by Joan Smith
After the first gulp of fright, I returned to my senses. “He must be a very friendly sort of kidnapper, if you're back on that track. What he actually took was Victor's cigars."
“You don't know that. Maybe there was something else in that humidor. But it's not big enough...
“No, he'd have searched the apartment first. The very fact that someone has been here makes it pretty clear he didn't find what he was after at the apartment. But what did you mean—it's not big enough? The humidor is big enough for money or jewels or an important paper."
Sean was flushing uneasily. Why? “What I mean is,” he explained, “we kind of thought it was a bigger thing the guy was looking for. You remember we talked about it last night. Little places weren't searched. It was under beds, in closets, behind sofas that he looked, in both cases. The canisters in the kitchen, for instance—he didn't touch them. I don't know whether you noticed, but the small drawers weren't opened either. The desk drawers were all neatly closed."
“You still think it was his violin they were after? Victor had it with him at the Casa Loma. If that's all the man wanted, he'd have got it when he got my uncle. He wouldn't still be searching for it."
I was looking around the room as we had this discussion. It was then it first occurred to me that Sean was very sharp to have noticed the size of places that had been searched. It might have occurred to me eventually, but he came out with it not a minute after we saw the state of the apartment the night before. Almost as if he knew the violin was what the man was after, or as if he'd been trained in this kind of work.
I turned and examined him while he looked around. He
looked kind of ragged around the edges for a policeman. A
private detective, possibly? “Are you some kind of cop?” I
asked.
His reaction struck me as overdone. “Me?” he asked, his eyes stretched wide, forehead crinkled like a washboard. “I'm a hardware salesman. Plains of Nebraska, remember?"
“Where in Nebraska?” If he said Omaha, which was the only city I could think of, I'd give my suspicions more thought.
“North Platte,” he said, without a second's hesitation.
“Where's that?"
“In the southwest, on the Platte River. You must have heard of North Platte!” he said. His injured accent sounded very genuine.
“Sure, I've heard of it.” But I'd get out the atlas as soon as I got home and check its location all the same. And I still found it fishy that he'd memorized the apartment phone number, too, in the midst of the confusion last night.
“What made you think I was a cop?” he asked, deciding to be flattered at the imputation. At least I hadn't accused him of being on the other side of the law. That possibility hadn't occurred to me at the time. That came quite a bit later.
“You pick up on things so quickly."
As I studied his face, a smile peeped out, showing his overlapped teeth. “I love this kind of stuff,” he admitted sheepishly. “I watch all the detective shows on TV. Read MacDonald, Hammett, Chandler. It's a real treat for me, being able to horn in on this case. I even thought of being a private eye, but there wasn't much call for it in North Platte."
“I know how you feel. There isn't much opportunity to be a Sybarite in Maine. I kind of enjoy mysteries myself, but I wish somebody other than Victor were involved in this one. Well, what would Philip Marlowe do next? Bash somebody on the head, I expect."
“It's old Phil who gets bashed around. Our best bet is to get back to the apartment. There's not much to be done here. Somebody came and looked around. I wonder if he got what he was looking for,” he added, rubbing his chin.
“If the apartment has been ransacked again, we'll know he didn't find what he was after here."
It was time to give some serious consideration to the possibility Victor hadn't kidnapped himself. This wasn't one of his publicity stunts. I had been quite sure we'd find him here, playing his own records or his violin. My nose had been ready for the assault of stale cigar smoke; I even found myself missing it. I was lonesome for Victor and worried sick. “Let's go,” I said. My voice was husky.
“I've scared you with my talk of break-ins and kidnapping. There's one reassuring thing in it,” he pointed out. He put his hands on my arms, just the way Ronald had that morning, but his hands felt kinder, warmer. His nails, I noticed, were cut off flat and short with scissors. He had a half moon scar on his right knuckle. A hammer would make a little mark like that. Ronald's nails were manicured.
“The cigars,” he said, “that looks as if he's alive all right. And whoever's got him, they're bighearted enough to care for his comfort. He can't be tied up either, or he wouldn't be able to smoke them. He's just being kept locked up somewhere till the guy gets what he's after."
“But what is he after? And maybe the man took the cigars for himself. Maybe he smokes, too.” I looked up from Sean's hands to his eyes, grave with sympathy. “None of it makes any sense. Victor had his violin with him, so that's not what they're looking for. He doesn't own a fortune—a violinist doesn't make as much money as you might think. He has alimony payments, and between this cottage and his apartment in Toronto, he doesn't have a bulging bank account.”
Sean heard me out patiently. About midway through my speech, he dropped his hands. “I don't know, but whoever's got him sure as hell isn't keeping him locked up for no reason. He must have something that's pretty valuable."
“His talent is his most valuable possession, and no one can steal that."
I cudgeled my brain all the way home, hardly noticing the stunning scenery. What did Victor have that was worth stealing? The capriccio he'd written for me (maybe for me)? That wasn't very likely. He wasn't much of a composer. And if he'd meant to perform it in public, he'd have copyrighted it first. He wasn't a rank amateur. He traveled internationally, which drew forth the specter of spying. A formula, a microdot film? No, thieves wouldn't look under beds for that. Some sort of new computer secret in the form of software? When I suggested this to Sean, he gave a disbelieving stare.
“I think we can rule out international espionage,” he said very firmly.
Hunger pangs assailed me as we drove home. I could hear Sean's stomach complaining, too, and looked hopefully at the McDonald's signs. I was already salivating and totaling up the calories in a Big Mac and fries. He noticed the second time I craned my neck around to gaze longingly at the golden arches.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a health food joint,” he said. “I could go for a Big Mac right about now myself.” It must have been ESP.
I could hardly remember how I'd talked myself into this vegetarian corner. Oh yes, it was his comment about hunting.
“Don't let me keep you from eating. I can have some fries and a milk shake.” But it was a cheeseburger I craved, with the cheese melting in an orange river over the beef.
Sean pulled in at the next McDonald's, and proved to be a perfect gentleman after all. He brought me a Big Mac, and insisted I eat it, just this once. “You need protein to keep up your strength,” he ordered quite severely.
I was so pleased with him that I told him what Betty Friske had said. “He might have given her a key!” Sean exclaimed.
“He might, but what worries me is why she wants to see him. She threatened him, Sean. What could she be going to the police about? I know perfectly well Victor didn't steal anything or something like that."
“How old is she?” he asked.
“The shady side of thirty-five, I'd say, but well preserved. Why?"
“Leave her to me. I have a way with older women."
“Older women go for that macho line, do they?” It was petty of me. “The balding head probably helps."
“Bald!” The howl caused heads to turn three tables away.
“I didn't say bald. Balding—there's a difference. You still have quite a bit of hair. You probably won't be bald for four or five years."
“Jeez, you really know how to wreck a guy's appetite,” he
complained and ate on with no noticeable decrease in either speed or pleasure.
Everything was just as we'd left it when we got back to the apartment including Victor's Corvette parked in the garage. I didn't see Betty's door open when we went into the apartment, and after about two minutes Sean said he was going down to talk to her. “I'd better put my hat on,” he said, patting his hairline and glaring at me.
“And leave it on,” I urged.
I kept my door ajar and heard him charm his way in like a snake oil salesman. He thickened up his accent a few degrees.
“Howdy, Ma'am,” he said. “The name's Bradley, Sean Bradley. A friend of Victor Mazzini—the gentleman that lives next door. I can't seem to get a line on him. The rascal's run to ground and forgot to pay me a little old debt. It's only a couple of hundred, but I'm visiting in your fine city and find myself a bit short."
The next thing I heard was her door open and Sean's boots shuffle in. I waited ten minutes (twelve and a half, actually), and when he came back, his lower face was bruised.
“Now there is one lonesome lady!” he exclaimed and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. As the handkerchief was red with white polka dots, I couldn't see the lipstick on it, but I knew it would be there.
I swallowed down my revulsion and said, “Did you find out anything?"
“Oh yeah. Victor's hawking some jewelry for her. She gave him a diamond ring and a bracelet, and she hasn't seen hide or hair of him since. Just three days ago, she handed them over. What do you make of it?"
“Harry Walton,” I said, and explained. “He's a friend of Victor's who handles second hand jewelry. I'm sure my uncle wasn't planning to steal them."
“Why don't you give Harry a call and be sure?"
“I will."
I called Harry, and heard with a rush of relief that Victor had taken the ring and bracelet to him. He didn't have a buyer yet, but a woman was interested in the ring. Harry asked about Victor's disappearance; I said we hadn't found out much yet and hung up.
“It's funny Victor was selling Betty's jewelry. I thought he wasn't seeing her these days,” I said.
“He goes over to her place when you're out. You're too young to scandalize with the affair. What I was wondering is whether she has a key. She said he goes there. I didn't like to ask her right out."
“I thought from your dislocated jaw you might be intimate enough to enquire."
“Not yet, but I'm working on it,” he smiled softly. “Betty thinks bald men are sexy."
“Betty thinks all men are sexy. Betty is probably a nymphomaniac."
He smiled blissfully. “And I was afraid a Canadian holiday might be dull. Just goes to show you."
CHAPTER 6
“Do you think you could handle a drink, with those sore lips?” I asked.
Sean oozed a leery smile at me. “A cold beer would hit the spot,” he agreed. “They could do with some cooling down."
It did hit the spot, and I was glad I had a little alcohol in me when the phone rang. I only jumped one foot, instead of going through the ceiling.
“This is Mr. Bartlett from the Bank of Montreal speaking,” the disembodied voice announced—a flat, banker's voice. “I've been reading of Mr. Mazzini's disappearance in the papers. Have you had any word from him?"
Already a nervous upheaval was building under my ribs. Banks weren't chummy enough to be making a purely social call. I explained who I was, and told him no, we hadn't had any word.
“I'm a little worried about his loan,” he said, in a voice that was more than just a little worried.
“Loan?” The nervous upheaval escalated to a quake. “The loan he arranged last week. It's insured against his death, of course, but in the case of a disappearance, I—well quite frankly, Miss Newton, I don't know what to do. I'm the Loan Manager. I personally approved the loan and now to have him disappear...” His tone implied it was pretty shabby behavior on Victor's part.
I gulped and said, “I'm sure he'll turn up soon. How much is the loan for?”
“I can't divulge that information over the phone."
Bankers understand money as surely as Betty Friske understands sex, so I tried a little guile on him. “I see. I thought perhaps you wanted me to meet the payments in his absence."
There was interest in his reply, but doubt was paramount. How did he know by my voice I was penniless? “It was a rather large loan."
“How large?"
“As I said, I can't divulge that over the phone."
Sean, listening at my shoulder, covered the receiver with his hand and said, “We can go down in person.” I relayed this to Mr. Bartlett, and a meeting was arranged for as soon as we could get there. His eagerness gave rise to shattering worries about the size of Victor's loan.
Since my uncle used the closest bank, it was hardly more than an elevator ride away.
“He won't tell me anything if you're along,” I pointed out to Sean. “He wouldn't even tell me, and I'm Victor's niece."
“I'm your fiancé,” he decided. “Maybe you better let me do the talking."
Help was one thing, and appreciated, but taking over was less welcome. This was a family matter, and he sounded like he didn't think I could handle it. “No, maybe I better not!” He took my decision quietly, so I let him tag along.
Mr. Bartlett looked more prepossessing than his voice had led me to imagine. He was tall, a slender man with graying hair and tinted glasses. He wore a dark suit, even in summer, and had a private office of sorts, the privacy diluted by a glass wall from the waist up.
I introduced Sean as my fiancé, and rushed on to do the talking myself. I figured an appeal to Bartlett's greed was my best lever, and outlined that my uncle would be greatly embarrassed to have his financial reputation stained by not meeting his loan payments, so if he'd just tell me how much the payment would be, and when it was due, I'd sell some securities (this I managed without a blush) and make the payment for him. Was it due now?
“Oh no! Not till the middle of July. He only arranged the loan a week ago. It's these distressing stories in the newspapers that have caused the alarm. As I said, it was rather a large loan,” he added, brows raised. A man probably in charge of millions, and he was as scared as a jackrabbit.
“Over a million?” Sean asked nonchalantly. He had turned on the Texas accent for the occasion. “I don't know as I see my way clear to handling anything over a million, darlin',” he added in an apologetic aside to me.
“Dear me, no! Not a million!” Mr. Bartlett exclaimed, and laughed aloud with relief. “More in the amount of a hundred thousand. Over one hundred thousand,” he added importantly.
Sean smiled and tossed up his hands. “No problem. It might help us locate Mr. Mazzini if you'd let us have a look at his account. I reckon he deposited the money in his account here. If he drew a check on it, it'll give us an idea what he did with the money and hopefully a lead on where we can find him."
“But he didn't take a check. He asked for cash,” Mr. Bartlett said, and I believe he regretted the disclosure as soon as he'd made it.
“Cash! Isn't that very unusual?” I asked.
“Highly irregular, but Mr. Mazzini has always been a rather—unusual customer. Not to say he doesn't repay when he overdraws, but the artistic temperament...” He hunched his narrow shoulders forgivingly. “I thought it had to do with opening a Swiss account, or something of that sort,” he added, looking to the Texas tycoon for agreement.
Sean nodded obligingly, as if he had a few million stashed in Switzerland himself. “How much over a hundred thousand?” he asked. To reproduce his accent would be impossible. It was Texan and broadly drawn.
“He asked for two hundred thousand. I couldn't see my way clear to letting him have that much. Of course he has good collateral. He borrowed between one and two hundred thousand—halfway between,” he said, giving us the total in this oblique way, and with some anxiety that he was straying from the path of banking rectitude.
I
blanched. “Now don't you worry your pretty little head about a thing, darlin',” Sean told me.
We all three sat looking at each other for a minute, then Sean gave a jerk of the head, and I began the ritual of leaving, thanking Mr. Bartlett, and assuring him the loan was in no jeopardy. As Mr. Bartlett wasn't aware of the insignificant nature of my bank balance and the spurious nature of Sean's accent and fortune, he looked relieved.
“A real pleasure to meet you, sir,” Sean said and clamped Bartlett's hand.
He took my arm, and we hustled out to the street. “At least we know what's being looked for now,” I said.
“He got the loan a week ago. Do you think he was still carrying around the cash?"
Upon consideration, it sounded unlikely. Why borrow such a huge sum, only to pay the interest on it? Obviously he had some immediate need for the money. As the European tour wasn't till the autumn, it seemed logical he'd borrow in the autumn, if he meant to stash the money in a Swiss account. But surely people didn't borrow money to put in a Swiss account. They were for people with money to spare, money to hide from the taxman.
“On the off chance that Victor's bank book might give us a clue to this, shall we go back up to his studio?” I suggested.
“My thoughts exactly."
Inside the main doorway, I suddenly glanced at the locked mail boxes. The mailman didn't arrive till after I left for work, so I usually got my letters from the mahogany table by the front door, but Victor had given me a key, and I used it to pick up the mail before going upstairs. There was a letter from Mom to me, some bills and a letter in a Royal York Hotel envelope for my uncle. It had a paper inside, with something hard wrapped in it. The most intriguing thing about it, however, was that the handwriting on the envelope was Victor's. There was no mistaking his bold, flashy scrawl. The postmark was Toronto, and the date of mailing was yesterday. It temporarily put the bank statement out of my mind.
“There's something funny here,” I muttered. Before the elevator reached the seventeenth floor, we had torn the envelope open. Wrapped inside a piece of Royal York stationery was a plain metal key with the number 87 on it.