Capriccio

by Joan Smith

  There didn't seem to be anything unusual or suspicious in the room. I had hoped for a passport at least, preferably bearing some name other than Sean Bradley. Just before leaving, I took one last look in the tan case. There was a bag of toffee candies there. I pulled them out, and saw they were made in England. Of course, candy made in England was available in Toronto. I examined a couple of white shirts folded in the bottom; they had English labels, too, and they weren't new. A hardware merchant from North Platte didn't wear imported, expensive shirts, but I bet Etherington and his pals did. The hairs on my arms lifted. I stood perfectly still, temporarily shocked into paralysis. It was true then; open, friendly Sean was my enemy.

  I noticed a side pocket on the luggage, on the outside, for convenience. There was a bulge in it, and my knees were shaking so hard I had to sit on the edge of the bed as I unzipped it. The first item my searching fingers encountered was a small piece of metal, which turned out to be an expensive Girard-Perregaux watch, not new. Had Sean nicked it, or had he bought the cheap Timex to reinforce his hick image?

  Already my fingers were rifling below the watch for the stiff manila envelope below. I opened it carefully. It contained nothing but a few photographs. He had taken pictures of Victor and some other man, not together, but in the same place. The other man had a moustache and wore tinted shades. He wore a blazer and what could very well be an old school tie. I'd never seen the man before in my life.

  There was one of this man, Etherington I assumed, entering a restaurant called simply the Trattoria. I didn't recognize it, but it was somewhere downtown, and the phone book could tell me where. The pictures had been taken from across the street, and the end of a passing street car identified the city as Toronto. Etherington was carrying a paper bag large enough to hold a violin. There was also one of Victor entering the Trattoria, with his violin case under his arm. The next one was of Victor coming out, wearing a big smile, still with the violin case, which would contain the Stradivarius now. Etherington was in the next shot. He wore the same expression as my uncle.

  There were other pedestrians on the street as well—it was in a busy part of town. So it was at the Trattoria that Victor had bought the Stradivarius from Etherington, and Sean had known it all along. He had visual proof, so he not only knew it, he had been there and taken pictures. The old familiar “why” was back to bedevil me. He'd gone to make sure Etherington followed instructions, but why take pictures? To have something to blackmail Etherington with if he turned unreliable?

  Sean wasn't a policeman or he would have made his arrest then and there. No, he definitely wasn't on the right side of the law. Of course, I had suspected it before, but it was desolating to have the proof. Desolating, and dangerous, and frightening. My heart beat like a jackhammer as I stuffed the pictures into my purse, the manila envelope back into the side pocket, zipped the pocket, and left the room as though the hounds of hell were after me.

  In the lobby, I threw the key on the desk, caught a taxi and went straight back to the apartment. I chained the door and examined the pictures again. There hadn't been any camera in Sean's room, but I had some unclear memory of seeing one in his rented car. The pictures, four in all, were as I remembered, but now I looked more closely at the other pedestrians in the street.

  A few steps behind Victor as he entered the restaurant was a figure that looked familiar. I checked the picture of Victor coming out, and by that time the short man in the dark suit had turned to face the camera, using the pretext of lighting a cigarette to hang around. He was the swarthy little man who had been at the Casa Loma with Sean and had gotten out of the elevator this morning to call on Betty Friske. I now had three suspects to hand over to the police and the address of two of them. I reached for the phone to call them before Sean had time to check out of the hotel. That would be his first move when he discovered the pictures were missing.

  Lieutenant Marven wasn't in but was expected soon. I left my name and asked him to come to my apartment the second he arrived. It seemed better to deal with the man in charge of the case. After this, there was nothing to do but sit and wait, and think, and repine a little. I jumped into the air when the phone rang, but it was only another party interested in buying the cottage.

  As I remembered the swarthy little man visiting next door yesterday, I began to feel unsafe there alone and decided to call Ronald, hoping he could get away early and keep me company.

  “Ron, it's me, Cassie. I'd like to talk to you—about Sean. I had lunch with him, and he's—involved in this business, as you thought,” I said warily.

  “Involved? What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Did he try to hurt you?"

  “No, he doesn't even know I know. I've called the police. Marven will be coming over as soon as he gets in. I was kind of hoping you could be here when he comes."

  “But what's happened? How did you find out about Sean?” he persisted, and I told him about the pictures.

  “Good Lord, you could be in danger if he finds out. I'll be right over."

  “How soon?"

  “I just left,” he said and hung up.

  It was reassuring to know a friend was on his way, full of concern. The future looked brighter now. The police would pick up Sean and force him to reveal where Victor was locked up. He had to be locked up and not dead. My uncle would be freed and we'd find out where he'd hidden the Stradivarius. All I had to do was wait. And wait, and wait. Ten minutes, fifteen—what was keeping them?

  My mind roamed over the case, concentrating on Sean Bradley. How well he'd played his role of small-town rube. He'd cooked for me, offered to vacuum—why couldn't men really be like that? I couldn't picture Ronald cooking, but then Ronald's wife would have maids. And Ronald had sounded extremely eager to run to my aid.

  I looked at the pictures again. Victor had left the apartment with his violin case, but Etherington wasn't carrying the Guarneri when he left the restaurant, so obviously Victor hadn't taken it with him. He must have left it here, in this apartment, but where? Even before the break-in, it wasn't here. The apartment was so small there wasn't even room for all the stuff I'd brought from McGill with me. I had a couple of boxes of books and things locked in his locker in the basement.

  The thought no sooner floated across my mind than I realized Victor might have locked his del Gesù there for safekeeping. In his excitement, he might have forgotten to take it out of the case when he left, and decided to store it in the locker rather than come back upstairs. It wouldn't take him more than a few steps out of his way since the lockers were in a corridor just a step from the parking garage. I'd go down and look as soon as Marven or Ronald arrived. What was keeping them? Seventeen minutes now since I'd phoned.

  I couldn't wait any longer. I had to know, and besides, I'd probably meet Marven or Ronald on his way in from the garage. The lockers were safer than this apartment as far as that went. Betty Friske might have a key to the front door for all I knew. Somebody had entered with a key and taken Victor's cigars. The apartment suddenly seemed less safe than the rest of the building. I got the locker key from the kitchen, picked up my apartment keys and ran for the elevator.

  CHAPTER 13

  There were no elegant mirrors or carpets in the passage to the storage lockers. Plain painted walls and a gray concrete floor were good enough for this out-of-the-way corner, but it was well lit. I'd only been to the locker room once before and couldn't remember whether the lights were turned off that time, as they were now. I stood irresolutely at the door, then reached in my hand and felt for the light switch.

  There was just the rough concrete wall, and I looked around to see if the switch was outside. There was one there, but it didn't turn on the lights inside. It didn't seem to do anything. Afraid I'd started some air conditioner or auxiliary engine, I flicked it off again and took a step into the room. Damned switch—where was it? And I didn't have a flashlight or even a match or lighter.

  If Victor's locker had been at the far end of the room, I wouldn't have
gone in, but it was just the third from the door, dimly visible in the light from the hallway. Three steps and I'd know; it would be too cowardly to turn back now. I strode boldly forward, got the key into the padlock and unhooked it. And there it was, Victor's del Gesù, its expensive curves resting daintily on top of my boxes of books. He must have been in a hurry because he hadn't bothered to cover it.

  He treated that violin like the heir to a fabled throne. Success drove out the last residue of fear. I picked up the violin and saw the bow wedged in behind it. I snatched it up, juggling till I had the violin and bow in one hand, the key and padlock in the other and juggled some more until I got the lock back through the hole to resecure the locker.

  Afterwards, when I regained consciousness, I wasn't sure whether there had actually been a faint, shuffling sound behind me, or I'd dreamed it. In any case, I didn't see whomever stunned me from behind. There was no stray whiff of Old Spice or anything else to help identify my assailant. Just that stunning blow on the side of my head, followed by a shower of light and then by strange, wheeling balls of yellow sun on a purpley-blue-black background.

  It would have taken a man to carry me from the locker room to the car that transported me to where I now rested. A woman (Betty Friske?) couldn't have done it alone. I lay spread on the floor of a huge room. The silent furnace towering above me wasn't the size of a house furnace. I staggered to my feet while the balls of light shrank smaller and smaller till they were only pinpricks, each sending a needle of pain through my temples. I shook them away and groped my way up from the floor, holding against the cold steel of the furnace for balance. My watch must have stopped. It had to be more than ten minutes since I left the apartment. Ten minutes wasn't long enough to have carried me off to the hiding place.

  It was the blow that made me so stupid. Of course, I was still in the apartment building! Whoever hit me had only dragged or carried me down the hall and shoved me into the furnace room. My dress didn't show signs of dragging which confirmed that my attacker was a man. Both the violin and the locker key were gone. The key was probably still in the locker room, but I had no intention of going alone to look for it.

  I crept timidly to the door, looked up and down the empty corridor, then ran like a hare to the staircase and up to the building superintendent's apartment. You'd think a building superintendent would always be there, on hand for emergencies, but he didn't answer the door. The fear was receding, and a hot anger was following in its wake. My knees were quite steady as I ran up the next stairway to the lobby. Lieutenant Marven was just coming out of the parking elevator.

  “Miss Newton!” he exclaimed, and stared at me as though I were a ghost. I was probably the color of one. My arms and legs were dusty from rolling on the floor, and there was a bump rising on the side of my head, but that wouldn't show.

  “Come with me!” I said, and pulled him through the door, back down the stairs to the locker room. “He might still be there."

  “Who? What's happened?"

  I was hoping when Marven reached into his pocket that he'd draw a gun; he pulled out a flashlight about as big as a pencil. “In there,” I whispered as we approached the locker room door. I gave him the gist of my story in low whispers. He carefully opened the door. The light was on to make a liar of me. I flicked the switch outside the door, and it went off.

  “It wasn't working before!” I assured him.

  Victor's locker door was closed; the key was in the padlock, and when Marven opened the door, the del Gesù was back on its perch atop my books. He lunged forward. “Is this the Stradivarius Dr. Bitwell told us about?"

  When I told him what it was, his interest in the violin lessened considerably, but he took it and the bow out of the locker and examined them. “We'll go up to the apartment and discuss this,” he said, tucking them under his arm. His manner had chilled noticeably. He thought I had staged the whole thing—for what purpose I couldn't even imagine.

  Ronald was outside my door when we reached the seventeenth floor and showed a gratifying concern for my filthy condition and bumped head. He poured me a drink of scotch and soda while I outlined my day's activities to Marven.

  “At least your assailant didn't get the pictures.” Marven said. His spirits improved to learn there was a bit of tangible evidence. “Let's have a look at them."

  But when I rifled in my purse, I came up empty-handed. Incredibly, the pictures were gone. I felt guilty, like the culprit instead of the victim. We looked all around the sofa, the coffee table, and later in desperation he had me go through the kitchen and my bedroom, though I knew perfectly well they weren't there. At last, I had to admit they were gone. Marven's cold gray eyes turned on me in irony, too disdainful to be quite accusing.

  “Correct me if I'm wrong, Miss Newton, but are you telling me that you were hit on the head by an unknown assailant in a dark room, whose light worked perfectly when I tried it a few minutes later? This violent assailant then proceeded to remove you to the furnace room and didn't bother taking the violin you had found?"

  “He took the pictures!” I pointed out. “They're gone!"

  “I see. This remarkably clairvoyant assailant knew you had pictures in your apartment that would incriminate him? He's a magician as well, is he, that he had time to come up seventeen floors and get into a locked apartment after bundling you off to the furnace room? Or did you leave the door open for him?"

  “No, obviously he has a key."

  “Who has a key, other than yourself and Mr. Mazzini?"

  “Whoever kidnapped my uncle. Sean Bradley, if you want a name. I told you, I found the pictures in his hotel room. He's the one who doesn't want you to see them."

  “What exactly is the relationship between yourself and Mr. Bradley?” Marven asked. Ronald listened sharply but didn't butt in.

  “Acquaintances. I've been seeing him as I think he is involved in my uncle's disappearance."

  “Why didn't you tell the police about this?"

  “I just became suspicious today."

  The story was so confusing that I began at the beginning and tried to make some sense of it, I told him about my first meeting with Sean at the Casa Loma and our whole past history about the little dark man, and his being in the pictures, and having visited Betty Friske. Since I had been derelict in keeping certain matters from the police, I omitted the first apartment break-in and Victor's stolen cigars. Another mystery within a mystery. But I explained about Sean's interest in the Stradivarius, his knowing about it before he reasonably could have known if he were innocent.

  “What's the problem, Lieutenant?” Ronald asked stiffly. “Miss Newton has solved your case for you. Why don't you get down to the Delta Inn and arrest Mr. Bradley before he gets away? He won't stick around long once he realizes the pictures are missing. They absolutely incriminate him."

  “It seemed wiser to allow Miss Newton a few minutes to collect her thoughts after her accident. Odd Mr. Bradley would hold onto the pictures if they were as damning as you think. Criminals usually dispose of evidence, Mr. Strathroy."

  “He was keeping them to blackmail Mr. Etherington,” I explained.

  “The only place Etherington exists, so far as I know, is in pictures which I have not seen. As to those pictures—there are safer places to keep incriminating evidence than in one's own hotel room as you tell me Mr. Bradley did."

  “He had no reason to think he was suspected,” Ronald said.

  “Why would a criminal lead his victim so close to the truth as you say Bradley did?” Marven asked. “According to your story, it was Bradley who came up with the idea of the stolen Stradivarius."

  “Yes, because he hoped I could lead him to it,” I explained. He turned a pair of brightly suspicious eyes on me and asked softly, “And did you?"

  “Now see here, Lieutenant,” Ronald blustered. “Are you accusing Miss Newton of being involved in this? I want you to know she is a very good friend of my family. I'll call my lawyer, Cassie,” he added aside to me. “if Mr
. Bradley escapes due to your negligence, Marven, you can expect to account to the Attorney General for it."

  If Marven was disturbed by this threat, he did an excellent job of concealing it. “The innocent have no reason to be so jumpy, Mr. Strathroy. I didn't bring along my handcuffs, nor am I accusing Miss Newton of anything. In our position, we have to consider all possibilities. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Mazzini bought stolen merchandise and was soon made aware of that fact—if he didn't know it already—but chose not to inform the police. There are two theories as to why he disappeared. One of them involves his desire to keep the violin..."

  It took a few minutes to make sense of this. “Are you saying he rigged the whole thing—he did it to make you think someone had stolen the violin from him so he wouldn't have to give it back? That's crazy!” I scoffed.

  “He could have claimed the violin was stolen without disappearing,” Ronald added.

  “He could have, but then if he'd reported it at once, we'd have caught the fellows and saved ourselves a great deal of bother. We now have the RCMP pestering us as well. There was more than a Stradivarius violin stolen from the Carpani villa—a great deal more. A fortune in jewelry that someone is trying to sell underground. We've only now got a description of it from the Mounties since Dr. Bitwell decided we might be interested to know about the stolen violin."

  When we didn't reply to this, Marven continued, “They might have sold half the stuff by now for all we know. As for Mr. Mazzini's peculiar disappearance, we're meant to think his kidnappers have the Stradivarius, and they've had time to get clean away so we won't pester Mr. Mazzini unduly about it."

  “My uncle is not a crook!” I shouted, feeling akin to Richard Nixon. “And they haven't gotten clean away. One of them is at the Delta Inn,” I reminded him.

  “I'll see what Bradley has to say.” Marven's cold, suspicious eye's flickered over me as he went to pick up the phone. In a bored voice, he sent two policemen to the Delta Inn and said he'd meet them there later. Then he left.