Capriccio

by Joan Smith

  “He's helped me a lot,” was my only defense.

  “Helped?” A light, incredulous laugh trailed into my ear. “I wasn't aware you'd accomplished much so far. It's more likely he's involved in the whole plot."

  My own suspicions were unacceptable when they came from Ronald. “Don't be silly. He's never even met Victor."

  “Well, I don't like it. I think you should go and stay with Mom for a few days, just till Victor comes back. We don't know who the guy is. You may be the next one to disappear,” he cautioned. The concern sounded genuine, and the idea that I might suddenly vanish from the face of Toronto wasn't exactly comforting either.

  But still I'd rather live in fear than be locked up behind the stone walls and iron palings of the Strathroy mansion with those two pretentious stone lions snarling at passersby.

  “I couldn't possibly. I have to be here, but thanks for the offer."

  “I'll drop in after work. We'll go to the club for dinner. I promise to have you home early."

  I agreed for two reasons. I didn't intend to see Sean and didn't much want to be alone, but more importantly, if Victor ended up in a jam because of this stolen violin business, you couldn't have better friends than the Strathroys. Any judge they weren't actually related to was bound to be a good friend.

  “All right, I'll see you around five-thirty."

  “Take good care of yourself now. I'll see you later."

  It was a quarter to twelve, and I decided to give the apartment a lick and a promise because I was too jittery to sit still. I made a couple of phone calls; to Rhoda putting her off until further notice, and to Marjie Klein, my best friend at work. All Marjie wanted to talk about was Victor's disappearance. I went over the highlights, she commiserated and assured me that nobody could be crazy enough to hurt that doll of a Victor. Of course they couldn't, I agreed, but when I hung up, I was very worried that they had. I felt a deep, heavy aching in my chest and a panicky desperation to find him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ronald's call increased my doubts about Sean. It was true he'd only befriended me after he knew I was connected with Victor. A little more thinking convinced me he couldn't be Etherington, though. Victor had looked right at him and smiled at Casa Loma, so he hadn't recognized him. But Sean was more than a tourist; he knew too much, knew exactly what had happened. He'd led the conversation around to make it seem like logic, or inspiration, but in fact he knew. He couldn't know if he weren't a part of it all. Even the police didn't know, so he had to be on the other side of it. And therefore he knew where Victor was. I wouldn't let Sean back into the apartment, not when I was alone anyway, but I couldn't afford to lose track of him, either.

  I thought of calling the police, but my ramblings would hardly be considered evidence. It would just take Sean out of commission for a few hours, and alert him that I was on to him. It would be better to follow Sean at a safe distance myself, and to do that, I had to keep in contact with him. That wouldn't be much trouble when he was at such pains to keep in contact with me. Why?

  The answer was right there, staring me in the face. He stayed with me because they hadn't got the Stradivarius back, and he hoped I would lead them to it. Nothing could be plainer. Keeping the Strad under wraps was important to them until they'd arranged their financial affairs and left. And I, gullible fool, had taken Sean trotting up to Victor's cottage at Caledon, down to Union Station and all over, sharing my clues with him. He knew from his colleagues that Victor had locked the case at Union Station, and he was hanging around to wait for the key to turn up since it wasn't on my uncle, and he hadn't broken down and told them where it was. Sean must have been one disappointed man when the case held my old Adidas! That brought a travesty of a smile to my face.

  Sean said he'd call me at noon; it was already five past twelve, and I didn't know what I'd say when he called. When the phone rang, I took three deep breaths to lower my nervous voice and said, “Hello."

  “Hi. I've got to talk to you right away,” Sean said excitedly. Even that struck me as suspicious. It was a sure way to get me to see him, but I wouldn't let him come up here. “It's noon—why don't we meet somewhere for lunch? Where are you?"

  “I'm at my hotel. I'll pick you up."

  “I have to go downtown anyway. I'll meet you at the coffee shop at your hotel—the Delta Inn, isn't it?"

  “Yeah, but..."

  I cut in before he could object. “I'll be there in twenty minutes. Order me a cold salad plate, okay?"

  “What, are you back on that vegetarian kick? I recommend the barbeque chicken."

  Still playing the hick role to the hilt. “I'll just have a wing of yours."

  “You're welcome to grab my wing any time you like. See you.” He sounded exactly as usual.

  Rather than waiting around for buses and subway trains, I took a taxi to his hotel. The busy hum of the city at noon hour, the accelerated rhythm of pedestrians and cars was still exciting to me. I'd lost the claustrophobic feeling of being in a glass-lined tunnel, and come to like the hectic, pell-mell dash to catch lights, the zig to avoid the wave of oncoming walkers, the sudden feeling of déjà vu when I caught that doppelganger reflected life-size in a plate glass window pretending she was me.

  Sean had cornered a table for us in the full coffee shop. He was sipping coffee and stood up and waved to catch my attention. An involuntary smile lit my face, then froze there as I remembered to distrust his friendly, open smile. The brown puppy eyes were suspect, the overlapped teeth not boyish but deceptive—in a word, crooked.

  “That didn't take you long,” he said when I slid into the seat.

  “I splurged and took a taxi. What's the big news?"

  “It's about the Strathroys. Of course, you already know I followed Eleanor. Her ‘appointment’ was at about a dozen exclusive shops at that little Rodeo Drive North mall near your place."

  “I figured that was why you offered her a lift,” I said noncommittally.

  “It was worth a shot, but I don't see why you bothered to follow me?"

  He made it a question, but didn't seem to notice when I evaded answering. “Ah heck, you spotted me."

  “You weren't trying to hide from me, were you?” he laughed. “I was going to wait for you to catch up to me, but I figured we'd be less conspicuous alone. Those zebra stripes are designed for jungle camouflage, not the city,” he added, looking at my dress. “Nice, but noticeable."

  “I was just curious to see what she was up to,” I said since he'd made that assumption. “But since you had her covered, I dropped out at Ronald's office."

  A cheery, impatient smile gave advance notice that he had more revelations to come. “That's just where things got interesting."

  “What happened?” My heart pounded in response to his excitement.

  “She only stayed for about five minutes. I imagine it was Ronald she was seeing. I couldn't decide whether to go on following her or hang around and see what I could learn about Ronald. I was a bit bored with the window shopping, and if they're behind this scam, Ronald's a more likely agent than the old lady. I mean a fine gentleman like Ronald,” he said with a grossly ironic look, “wouldn't let his Momma deal with creeps like Etherington. Besides, she's the one who let out about their knowing that Contessa in Italy."

  I looked to see if he was joking. When I decided he wasn't, I closed my mouth, then opened it again and laughed in disbelief. “Oh boy, are you off base! The Strathroys are loaded. A couple of hundred thousand wouldn't mean a thing to them. Their house alone would be worth a couple of million."

  He shrugged. “Houses have been known to carry mortgages. And you don't know what I learned at Graymar Trust yet.” His brows lifted in a significant way. “I hung around the switchboard for a minute. I heard a Mr. Stone leaving, telling the receptionist he'd be back at two. I chatted up the girl, a cute little blonde with green eyes,” he added, with an infuriating smile. “I told her I had an appointment with Mr. Stone, but I couldn't remember the exact time. She as
ked me what it was about, said maybe one of the other men could help me out."

  I gave a weary sigh. “Does all this eventually have something to do with Victor?"

  “It has to do with Sir Ronald. I talked to the blonde between calls. There were a lot of calls for Ronald. Yesiree, I wouldn't be surprised if your Ronald is in the ejection seat. His boss—you did know he's only a junior partner there?—told him to get his tail into his office. I'd become a rich Texan looking for a safe place to hide a million or so bucks by that time. I offered to get Barbie a coffee to while away her hours at the board. Funny thing is, she knew damned well Stone wouldn't be back till two, but she didn't say so."

  “You wouldn't think they'd hire an amnesiac to run a busy switchboard."

  “It was the million bucks that made her forget,” he admitted. “That's why I mentioned it. She said she had a coffee break coming up in ten minutes, and why didn't I wait and we'd go to the coffee shop together. So I waited and hinted around until I got her talking about Ronald."

  “She must be a clever one not to have suspected anything.” The food came and we began eating.

  “She's not stupid, just indiscreet. I said if Stone wasn't in, maybe this Ronald Strathroy guy could handle my account. His name's on the door, you know, and she'd been talking to him on the phone as well. She got a kind of funny look on her face. ‘Maybe Mr. Denver would be better,’ she said. We waltzed that around for a while. Mr. Strathroy was a little young for such a large account, she thought. I told her I liked young men, they were more daring in their investments. A little too daring sometimes, she thought."

  “What did you actually learn, other than Barbie's suspicions?"

  “He was out of the office on Wednesday all right—Barbie didn't seem to know anything about Montreal."

  “It's a secret. They were wise to keep it from loose-lips Barbie."

  “I didn't actually learn for sure that Ronald's a crook, but the way she was talking, he's one hell of a poor account executive. I think he's been siphoning a little something from his clients, and has gotten caught at it. That's what I think,” he announced triumphantly.

  “That's ridiculous! They sent him to Montreal just this week to handle a big merger. They wouldn't do that if he were either a crook or stupid."

  “That's where he was supposed to be the night of Victor's concert?"

  “That's where he was."

  “I thought I saw something on TV about it being a holiday in Quebec that day. The reason I noticed, I'd been thinking of hopping down to Montreal—till I met you."

  No meltdown occurred this time. “He chose the holiday on purpose,” I said, and explained the political situation. “And that was your great news, that one of the richest men in Toronto is a crook?"

  “You must admit it's a strange coincidence, the Strathroys knowing that Italian Contessa who owned the stolen violin and being chummy with Victor. It's a link, is all I'm saying. They were at the villa—the scene of the first crime—and if Ronald had any funny ideas, he could have taken a look at the safety precautions the Contessa had installed."

  “You don't have to draw me a picture, Sean. I understand what you're getting at, but as far as I'm concerned, it disproves that they had anything to do with it. They wouldn't point the finger at themselves. They'd make sure Etherington sold the violin in some other city or country. They wouldn't peddle it in their own backyard. Besides, they were in Quebec skiing at New Year's when the Strad was lifted."

  “It was only around New Year's the thing was stolen, according to Bitwell. You never know. Victor was a perfect mark, being highly interested in a Stradivarius violin, having the dough, or being able to raise it. Eleanor knew he hadn't seen the thing, too, so he wouldn't recognize it. And since they were using another party—Etherington—to make the trade, they'd want to have it done here in Toronto where they could keep an eye on him. I'm not saying they're hardened criminals. They got caught in a tight corner, and pulled this one amateurish job. The very way it's been bungled points to amateurs."

  “You heard Eleanor say she hadn't been to Italy for a few years. How did she manage to pluck the violin out of the Contessa's villa from across the ocean?"

  “That's where Etherington comes in. Ronald told him the setup at the villa, and Etherington lifted the thing, brought it here, and arranged the sale."

  “Lots of people would like to own a Stradivarius. They wouldn't pick a friend to play a dirty trick like that on,” I said angrily. “You just don't understand, Sean. The Strathroys are..."

  “I know, rich. Rich people have high expenses. It costs a lot to run a mansion, throw big parties. Do you know what Eleanor paid for a pair of shoes today?"

  “Don't tell me you went into a ladies’ shoe store and flirted with the clerk!"

  “No, I'm going by the window. There wasn't a pair in there that cost less than two hundred bucks. Two hundred bucks—some of them were twice that. And she bought a pair."

  “She'd hardly do that if they were stony broke, would she?"

  “Maybe she doesn't know how Ronald has screwed things up,” was his solution to that problem.

  “Ronald does not screw things up. You're just jealous. Admit it, you hate his guts."

  “Hate them? I never even knew he had any. How can you fall for a Mommie's boy like Ronald? According to Barbie, all he thinks about is his haircut and clothes."

  “That's an accusation Barbie will never have to make against you. Ronald's a lot of fun on a date.”

  “Yeah, more fun than a barrel of Woody Allens. Now we're having a fight, right?"

  “A discussion. Shall we discuss something more useful than Barbie and Ken? Ronald!" I corrected hastily.

  A slow, lazy smile crept across his face, baring his crooked teeth. “Her brain might have been by Mattel, but the body was by Fisher."

  “Fisher-Price, you mean?"

  He ignored it. “Do you know, we forgot to ask Bitwell if Victor described this Etherington guy to him. Why don't you give him a call now?” he suggested.

  “I already did. He just said he was an Englishman, old-school-tie type."

  “That's all?"

  Since Sean already knew about Etherington, there was no point concealing the rest of it, and I told him.

  “Not much help. Anyone can put on a Brit accent—or a moustache and glasses for that matter,” he said pensively.

  We talked about the case all through lunch, but Sean was too wily to reveal anything. I was becoming terribly, terribly impatient. Somewhere Victor was locked up—if we were lucky. I willed down the image that reared its ugly head of my uncle's inert body dumped into a box in some dark alley. When the waitress brought the check, Sean put the bill on his hotel tab. He was still in room 327.

  “Is there anything special you want to do this afternoon?” he asked.

  I said no, because what I meant to do necessitated getting away from him first.

  “There's the business of Victor's own Guarneri violin. We never did find that."

  “I just want to be alone. I need to think."

  His fingers closed over mine and he squeezed them consolingly. “Try not to worry too much, Cassie.” His fingers were warm, his smile loving. “Something will break soon. You'll see. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if your uncle got away from them and came back, playing his Stradivarius."

  Tears smarted in my eyes, but I blinked them away. “Sure.” I felt betrayed by his sympathy that looked so genuine, so caring. “I'll take you home now,” he said and got up.

  “I'll take the subway. It'll be a distraction for me. Thanks for lunch, Sean."

  “See you tonight?"

  “I still owe you dinner, but I'm seeing an old friend tonight."

  “Ronald?"

  “If you want to know, you'll have to hire a detective."

  “I think I know already. See if you can find out anything from him."

  We held hands as we went into the lobby and toward the front door. “Will you be late?” was his next un
certain question. I knew what he was working up to. Could he come over after?

  “No way. I mean to be in bed before ten. I'm bushed."

  “I'll call you tomorrow then. Take care."

  “You too. Bye."

  I blew him a kiss and had to leave the hotel as he stood right at the door. After half a block, I bought a newspaper and went back to the lobby to spy, like a second rate private eye in a thirties movie with my face hidden behind the paper. I angled myself for a view of the door and waited. In a quarter of an hour, I spotted Sean's blue checked shirt and western hat leaving. A cab pulled up and he got in. Any trip far enough away to require a cab left me time to search his room.

  It's dangerous the way a room clerk will hand over a key to any respectable-looking person who comes to the desk and asks for it nonchalantly, using the patron's name and room number. The key to room 327 was handed over without so much as a question or raised eyebrow. My insides were quaking as I rode up in the elevator but tightened to a painful knot when I inserted the key in the lock.

  It was a perfectly ordinary sort of middle-class hotel room: beige walls, flowered spread and drapes, cheap reproductions on the wall, minimal furnishings. A tan nylon bag with imitation leather bindings sat on the luggage bench at the end of the bed. Sean had unpacked his jackets and trousers, but there were shirts and undies still in the bag. A wad of laundry was tossed into the plastic bag provided. I didn't bother with it.

  There was absolutely nothing interesting in the pockets of the jackets and trousers hanging in the closet. Both the jackets and the Fruit of the Loom underwear in the case looked brand new, but the jeans and shirts were well worn. There were no personal papers anywhere, no pictures, just the local newspapers open at the stories about Victor, but that was hardly unusual. A person doesn't really bring much but clothes and toilet articles to a hotel room.

  His Old Spice toiletries and a Bic razor were on the counter in the bathroom along with Crest toothpaste, Butler dental floss, a new red toothbrush and a black comb. All small, traveling-size things, probably picked up here. He was the messy kind of bather who used all the towels when he showered and shaved and threw them in the tub after.