by Joan Smith
“If he did, we'll never be able to trace him. The Go trains for commuters leave at that time. The crowd's like Macy's on sale day."
“But is there a train to Caledon, to his cottage?"
“Not directly, and besides, he wasn't at the cottage. He drove the car home to the apartment after he was at the station. I wonder what Thomson Hall is doing about tonight's concert. I haven't had the radio or TV on all day. I'm going home to do that now.” The back of my neck ached from the strain of the day's tension. I felt muggy all over. I wanted to sink into a warm tub and feel the lap of clean water over my naked body.
“Do you want some company?” he offered. I was a little surprised till I remembered I'd only thought about the bath—I hadn't said it aloud.
We came to the corner and stopped. I took a good long look at Sean. “Some holiday you're having,” I said, and squeezed his fingers. “I'm sure glad you're here. I don't know what I'd have done alone.” I meant every word of it. Looking at his reassuring square jaw, his friendly brown eyes, lit now with sympathy, I wanted to kiss him in gratitude.
“I'm glad, too,” he said. “It's not every day a nuts and bolts guy like me gets a chance to help a damsel in distress. It'll be okay, Cassie. I don't see any reason why anybody would kill him. You get into murder—especially of a celebrity—you're asking for big trouble. He's just locked up somewhere, and what we've got to do is get busy and find him."
“That's all, huh?” My bottom lip wobbled unsteadily. The tears were about two seconds away, ready to spurt if he said one more sympathetic word. I didn't feel right about Sean, using up his holiday on him. He'd probably saved all year for this vacation, maybe two or three years. But I sure didn't want to be alone for this ordeal, either.
“What time will I call for you?” he asked when we spotted an empty taxi cruising forward.
The question surprised and cheered me until I remembered I had promised him dinner. “How does seven suit you?"
“It suits me just fine.” The cab pulled in at the curb, and we climbed in.
In the taxi he put his arm around me and I leaned my head on his chest, not speaking. His fingers felt good, massaging the tension from my neck. I wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep and stay asleep till Victor came back, but it was only a short drive to the apartment. Sean gave me his phone number as we pulled up in front of the building.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“I'm at a little inn downtown, but I noticed something called the Park Plaza Hotel quite close to your place. I think I might move."
I was touched by his thoughtfulness, but felt I should warn him. “That's pretty expensive, Sean,” I said as he climbed out of the taxi and held the door for me.
He smiled reassuringly. “That's all right. I soak them real good on the nuts and bolts."
“Oh, do you own the store?” I shouldn't have let myself sound so shocked and so delighted.
He gave a modest little blush that was very endearing. “It's not very big, but I own it.” He really was such a sweet man. I was going to order dinner that would blow his socks off, and that would take some dinner, when there was a pair of very tall western boots that had to blow before the socks.
“Try not to worry,” he said, just before he got back in the cab. I wanted to offer to pay the bill, or at least split it, but I knew his Nebraska blood would be offended, so I kissed him on the cheek instead, and he handed me the violin case.
The last glimpse I had of him through the window, he was smiling like a teenager with his first set of wheels. I felt insensibly cheered to know he'd be coming back in a few hours. Being human, I also wondered just how small his “little” store was and realized very well the impossibility of being either a diplomat or Sybarite in North Platte, Nebraska. I wouldn't even have anyone to speak French to. C'était trop mal, ça.
CHAPTER 8
I had the very best intention of providing Sean a Grade A gourmet dinner. The restaurant had duck à l'orange and everything that they'd deliver. That we eventually ended up eating leftovers at nine o'clock was not my fault. The phone was ringing when I stepped into the apartment, and between it and the doorbell, I didn't have time to draw a breath, much less plan our gourmet meal. During my absence, Victor's disappearance had escalated to a city-wide scandal.
The first call was from Rhoda asking if Mr. Mazzini was back yet, and when I said no, she asked if she should come in tomorrow. I was uncertain how much privacy my quest for Uncle Victor might require. Casting an eye around the apartment, I decided it could go another day without dusting and gave her the day off. I hadn't got more than two steps away from the phone when it rang again. That time it was Eleanor.
“Is there any word, Cassie?” she asked in her throaty voice that sounds as though her vocal chords had been marinated in brandy and smoke.
“No, nothing."
“I've been calling and calling all day long. Where on earth have you been?” she asked accusingly.
“Out looking for my uncle."
“Where?” she asked, mystified.
“All over. I drove up to the cottage,” I said, as a for instance.
“That shouldn't have taken all day. What are you going to tell the press?” was her next question.
I was surprised at the trivial nature of her concern. “I'm not planning to tell them anything."
She asked me a few more fairly pointless questions, and as soon as I got rid of her, the phone rang again. It was a reporter from the least respectable of the newspapers wanting the inside story on Victor's disappearance. How did he get an unlisted number? Victor had probably sent it around to all the newspapers and radio and TV stations. “No comment,” I said briskly and hung up.
Those newspapermen have ways and means of inveigling themselves into places they're not wanted. He must have been calling from somewhere nearby and sneaked into the building on the coattails of a legitimate resident. I only had time to take my Adidas out of the violin case and stick the case in Victor's studio when the reporter appeared at the door in person, scaring the life out of me.
I was trembling when I looked out the peephole at a man I'd never seen in my life before. The fact that he had a pen and pad in his hand alerted me to his probable identity, and I didn't let him in. He stayed there for ages, ringing and trying to talk through the door, asking questions. His persistence brought Betty Friske out, and he walked down the hall to talk to her.
While he was still there, the phone rang again. It was the manager of Roy Thomson Hall, also giving me hell for not being home all day to answer the phone. Naturally he was curious to know whether Victor planned to perform for the evening concert. Did I realize the media and orchestra had to be notified if the performance was to be cancelled? What could I say? I said I still hadn't heard from Mr. Mazzini and suggested that any sane manager would have taken the necessary steps to cancel hours ago.
The oddest thing of all was that the police didn't come or even phone, but my reaction at the time was relief. My boss from Casa Loma phoned—I'd given him the phone number myself—and agreed that I shouldn't return to work tomorrow. He was very understanding. I managed to read Mom's letter between calls—no important news there. Twice I remembered Victor's bank statement and even got it from his studio, but before I had a chance to examine it, the phone was ringing again, so I stuffed the statement into my purse and picked up the receiver. Two friends from work called, and Ronald Strathroy arrived in person at five-thirty, hot from Bay Street.
The well-oiled machine was less smooth this evening. His face looked drawn with little smudges beneath his eyes. Ronald wasn't a very demonstrative person, but as soon as he was inside the door, he took my hands and kissed me lightly on the lips.
“Poor Cassie,” he said, with a gentle smile, “this must be hell for you. I've tried a dozen times to get hold of you on the phone today. Where have you been?"
I squeezed his fingers while he gazed into my eyes. I was touched to see the very real concern there. I had
misjudged Ronald. His British air of frost hid his feelings, but he had them.
“I drove up to Caledon, looking for Victor.” This didn't seem the optimum time to mention Sean Bradley.
“No luck, I take it?"
“Someone had been there, but I don't think it was my uncle.” I told him about the hasty search.
“It's such a strange thing,” he puzzled, walking me to the sofa with an arm around my waist. We sat down, and he ran a hand through his smooth wheat-silk hair, disheveling it attractively.
“It's weird. Can I get you something to drink, Ron?"
“A Scotch would hit the spot."
I made him a Scotch and soda and took a straight soda water for myself to control the calories. It was companionable, chatting with him on the sofa, his fingers just brushing my shoulder. The only discomfort was that time was ticking past, and I had to decide on and order dinner for Sean and pull myself into presentable shape. But there was time for a sociable drink at least.
“What did the police have to say this morning?” he asked. I outlined their questions and my answers in less than two minutes. It was perfectly natural that he should next ask what else had occurred during the day, and though I felt some urge to tell him everything, I hedged. Whatever Victor was up to, I wanted to keep it in the family. My uncle had roamed the world long enough. Toronto was what he now called home, and he liked being a part of the established society. Eleanor Strathroy was his lifeline to it, and I didn't want to sever this vital connection. So I spoke vaguely of the phone calls I had received within the past half hour, letting him think they had come over the space of the whole day.
“But you were out this afternoon when I called,” he said.
“I had to go to the bank."
“It's rough, your being here alone during all this. Why don't you go and spend a few days with Mom?” he suggested. “She'd be delighted to have you."
Every city has an exclusive area like Forest Hill where the old rich built stone mansions in the days when it was still possible, and their lucky descendants now have the luxury of living in them, close to the heart of a large city. I'd been to the Strathroys’ for a few dinners and parties and knew how formally they lived. When I thought of being a jet setter myself, I didn't mean to run with that pack. I was interested in the livelier set. Actually nouveau riche would suit me better. But it was kind of him to offer, and I refused kindly.
“I should stay here where I can handle the messages that come pouring in. I have to be available to Roy Thomson Hall and the police, and of course Victor, too, if he tries to get in touch with me. Or in case it's a kidnapper, you know...” I let it hang heavy in the air.
“Don't think that, Cassie,” he said and took my hand again. “No one would kidnap Victor. He's a man of great genius, but he isn't wealthy. Criminals only kidnap for money."
“That's true.” I felt badly, keeping so much secret from Ronald. He was my oldest friend in the city. Here I was sharing my troubles with a total stranger when a good friend was at hand.
When he spoke again, it was about Sean, though Ronald didn't know his name. “Mom mentioned you were with some man at the concert last night.” He didn't sound jealous exactly, though there was a little of that mixed with the curiosity.
I downplayed Sean. “He's just a tourist—an American I met at work yesterday. He was sorry he had to miss Victor's concert, and since I had your ticket right in my purse, I gave it to him. I didn't actually go with him—the seat was just next to mine."
“Did you know him before, or was he just a chance acquaintance?"
“I'd never seen him in my life till yesterday. He's a hardware salesman from Nebraska."
“Oh, I see.” This killed the last shred of Ronald's interest. “What do you want to do tonight? Would you like me to stay here with you since you don't feel you can leave? I don't want you to be alone.” Concern and sympathy were in his eyes. I hoped the impatience wasn't too visible in mine.
“You look tired out, Ron. You must be, too, after your trip yesterday. Why don't you go home and get a good sleep? I'll be fine."
“No, no, I insist. I don't want to leave you alone, all worried and nervous."
“I'm not nervous. I have dozens of things to do. I have to write to Mom."
“Let me take you out for dinner at least. You can leave for an hour,” he urged.
I invented a late lunch and finally persuaded him I wasn't a basket case yet. He finished his Scotch and put down his glass. “If you change your mind, give me a ring,” he said. “I'll go home now. Mom's in a state, too. Remember now, call us if you hear anything. Or even if you just get lonesome. We'll keep in touch."
I went to the door with him, trying not to hurry my steps. “Sweet Cassie,” he said softly, and stopped at the door to pull me into his arms for a kiss. This one wasn't a peck; it lasted a few minutes and made me forget all about Sean and dinner.
I was troubled after he left. This was a considerate, thoughtful side of Ronald I hadn't seen before. During our half dozen or so dates, I never felt he really liked me. I was always a little on edge with Ronald, a little too aware of the difference in our backgrounds, but he was proving a good friend. We'd be closer after this Victor affair was over.
But my immediate concern was to phone the restaurant and order dinner. I looked up the number and sat thinking what food would suit a hardware salesman from Nebraska without adding a zillion calories to a dieter. I didn't know one single person from Nebraska unless you could count Johnny Carson or Dick Cavett. Maybe duck à l'orange was too pretentious, but a steak wouldn't travel well. Something with a sauce that could be slipped into the oven for a few minutes before serving
I was at the phone about to order coq au vin for two to go when the doorbell sounded once more. I thought it might be one of the neighbors since Victor was popular in the building. When I peeked out the peephole, I saw Fred Marven, the plainclothes policeman, standing there. My insides were shaking like a leaf in the wind when I admitted him.
“Have you found him?” I asked, staring.
“No, Ma'am, I'm afraid we haven't,” he said, and stepped in, looking all around.
I led him to the sofa where he immediately spotted the two glasses. “A friend just dropped in,” I said, before he spoke.
“I saw Mr. Strathroy in the parking garage,” he said, which gave me hope for his alertness and ability to put two. and two together. “I believe he was here this morning as well."
“Yes, he dropped in on his way to work.” I was proud to announce my connection with such local worthies. “The Strathroys are very good friends of the family."
“A fine family, the Strathroys. Have you and your uncle known them long?"
“Mr. Mazzini has known them longer than I have. I believe he met them a few years ago in Italy. Mrs. Strathroy's cousin lives there—married to an Italian.” This all seemed highly irrelevant, but I wasn't eager to quit such a harmless topic. “He looked Mrs. Strathroy up when he moved to Toronto, and they became good friends."
We discussed the Strathroys for a while—Eleanor's party mainly—then he stirred in his seat. I was alarmed till I discovered what he wanted.
“I don't have a search warrant, but would you have any objection to my taking a look around the apartment?” he asked.
“Not at all. Go right ahead."
He began walking around, poking at everything, while I paced behind him. I took the idea he was looking for the money. I didn't know whether Mr. Bartlett, in a fit of timidity, had called the police, or the police had been checking into Victor's financial affairs, but I don't know what else he could have been looking for. I remembered with a sigh of relief that I had put the bank statement into my purse.
He went into Victor's bedroom and sort of half closed the door behind him. This looked like a hint that he wanted to be alone, so I stayed outside. When he came out, he didn't mention the empty humidor. Next it was the studio. The only worrisome item there was the empty violin case. He didn't fin
d it suspicious, or didn't mention it in any case. He stopped at my bedroom door and looked a question at me.
“That's all right. I gave the maid the day off, so you'll have to pardon the unmade bed.” And my being a lazy slob.
The whole visit lasted only fifteen minutes. Marven was quick, but I don't know how efficient he was. At the doorway I screwed up my courage and asked, “Was there anything in particular you were looking for?"
He gave a bright, tight little smile. “Evidence,” he said, “but I didn't find any. If you notice Mr. Mazzini's car missing from the garage, don't worry about it. We're removing it for the time being."
“Why?"
“Its ownership is in question now."
“Does he owe money on it?"
“No, he paid cash. You weren't aware he was selling his car?"
I blinked in disbelief. “He didn't mention it."
“He advertised it in the papers last week. A man put a thousand dollars down and was to bring Mr. Mazzini the remainder today and arrange the transfer of ownership papers. When he heard of your uncle's disappearance, he came down to the station and told us. The car is in the process of being sold, so it wouldn't be wise for you to drive it in case of an accident. It won't inconvenience you?"
“No, I never drive it, but..."
“You mustn't be concerned, Miss Newton. I expect your uncle planned to buy a different car. Good day."
Marven bowed himself out quite formally, and I stood, mute with shock. Victor couldn't be selling his car. He loved it. One of his greatest joys was crouching behind the wheel of that low-slung, showoff car with his silly little tweed cap pulled down over his eyes. His car was his second most precious possession after his Guarneri. And what had become of it?
I really couldn't settle down to arranging the dinner party after that. I didn't even get changed. When Sean came, I was still sitting in my dotted cotton dress, staring at my toes, which peeped out from my strapped sandals, and noticing that my toenails could do with a new paint job.
