Whoever came in must have used the service elevator from the parking garage."
“You need a key to get in the back door of the building as well. Sometimes the door sticks though, and doesn't lock properly. Anyway, how'd he get into the apartment?"
“Any likely suspects here in the building itself?” he asked. I shook my head. It was ridiculous to think the neighbors— mostly well-to-do business, professional or retired people— had done this thing. We only knew them to nod to. There was a flakey redhead next door who glared every time she saw me with Victor and lifted a disbelieving brow when he introduced me as his niece. I thought there might have been something between them before I came, but I didn't look on my uncle's disappearance as a crime of passion. And if it were, I was the one who would have disappeared.
“I guess the next question is why," Sean said. He sat on the sofa and corrugated his forehead in my direction.
“Obviously whoever did this was looking for something,” I said.
“Yeah. I wonder if he found it."
“Did you look in his studio?” Sean nodded. “Had his desk been tampered with?"
He shook his head. “Did he keep much cash in the apartment?” he asked.
It was my turn to shake my head. “There's a jewelry box on his dresser. Want to take a look at it and see if it's been rifled?"
He brought it out, but as far as I could remember, nothing was missing. There was nothing worth stealing in it. Victor bought his “jewelry” at a place that sold zircons or something that looked like diamonds. Good costume jewelry was what he wore, and counted on his reputation to endow it with the aura of authenticity.
We talked about this for a minute, then Sean t
ook another long look around. “It's only big things that were disarranged. Those cupboard doors were open,” he said, tossing his head towards the side wall, where cupboards about a yard high and twice as wide now stood closed. “The sofa and chairs were pulled aside, but whoever was here didn't bother to look in small drawers. Your room was hardly touched. The bottom of the bedspread had been lifted up onto the bed, and the clothes in your closet pulled aside."
“You think he was looking for something big then?” I asked. “How big?"
“Maybe something no bigger than a violin."
“We can eliminate elephants and grand pianos then. Sean, his violin isn't in his car!"
“I suppose it was worth a lot of money. You mentioned it was a Guan—something or other."
“A Guarneri. It's worth quite a bit—maybe he did drop it off here. He had it at the Casa Loma."
“Now will you call the police?” he asked hopefully.
How could I tell him what I really believed—that Victor was pulling off a cheap publicity stunt? Sean obviously thought I was either heartless or deranged, but I stuck to my guns, making much of the harm a scandal would do his career. If the police were called in, the whole thing would be blown up in the papers, and his European tour could be cancelled. There was bound to be some talk after tonight's cancellation, but if he showed up by tomorrow, it might be contained to a minor scandal.
I puzzled over Victor's itinerary after he left the Casa Loma, trying to figure out why he'd brought the car back, but in my own mind, the missing violin convinced me that he was hiding somewhere in a room, practicing away for tomorrow night. A car was a big thing to hide, and the plates were traceable, so he'd left it here. What I couldn't understand was why he'd come home and messed up the apartment. Was it to cause some suggestion that he'd been abducted? Did Victor want me to call the police? I noticed he'd been careful not to harm his good paintings. The Alex Colville, his pride and joy, hung unmarred, and it was worth several thousand dollars. Or maybe he came back for his special imported cigars. He was a real addict.
I took Victor's jewelry box back to his room as an excuse to check the cigars. His humidor, a dark mahogany box that looked like a coffin for a hamster, all lined and insulated, was open and empty. I had been at the door Monday evening, talking to him when he filled it. That supply ought to have lasted at least a week. My heart lifted with relief just before it hardened with anger at his trick.