Capriccio Page 17

  Before any concrete plan occurred to me, he tossed his head toward the violin case and said, “Let's have a look at it."

  I put the case on the coffee table and opened it while quickly scanning the room for a weapon. The ash tray, close at hand, wasn't heavy enough. “So this is what all the fuss and bother was about,” he said, lifting the violin, turning it around this way and that as though he'd never seen it before in his life. Maybe he hadn't; maybe Etherington had done the procuring, and I knew he'd handled the exchange. “Fuss and bother” struck me as a mild description of what Victor and I had been through, but then we probably rated low on his scale of victims.

  While he was looking at the violin, the phone rang. Ronald! It was time for his call. I looked at Sean, waiting for him to decide whether he was going to let me answer. “If that's the boyfriend, tell him to get his keyster over here, fast. Tell him you've got the violin. That should do it."

  I heard this order with delighted surprise. My incipient love for Ronald hadn't reached that unfathomable stage where I would sacrifice my life for his. Two against one gave me a fighting chance at least. Sean lifted the receiver and held it halfway between his ear and my own. We both heard Ronald say, “Hi, did you have a good sleep?"

  My words came out in a strangled whisper. “Ronald, come right over. I found the Stradivarius."

  “What! Where? How?” The questions came gushing out in an excited babble.

  “Come right over,” I repeated just before Sean reached out a finger and cut us off.

  “That should do it.” He smiled. But it wasn't a real smile, more a baring of teeth. There was nothing pleasant in it.

  “Now what'll we have to drink? Coffee or beer?” was his next question.

  A kitchen had knives—which Sean would soon wrestle out of my hand and quite possibly turn against me. “Nothing for me,” I said.

  He gave me a mocking smile. “Has something put you off your feed?"

  This wasn't the moment to risk a smart ass answer. He went to the bar and poured a shot of Scotch into a glass. He sipped it like that, with no ice and no water, in the English way. While he sipped, his eyes seldom left me. “Was it you, or was it the boyfriend who sent the cops to the hotel?” he asked after about a minute of that silent, sinister staring.

  “That's the second time you've asked that. I still don't know what you're talking about."

  “The pictures were stolen from your purse. It doesn't make any sense for Strathroy to call attention to those pictures. Even if he knew, and if he gave them to you, he wouldn't be eager for Marven to know about them."

  “Why not?"

  There was a feeling of tiptoeing on eggs during this exchange. I didn't want to get Sean in a fit of fury before Ronald came, and he seemed to be just as edgy and secretive as I was. “If you trust him so much, how come you went alone to pick up the Strad?"

  “Ronald was busy. I just decided at the last minute to go. Never mind about Ronald. What are you going to do about Victor?"

  “I don't know. That depends on Victor."

  “Sean, you won't let Etherington kill him!"

  “No, I won't,” he agreed, but diffidently. “Sure you don't want a shot of this stuff? It's real good Scotch."

  “It should be. It's old enough to vote. Maybe I'll have a bit of that Irish Cream."

  It was an unreal quarter of an hour we spent waiting for Ronald to come. Sean had two neat Scotches, and I had two shots of Irish Cream. The bottle might have been capable of knocking him out if he'd ever stopped staring at me long enough to get a crack at him. I could tell by the intense glow in his eyes that he was doing some deep scheming. Whatever it was caused a pleat to form between his brows, and the gouges at either side of his moustache to deepen. He seemed content to just think, and so I remained silent and thought too.

  “The pictures were stolen from your purse,” he had said. An odd way to say he'd stolen them. Would he kill Victor or not? If it was an identification he was worried about, then he'd have to kill me and Ronald too, and surely Sean wasn't a mass murderer. He'd just tie us up and make a fast getaway.

  When I figured it was nearly time for Ronald to arrive, I risked a question that had been bothering me ever since Marven told me this man wasn't Sean Bradley. “Who are you?” I asked.

  “My name, you mean?"

  “Yes."

  He hesitated a moment then answered, “John. John Weiss."

  “Where are you from?"

  “The west."

  “From North Platte?"

  “North of there. My dad does own a hardware store. I worked there summers when I was in high school. I stick as close to the truth as I can. No point complicating life by claiming a profession you can't fake. You never know when you might meet somebody who can blow your cover wide open."

  “You were wise to stick to two-by-fours,” I snipped before I realized the danger of angering him. But he didn't seem angry. “How did you get mixed up in this business—I mean this specific business of Victor and the violin?"

  “You mean what's a nice guy like me doing in a business like this?” He laughed. “I've been chasing the Carpani loot for months, ever since Etherington lifted it from the contessa's villa. The violin is the least interesting thing in it, but it surfaced first so it might lead to the rest of the stuff. They try to get rid of it all at the same time—usually in different countries so word doesn't get around. That's why it's so important to certain people that it shouldn't be found and identified. I'm a specialist,” he said proudly. Pride in stealing previously-stolen goods was as bizarre as the rest of that bizarre night.

  The door buzzer sounded, and I looked at Sean for permission to answer it. The doorman often let Eleanor and Ronald up without announcing them. “Let him in. And let me do the talking. If he tries anything ... But no, I don't think Ronald will sully his lily whites by trying to sock me.” He gave an ironical little laugh and followed me to the door.

  I opened it, and Ronald came charging in. He stopped dead when he saw Sean. For a minute I had a very real fear that he was going to turn tail and run. But Sean gave him an oily smile that seemed to set his fears at rest, and he came reluctantly into the living room.

  “Surprise!” Sean smiled and pointed at the Strad.

  Introductions seemed irrelevant, but in case Ronald wasn't aware who he was dealing with, I said, “This is Sean Bradley, Ron.” I tried to give him a mute warning by frowning and staring at him. Just what warning I didn't know myself, but I wanted him to know at least that Sean wasn't the disinterested friend he would probably pretend to be. Why had he called Ronald here anyway? Ronald apparently interpreted my grimaces to mean he wasn't to ask any close questions as to why Sean was here when he should have been in jail.

  Ronald looked at the violin, then at Sean, at me, then all around the apartment. “Is this it? The stolen violin?” he asked and went to look at it. “Yes, I can see it is. The grapes ... Where did you find it?” He threw the question midway between Sean and myself.

  Sean answered. “Cassie found it at the Casa Loma."

  “It was in the bottom of the long-case clock in the music room, practically in plain view all the time,” I added.

  “This is wonderful!” Ronald exclaimed. “Congratulations. Well, have you called the police?"

  “Not yet,” Sean said.

  “What are you waiting for?"

  Maybe now we'd hear just what John Weiss had in mind, for the violin and us, and Victor. “You mean to use it to get Victor back?” Ron asked, frowning at me.

  “The trouble is, we don't know who to deal with,” Sean said, as though at a loss.

  “Yes, I see your dilemma.” Ron's eyes took on the same scheming look Sean's had worn earlier and still wore, though slightly diminished.

  I watched this farce for half a minute and decided there was no point in it. “Surely you have some idea, Sean?” I said. My tone, I trust, left no doubt as to my meaning.

  Ronald scowled behind Sean's back and began t
o propitiate him. “She's a little confused.” He smiled. “There was a bit of a fracas here this afternoon, Sean. I imagine Cassie told you.” Sean nodded. “We heard about your arrest.” Then he turned to me. “Obviously you were mistaken about Sean, Cassie. The police wouldn't have released him if he'd been criminally involved in your uncle's disappearance. What is your involvement, Sean? RCMP?"

  “That's right,” Sean said.

  I stared in utter incredulity. Sean—John—a policeman? I hastily considered the past days, and saw that this was indeed possible. I felt as though a weight had lifted from my heart. I wanted to laugh and shout for sheer relief.

  When Sean spoke, his western twang had diminished noticeably, though he still didn't sound exactly like a Canadian. “When the crime goes beyond provincial boundaries, they call us in. Of course, this one's international."

  “The Mounties are like the FBI in the States,” Ronald explained for my edification.

  “When they picked me up, I had to reveal myself to the local fuzz."

  “And that's why Marven released you,” Ronald nodded. “You two weren't working together before tonight, I take it?"

  “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” Sean answered.

  Ron said, “I see,” and gave me an intense look that told me nothing.

  “I don't see,” I said bluntly. “If you're a Mountie, why didn't you arrest Etherington when he sold the thing to Victor?"

  “Etherington's just a gofer,” Sean said. “We wanted to catch the main man. The Strad is a very small part of the loot from the Carpani villa,” he continued to Ronald. “There were artworks and jewelry worth roughly three million taken at the same time. We followed Etherington instead of Mazzini the day of the sale. It proved to be a mistake."

  “You might say that,” I agreed. My voice didn't sound as ironical as I hoped. Disbelief robbed it of emphasis. I tried to make some sense of Sean's story and found a dozen holes in it. Obviously Etherington had followed Victor, so if Sean had been following Etherington, he'd know where Victor was too. And why had he lured Ronald over here? Why was he telling us all this?

  “Are you saying it wasn't Etherington who kidnapped Victor?” Ronald asked.

  The scheming look was back full force on Sean's face but overlaid with a self-conscious sheepishness. “No, it was Etherington all right. Actually it was my colleague who handled that end of it,” Sean said. “The little swarthy guy in the dark suit—you might have noticed him, Cassie. He lost Etherington."

  “I see,” Ronald said again and nodded again.

  I didn't nod, but I saw yet another gaping hole in Sean's story. He and the little swarthy man had been together at the Casa Loma. And it wasn't Etherington they'd been following; it was Victor.

  Ronald finally woke up to the fact that there was something highly irregular in Sean's behavior and said, “Why are you telling me all this?"

  “You and your mother are about the best friends Mazzini has here in Toronto. I figure Victor will have them contact you when the time comes for him to be sprung. That should be about two minutes after we announce that the Carpani Strad has been found. That's the only reason they've been holding him—to keep him quiet."

  “Don't be ridiculous! My uncle will contact me!” I said.

  “They'll want to deal with a man,” Sean said, as though it were self-evident. He and Ron exchanged a smug, superior little masculine smile.

  “That's true,” Ron agreed. “And you want me to try to set up something to catch Etherington when the swap is made, Victor for the violin?"

  “Exactly.” Now he had no interest in the fictitious “main man.” Etherington was suddenly his quarry.

  “How do you figure they'll want to do it?” Ron asked.

  “If they've got any smarts at all, they'll blindfold Mazzini, drive him out to some spot on the edge of town that's deserted around midnight. They'll want to put a few miles between their hiding place and the drop. Some suburban shopping mall parking lot—something like that. Good, easy getaway and not too much concealment in case you brought along the fuzz. Quick access to a good highway, too."

  “They'll want me to go alone, I suppose?” Ronald asked.

  “For sure. And they'll make you get out of your car and go to theirs. They'll be parked in shadows with their lights off. What you've got to do is make damned sure Mazzini is alive before you hand over the violin."

  “How come you're so ready to hand over the violin?” I asked. “It's not Victor you're worried about. It's that damned chunk of wood,” I said, pointing to the Strad.

  “I'm interested in both."

  “Naturally he doesn't intend for the kidnappers to get away,” Ron explained. “You'll have the police hiding nearby, ready to cut them off as they leave—right, Sean?"

  “Ronald, don't be a dope!” I warned. “You'll end up with a bullet in your head and so will Victor. Once the police go swarming in..."

  “No, no, there won't be any shooting,” Sean promised. “Not till we've got Mazzini and Ron here safely out of the picture. We'll let Etherington and company get away—or think they have. They'll head for the 401, the trans-Canada Highway. Wouldn't make any sense to head any other way. They don't want to get bogged down in suburbs. They're not local folks, you see, and might spend hours driving around cul de sacs and crescents and whatnot. A homing pigeon could get lost in those suburbs."

  “And you could lose Etherington if he did go that way,” I pointed out.

  “He might lose himself,” Sean explained. “I won't lose him. Ron's going to stick this little transmitter in the violin case for us,” he said, holding up a little black thing about as big as a penny. “Me and Marven will be following with a scanning antenna. Directional—we'll home in on that sucker and follow him till we get him in some dark, deserted spot where we can take him without killing anybody. Then we'll recover the Strad and the money your uncle paid them and make him tell us where the rest of the Carpani loot is. The little problem is letting Etherington know we've got the violin."

  “This is crazy. They'll kill Victor,” I said. “He can identify them."

  “No way,” Sean said confidently. “They're not going to add murder one to their record. You murder a celebrity like Mazzini, you're buying big trouble. There's how many, Ron, something like twenty-five thousand cops in Toronto wanting to make a name for themselves? Then there's the Provincial Police and the Mounties. Jeez, they'd have to be nuts to go for murder one. They'll make the exchange all right and hope to make a getaway."

  “I'm going to call Marven,” I said.

  Both Ronald and Sean went into shock. “You don't call the police in on a kidnapping, Cassie,” Ronald explained. “That's always the first order the kidnappers give.”

  “You already got the police here, Ms. Newton,” Sean reminded me. I hardly recognized this stranger with the new accent who suddenly took it into his head to call me Ms. Newton. “Like I said, too many cooks spoil the broth. If they see uniforms around, they'll hightail it out of there so fast your head'll spin. I don't plan to use the local fuzz. Greenhorns—they'd only gum up the works."

  “You plan to go after Etherington by yourself?” Ron asked.

  “I have to let Marven in on it now that he knows who I am, but I'm in charge. Just me and my colleague and Marven. That's plenty. I'll call Marven in later, after we hear from Etherington,” Sean said. “The thing now is to let Etherington and his boss know we've got the violin."

  “They'll take Victor's money and run once they hear you know they're the Carpani gang,” I pointed out.

  “Why should they when they think they can get the violin back as well?” Ronald asked. “It can still be sold to somebody else. Lots of people will knowingly buy stolen goods. Not everyone likes a public demonstration of his possessions like Victor. Don't you agree, Sean?"

  “There's sheiks and Arabs out there that would buy Fort Knox if they could figure out a way to get it moved,” Sean agreed. “Besides, there wouldn't be much publicity if the violin
just disappeared. There wouldn't be pictures and all that. They'd have to wait a year or so. I guess the TV and radio will do for starters, to let them contact us. I hope our boys listen in and contact us before morning. I'd like to get this wrapped up before daylight. Guess the first thing is to call the media."

  I sat, numb with dissatisfaction and disbelief while Sean phoned up the TV and radio stations. He made a special point of warning them to keep reporters away from the apartment. “Just announce that Victor Mazzini has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. Not money, a Stradivarius violin stolen from the villa of the Contessa Carpani, in Cremona, Italy. It was a big robbery around New Year's this year. You must have something on file. Mazzini bought the thing. I know it's confusing, but just make the announcement.” He argued with them but finally convinced them to make the report.

  “The police just might be listening to the TV and radio, too,” I mentioned.

  “Can't be helped,” Sean shrugged. “I've tipped Marven not to do anything without calling me first."

  Then we turned on the TV and radio and just waited for the announcement.

  CHAPTER 17

  About two minutes after the local TV station ran the story on a special newsbreak, Marven called.

  Sean took the call and admitted the story was true. He explained that we were waiting to hear from Etherington. “And remember, keep your boys off. I mean it, Marven. You send uniforms in to bugger up my show, and you'll be back walking a beat."

  “If you think he'll call me, I'd better be at home,” Ronald said.

  “He'll call me,” I said flatly.

  “What do you think, Sean?” Ronald asked, ignoring me completely.

  “Why don't you stick around for a while?"

  It was a great satisfaction when the phone rang about ten minutes later, and a cultured English accent announced itself as being interested in the news report that the Carpani Strad had been found.