Capriccio Read online

  I let him dream on. The spread of the shopping center, its neon lights proclaiming it the heart of suburbia, soon came into view on the right. There was a scattering of cars from the night cleaning staff and guards. It was too far away to distinguish whether Ron's Mercedes was among them, and we didn't know what Etherington would be driving. Sean coasted into the shadows of a patch of trees some yards beyond. There was an anticipatory, febrile glitter in his eyes and a smile lifting his moustache.

  “They shouldn't be there for another quarter of an hour, but I wouldn't want to be late for this date. Wish me luck,” he said and pulled the gun from his boot. With this engine of death dangling from his fingers, he reached out, scratched my lips with his moustache, and left.

  I let him get a few yards back toward the shopping mall before I followed after him. I went to the edge of the parking lot and hunkered down behind some bushes to wait. My fantasy life involved much danger, none of it quite as clear and present and scary as what faced me now. Many nights, my head comfortably resting on goose feathers, I single-handedly trapped half a dozen spies and traitors. I highly recommend this fantasy way of getting your thrills. The real thing is not only unpleasant but actually has its tedious moments.

  After about ten minutes, my legs muscles went into cramps, and I had to do a bit of careful stretching, or I wouldn't be in condition to trip up any criminals who came my way. I spent the ten minutes looking at the nearly empty parking lot. If Marven had a host of men anywhere near, they were invisible. There wasn't a living thing on that lot except a cat out on the prowl. Several cars shot past on the highway behind me, each one causing a lurch of frightened hope.

  Finally, one of them slowed down and turned in. It was a big, dark, squarish car and looked like an older Ford LTD. I could only see one head in it, a man's head. Its lights were suddenly switched off, and the car coasted to a stop, not close to the mall entrance, as I expected, but closer to the spot where I was crouched. Of course, it was darker here, and as I looked around, I noticed I had by chance hidden myself at the farthest distance from any parked cars. I crouched lower while my heart went into high gear. The car wasn't close enough to cause any real panic. There was about ten yards between us, and the man didn't get out of the car. He left the motor running. The car was too far away for me to determine whether the driver wore a moustache.

  About four minutes later, another car on the highway slowed down and nosed into the lot. I recognized Ron's Mercedes. It drove toward the parked LTD and pulled in front of it. Ron got out stiffly, looked all around, and went back to the other car. He wasn't carrying the violin case—already things weren't going as they were supposed to. The window was opened and Ron leaned down to talk to the driver. I strained my ears, but heard only the low rumble of voices. The driver got out, opened the back door and he and Ron hauled Victor out onto the pavement. He was trussed up somehow and was so inert I feared he was dead.

  Every atom of my being urged me forward to investigate, but self-preservation, that strongest of all instincts, held me quiet. The men continued talking in low tones. In a moment Etherington would leave, Ron would be arrested and I could rush to Victor. I could endure another minute after all the hours already endured. So I waited and watched and tried to hear the low conversation. It was a louder exclamation from Etherington that alerted me to danger. “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

  I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a dog, a stray mutt that had escaped its leash or been let out in the concealment of darkness for its exercise. “Just a stray mutt,” Ron answered.

  It looked like a black mongrel with some Labrador blood, and went toward them, wagging its tail to indicate friendship. It began sniffing at Victor. Etherington lifted his foot and kicked it away. The dog was no hero. It ran yelping—straight to me. First I tried to pray it away. It stood there, tail wagging, yapping. Perspiration beaded on my brow. It would be only a matter of seconds till Etherington decided he should investigate. Already he was casting suspicious glances toward my bushes. “Go away. Bad dog,” I growled in a low voice. The dog barked louder.

  “There's something there!” I heard Etherington say. “Jesus, is it the cops?"

  I couldn't hear Ron's answer, but it sounded impatient and off-putting.

  The dog, an utter demon of persistence, ran playfully halfway to Etherington then back to me as though urging him to investigate what he had found. I hunkered lower behind the bushes. Etherington wouldn't come. Why should he? If I were a cop, this would be the last place he'd approach. And even if he did, Sean was somewhere nearby. But where?

  When Etherington turned and began to stride purposefully toward me, my whole body congealed in horror. This couldn't be happening. But it was. Not only was he coming straight at me, he was carrying a gun in his hand. The pale moon overhead cast menacing shadows on his face when he stared down behind the bushes. It was the face from the pictures, a somewhat dissolute face but with a suggestion of decayed nobility in the haughty brow, the wedge of a sculptured nose above the brush moustache.

  He didn't speak. He just make a beckoning motion with the gun while the dog barked his pleasure. Silently, I rose from behind the bushes, my eyes never leaving the muzzle that was pointed straight at me. He was going to kill me. No, Sean said he was a pro. He'd stick at murder. Strangely, it was Ron who spoke.

  “Cassie! What are you doing here?"

  A malevolent smiled twitched Etherington's lips. “Yes, Cassie, what are you doing here? As if I didn't know.” He looked suspiciously at Ron. “No point leaving loose ends,” he added.

  “Don't shoot her!” Ron ordered, but I noticed he didn't come forward to help me.

  Etherington continued motioning with his gun, urging me toward the car. I saw Victor on the ground, and bent over him, trying to determine if he was alive or dead. And if they'd already killed Victor ... The voices continued arguing.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” I heard Ron shout.

  I watched in rising panic as Etherington turned on him in a vicious attack. First a powerful crack over the head with the butt of his gun, then a fist rammed into his stomach. Ronald crumbled to the ground in a heap beside Victor. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Etherington next turned his violent anger on me. “Get in,” he ordered grimly. “You might come in handy yet."

  “I—” I looked helplessly at Victor and Ronald, one all trussed up, the other sprawled in an inert mass.

  “Now,” Etherington growled. I moved toward the LTD. “The other car,” he said, pushing me toward Ron's Mercedes, the driver's side. I crawled in; Etherington was right after me. It seemed I should have been able to stop him in some way.

  He had to not only drive, but keep the gun on me. What deterred my attempt was that he paid more attention to me and the gun than to the driving. The car leapt forward and hurtled down the length of the parking lot. I had thought he'd turn around and leave the way he'd arrived. He was soon going too fast for me to jump out. Did he know some exit that Sean didn't know about? Oh, God, was he going to escape with me as hostage?

  We reached the end of the lot, and I discovered that Etherington didn't know of any secret exit. He was just investigating. There was a barrier too high to jump. He whipped around in a perilous U-turn that sent me slamming against the door, and he began driving back. The parking lot had sprung to life. We met cars coming toward us—three I think. One set of headlights was dead in our tracks. I braced myself for the sickening clang of metal on metal, and lifted my arms to protect my face. The oncoming lights veered to the left, missing us by inches.

  I swallowed my heart and looked through the windshield again. Behind us, tires were squealing as the cop cars performed their U-turns and came after us. Farther down the lot, men were running and cars were moving. The cars of the cleaning staff had either been conscripted, or the cops had slid a batch of their own unmarked cars among them. Two cars were in the process of being hastily aligned to block the exit. A man standing off to the side had a gun aimed at our c
ar. Sean—it was Sean—standing like a statue, legs splayed, and holding his gun steady with two hands, like a character in a police show. Unfortunately, my head was in the way of his taking a shot at Etherington. Everything happened so quickly that it seemed like a motion picture speeded up. Etherington's jaw squared for action. I could see him mentally gauging whether he could squeeze the Mercedes through the gap between the two parked cars. I thought he might just make it. In their haste, the police had misjudged the distance.

  As we passed Sean, a shot rang out. He had shot at the tire and hit it. Our car swerved dangerously, Etherington swore off a string of curses, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor on top of Etherington, quickly checking myself out for fractures. The door on my side had caved in against me, but the impact had thrown me to the other side. Policemen came storming forward, Sean in the lead. He pulled the door open and helped me out.

  His face was grim, and he looked more angry than anything else, but his voice was hollow with concern. “Are you all right?” he barked.

  “Yes.” His anxious anger eased visibly to relief.

  One quick, fierce smile beamed, and he said, “Better get your tail out of here, honey. The fat lady hasn't sung yet."

  It still wasn't over then. There was more to be done, but I was only dimly aware of all this. I was alive, and the important thing now was to discover whether Victor was. I could see Ron was all right. He had sat up and was rubbing his head. I ran down the lot, dodging cops running toward the Mercedes.

  As soon as I reached Victor, I relaxed. Corpses didn't have flashing eyes and angry scowls. They didn't make frustrated, guttural sounds in their throats whether their mouths were taped shut or not. He was tied arm and leg with nylon stockings that are very hard to undo when they're pulled tightly. A policeman came and cut the nylons for me and yanked the adhesive from Victor's mouth forcefully enough so that he was rewarded with a fine Italian curse. My uncle's legs must have been cramped worse than mine. When he tried to stand up, he toppled over, and the policeman and I had to prop him up between us.

  “Are you all right, Victor?” I asked, examining him for bruises, lacerations, and other signs of torture.

  “I'd kill for a cigar,” were the first words to leave his mouth even before he could stand unaided.

  Ron struggled to his feet unsteadily, looked around, and began walking toward his Mercedes. His beautiful car had its front end and whole right side caved in beyond redemption. While I fell on Victor's breast, bawling for joy, he gave my shoulder a few pats and then ignored me. “Did they get the son-of-a-bitch?” he asked the policeman.

  We looked toward the exit, and saw that they had gotten him and were even then dressing him in steel bracelets and herding him toward a car. Sean was there, the life of the party, slapping official backs and laughing. He actually coaxed a smile out of Marven. Gino was there, too. When Etherington had been pushed into the car, Marven and Sean started walking toward Victor. Ronald was there, but he didn't seem to be under arrest. He just stayed talking to other cops. Sean was wrong about Ronald then. He'd been innocent all along and had gotten his car destroyed for his efforts to help.

  “I'm taking my uncle home,” I said to the party in general. They all ignored me.

  “Where's my violin?” Victor asked Marven.

  “It's in Ronald's car,” I said.

  I looked at Sean, waiting for him to mention Ronald. “I'll get it,” he said and left. He came back with the case and opened it. I knew he'd be looking for the transmitter, and if it was there, then Ronald was vindicated. At last Victor was allowed to fondle the Stradivarius. It was almost embarrassing, the way he ran his fingers over it, lovingly, speaking of curves and smoothness in very human, feminine terms.

  “Was the bug in it?” I asked Sean in a low voice.

  He shook his head in infinite satisfaction. “Nope. Old Ron isn't quite as stupid as I thought."

  “He stopped Etherington from killing me,” I said wanly.

  “That wasn't too bright, your deciding to join the party."

  “I would have been fine if it weren't for the dog."

  “Something unexpected always turns up—like dogs and the car switch. Ron knew we'd be looking for Etherington's car and arranged to change with him. Having Etherington give him a knock on the head would make him look innocent, too. Later he could claim Etherington found the bug and got rid of it. I guess he thought I was as fine a gentleman as he is and would stick to my word about not doing any shooting till his friend got away. Too bad to disillusion him. Marven's taped their whole phone conversation so he knew what to expect."

  “Do you feel up to giving us a statement tonight, Mr. Mazzini?” Marven asked quite respectfully.

  “Why not? The sooner we get that English bastard behind bars, the better. Come to my place. I need a cigar."

  Marven said a few words to his second in command and led Victor off to his car. Sean smiled at me and said, “He's going to be one disappointed man when he sees that empty humidor. We better get him something to stick in his mouth, or he'll have a nervous breakdown."

  I peered across the parking lot. “What about Ron?"

  “He doesn't seem real anxious to join the party. He mentioned something about calling his lawyer and the Attorney General when I suggested he shouldn't leave town."

  “He will leave! You can't just let him go!"

  “He isn't going far," he said and tossed his head in Ron's direction. Gino had his hand on Ron's bicep, gently nudging him toward a squad car.

  We walked back down the road to Sean's parked car. The predominant mood was anticlimax, not triumph. “You got tired of waiting for me, did you?” he asked.

  “You knew I wouldn't stay there."

  “That was a bit dangerous. Etherington's gun was loaded."

  “I can't believe Ronald Strathroy is a crook."

  “He's not as bad as lots of them. His back was against the wall. He never meant for anything to turn violent. He didn't want to hurt anybody."

  “You're not making excuses for what he did? It was terrible—and to Victor, of all people."

  “I feel sorry for the guy. He was pushed to take his father's place at Graymar, and he just doesn't have the brains to make money legally. His mother is an expensive lady—big front to keep up. I can see how he'd get pressured into doing what he did."

  “Well I can't, and I hope Victor presses every charge in the book."

  “We'll see,” he said and opened the car door for me.

  “Nobody's acting the way he should be!” I sulked. “I thought cops were supposed to be tough on criminals. Victor wasn't even glad to see me. All of a sudden you're on Ron Strathroy's side. And furthermore, I'd like to know how you got into Victor's apartment without a key before you followed me to Casa Loma tonight."

  “I didn't."

  “Aha! When you picked me up you said you didn't find me in the apartment. In! You were in and furthermore you had a key when we got there."

  “I didn't get in without a key. I got in with one."

  “Well, where did you get it?"

  “The doorman let me have a copy. We're old buddies by now, Hans and me. Mind you, I'm beginning to feel like the boy who cried wolf, always dragging poor Hans up to open your door and you not even having the courtesy to be dead. I had to give him a tip."

  “How much?"

  “On the horses—Flamboro Downs, the sulky races ... Jeez, are you sure you've lived here for a month?"

  “Sorry to disappoint you again. Next time the door's locked, I'll see if I can arrange to be mortally wounded. Bleeding to death all over the carpet. Hans would like that. You can be a hero, give me a blood transfusion. I'm 0 positive."

  “You're A positive now. Must be—you've sucked me dry."

  “Let's go. I don't want to miss Victor's story."

  “You can catch it on TV. He won't miss this chance. Now about you and me, Cassie...” The moustache descended, looking like two slightly dilapidated toothbrushes and f
eeling the same. Of course, other sensations came along with it. Quite nice ones. Strong arms around me, warm fingers all over me, very corny but strikingly sincere words of love. There was something about not being able to live without me, a heart attack when he thought I was a thief, and something else about one in a million and knowing as soon as he saw me. Much too good for him. Lots of expense-paid travel, but whether a Mountie was expected to drag his wife along was not clear. I condescended to think about it.

  Since we had a bit of trouble finding any cigars big and expensive enough to suit Victor, we arrived late for his story. Marven was just leaving. He had the violin case under his arm which threw Victor into a frenzy. My uncle wasn't too reluctant to begin his story over again. He was working up to a dramatic presentation for the mass media. He'd changed out of his rumpled suit into a flamboyant, burgundy colored dressing gown made of some patterned material related to satin. He had an ascot at his neck and was preening in front of a mirror.

  “Who's this, another cop?” he asked when we entered. He already had a stogie in his hand. He must have made Marven stop on the way home.

  “This is Sean Bradley, Victor,” I said. “He's a Mountie."

  “My name's John Weiss,” Sean corrected.

  “Right, I forgot,” I said.

  “Lloyd's of London,” Sean added.

  “Lloyd's!” That was me, shrieking. “What about the scarlet tunic! And the funny hat?"

  “Don't mind her, she's an idiot,” Victor explained. “Phone your mother, Cassie. She'll be worried sick."

  “She'll be sound asleep. I'll phone her tomorrow, and I am not an idiot. Anything you two have to say, I plan to hear and object to."

  “She will, you know,” Victor cautioned, but he wore an approving smile. Whether at John, who I went on calling Sean for a few days, or the fact that I had done the right thing for an Italian niece and found a mate, I wasn't sure. I don't even know how he knew I'd landed John, but being Italian, he sensed it.

  “You can't be an insurance agent,” I objected. “Lloyd's is in London!"