Capriccio (17 page)

“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 uncertain 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.

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.