by Joan Smith
I paid off the cab driver and went into the hallway. The hum of a crowd at play was reassuring. Lots of people—safety in numbers. The wedding dinner was over, and the dancing had begun. Hordes of people roamed through the halls, looking anachronistic in their modern garb, and a few were dancing in the Great Hall. The bride, in a long gown and Spanish-style headdress, was laminated against the groom's tuxedo, her eyes closed, her head resting on her new husband's shoulder as they swayed to the music.
I eased myself into a dark, inconspicuous corner to take a long look around for a hiding place. There weren't that many spots given the size of the room. The long-case clock had a glass front so obviously he hadn't hidden the violin in there. The sofas and chairs weren't against the walls but were more or less free standing which made it unlikely he'd pushed his violin under one of them. It would be visible from a doorway. There were tables and plants but nowhere to hide a violin.
I came out and looked right at Peacock Alley which is just a long, fancy hall leading to the Conservatory. When I saw Victor leaving, he hadn't been coming from that direction. He had been coming from the direction of his favorite spot, the music room. The valuables there are roped off to prevent people from fooling around with the Steinway, the old harp and other things. Other than the instruments, there's not a lot to engage the tourists’ interest, and in the middle of a wedding feast, the room was deserted, or so I thought until I stepped in.
There was one man there, leaning over the Steinway. He'd hopped the rope and was playing the piano with two fingers. The guide in me wanted to tell him to stop, but tonight I was pretending I was a guest.
He looked over his shoulder and said, “It's out of tune.” I noticed he had a moustache and an English accent. I'm not personally familiar with the pattern of English school ties, but I imagined they were probably a lot like the finely-striped blue and red and gold one this man wore. There was a crest on his blazer. While I stared, speechless, he smiled and started playing chopsticks, all wrong. Was he the man from the picture? There was some similarity—the same general type .
I looked over my shoulder to make sure there were people in view close behind before speaking. “Do you sing, too?” I asked, examining him closely.
“About the same as I play.” He stopped playing then and began looking around at the other instruments. He picked up the violin and twanged at the strings with his fingers.
“It sure isn't a Stradivarius, is it?” he laughed.
“No, and you're no Yehudi Menuhin either."
“Do you play?” he asked.
“No, I don't."
“What do you say we dance instead?” he suggested.
“I don't dance either, sorry. I better go and find my date.” I waggled my fingers and left. I got a glass of punch from the serving table to make myself look at home and watched Peacock Alley for the Englishman to leave. I had decided it wasn't Etherington. Either the bride or groom here was English. There were dozens of accents around, speaking in that loud way that sounds like showing off to North Americans. When the man came into the hall, a small group accosted him, calling him by the name Herbie. I took this as prima facie evidence he was not guilty and slipped back into the music room for a closer search.
Like the Great Hall, this room was large but didn't offer that many hiding spots. The violin wasn't behind either of the big palms in the corners. It wasn't concealed behind the voluminous folds of the brocade drapes, which would have been a perfect hiding spot, if Victor had only realized they never closed the drapes. I climbed over the velvet rope that cuts the instruments off from the tourists, and determined that the violin wasn't in the piano bench. Why couldn't he have put it in some easy-to-get-at place like the piano bench? There were even a few loose sheets of music that could have covered it.
There weren't many other places. The harp stood a few yards to the left of the piano, accompanied by a little stool upholstered in velvet. There was a cello on a stand close by; it had a chair with a back for the player. The piano's lid was closed, and the violin was set at its end. Had Victor had time to lift the lid of the grand piano and stick the violin in on top of the piano strings? Was that why it sounded out of tune?
I picked up the violin to place it on the floor. It was propped on its rather shabby case. I lifted the case, and was surprised by its weight. I gave it a little shake. My heart went into nervous palpitations as I realized what Victor had done. He had chosen the most obvious place in the world to hide a violin. He had simply put it in the violin case and propped the other violin on top of the case as it had set for decades.
Sean had even picked up the violin and asked me if it was the Strad, but he hadn't thought to pick up the case. Of course, I could be wrong. It could be only some other old instrument the castle owned kept here for convenience. I looked over my shoulder. The hall was empty, but someone might come along at any moment. I took the violin case, opened the lid, and saw an undistinguished old violin with three strings broken. A spare put aside and forgotten.
Disappointed, frustrated, and becoming angry, I went to the chair beside one of the potted palms and sat down to think. It had to be here. It just had to. I glanced at the long-case clock still reading seven-fifteen, but it had a glass front, like the one in the Grand Hall. I looked again. The glass front had a gilt pattern of closely crossed lines forming small diamonds. The glass itself was dimmed from age. I rose like a zombie and went to the clock. You really couldn't see anything through the patterned glass. Even the pendulum was almost invisible.
My fingers trembled as I took hold of the knob and pulled the door open. There on the shadowed floor of the case, propped beside the unmoving pendulum sat a violin. I lifted it out and darted back to the chair by the palm where I wouldn't be seen from the hall if anyone peeked in. I'd never seen a Stradivarius in my life before, but I knew I was looking at one now. This was no ordinary instrument; it was an objet d'art. It felt perfectly balanced in my hands, and glowed a soft orangey-red where the “magical” varnish had mellowed. I didn't need the evidence of the ebony insets in the shape of a cluster of grapes to know this was a Stradivarius, but, of course, they confirmed that it was the Carpani Strad. The hairs on my arms lifted in homage to its perfection. For one moment, I suffered a peculiar atavistic attack of covetousness. I wanted to keep it. How much stronger must Victor's impulse have been? He had wanted one of these all his life and was one of the few men in the country who could do it justice. And who should such an object belong to if not to someone who could play it?
But how to smuggle it out? I darted to the grand piano, removed the unstrung violin from its case and took the case to my chair. I put the Stradivarius in the case, closed the lid and fastened it. My next thought was to get it out of here and home. Getting it out could prove the hardest part. There was a guard at the entrance, even for a wedding, and he'd take a dim view of someone walking out with part of the castle's furnishings. The other way out was the exit at the end of the hall by the lockers. In the exultant excitement of the moment that amounted almost to a frenzy, I didn't think of more practical moves such as calling the police or even a taxi. I just wanted to take the violin and run.
Running would only call attention to myself, and my aim was to get out as quietly as possible, so I did the next best thing. I walked out nonchalantly, carrying the violin case in my hand and even stopped to nod and smile to a few guests. Luck was with me. The guard wasn't at the door. He should have been, but a guard has to attend to nature's functions like anyone else, and for a few crucial minutes, the door was unguarded. I walked out unimpeded into the bright lights that shone on the castle so that it didn't even seem dark. It wasn't until I had walked beyond the bright lighting that I realized I should have called a cab. The dark spaces between those areas illuminated by street lights were long and menacing. I hurried past the dark spots, peering over my shoulder and caught my breath beneath the lamp standards.
I'd have to wait for a bus, but Toronto was relatively safe especially in
respectable areas like this. I crossed the road and started to run for no particular reason except that I could no longer confine myself to normal behavior. I had to release some of the adrenaline that coursed through my veins, and shouting didn't seem like a very good idea.
There were cars passing by, quite a few of them, but this wasn't Maine. I had conquered the small-town habit of thinking I was going to know people I met on the street. My heart gave a lurch when a white Corvette sped past, but of course it wasn't Victor. A young couple was inside. I hardly glanced at the silver-gray Monte Carlo as it cruised by me a moment later. It couldn't be Sean—he was in custody. The man, the only person in the car, did have a head the shape of Sean's but it wasn't wearing a western hat. I hustled on, peering into the shadows as I went, and still keeping an eye on the silver Monte Carlo. Why was it slowing down? The corner didn't have a stop sign.
The car performed a U-turn and began speeding back toward me. Alarm quickly soared to outright panic. This was too much coincidence. I stopped dead in my tracks when the car began slowing down just a few yards from me. When it came to a full stop, I took to my heels, running back toward Casa Loma. But just before I turned, I got one quick glimpse of Sean's head emerging from the door. He was moving swiftly, and his expression went beyond sinister. He looked positively lethal. He was lethal—an escaped kidnapper and murderer for all I knew.
I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. The Casa Loma was only a block away. I could make it—but already the sound of hastening footfalls was gaining on me. My high heels, my clinging dress, and the violin case bumping against my body all slowed me down. And of course there wasn't a single pedestrian on the street. Cars sped by unaware of my predicament. He overtook me within half a block. I felt his large hand close over my shoulder in a powerful grip. He turned me around and leveled a cold, hard glare at me. “Why do I get the feeling you're trying to avoid me?” he asked ironically.
“Let go of me or I'll scream bloody murder."
He looked up and down the vacant street and smiled contentedly. I opened my mouth and emitted a blood-curdling scream. I heard it reverberate futilely in the air around me. Sean gave a grunt of amusement. “Save your breath. You'll need it.” At this veiled threat, my heart leapt to my throat.
He gripped my upper arm in a vice hold and dragged me, loudly protesting, bucking and kicking, back to the Monte Carlo. I noticed he had left the door hanging open in his rush to catch me. At the car, he said, “I'll take this,” and tossed the violin onto the seat of the car.
I made one more effort to get away. I tried to wrench free, but his fingers were like metal clamps on my arm. Fear rose up in a wave, a palpable, tangible thing when he shoved me toward the open car door. “How did you escape?” I asked.
“You heard about that, did you? Or was it you who tipped them off?” As he spoke, I dug in my heels and tried to resist. It took him about thirty seconds to pry me loose. I just had time for one final holler before I was flung onto the front seat, missing the violin case by a fraction of an inch.
He was in beside me. The motor was still running—all he had to do was put the car in gear and roar off. He was driving too fast for me to fling the door open and jump out. As he drove, he darted quick, angry looks at me.
“Well, was it you?"
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I claimed bravely, but my shaking voice betrayed my fear, and my fingers were trembling. I crossed my arms to hide my panicky condition and thought furiously. How long would it take for Ronald to phone the apartment and discover I was missing? Would he come pelting over to see what had happened, or would he think I'd taken a sleeping pill as he'd suggested and decide to let me rest till morning? The police! At least they knew Sean had escaped. They must be looking for him, and they'd know what car he had rented. How had he got his car? He'd have been taken to the station in the police cruiser.
“The cops were waiting for me when I got back to the hotel as you apparently know,” he said.
“Then how did you escape?"
“I didn't. I just did a bit of fast talking. They didn't have anything on me. Bad P.R., arresting an American and holding him with no evidence. I started yelling for the American Consul, and before you could say Jack Robinson they let me go."
Was it possible he had talked them into releasing him after what I'd told Marven? Or was this yet another lie? “They're probably having you followed,” I said.
“Not now. I managed to lose them about half an hour ago. When I didn't find you in the apartment, I had a pretty good idea where to look. Did you know the Strad was there all along?"
“No, I just figured it out tonight.” I was answering carefully, hoping to keep Sean calm, hoping to come up with a plan. He didn't seem terribly hostile, not yet anyway. But the very fact that he'd been “in” the apartment told me he had Victor's key. And there was no way he could have gotten it except from Victor.
“What were you planning to do with it?” he asked.
“Take it home. Call the police."
“Wouldn't it have made more sense to call them before you left the Casa Loma? Even before you left the apartment,” he added.
“Yes, I guess it would."
“Of course, if you never had any intention of letting the cops know you'd found it...” He let it hang and snatched one quick look at me from the corner of his eye as he roared around a corner doing about seventy miles an hour.
“Why would I do that?"
“It's worth a lot of money."
“Not to me, it isn't. I just wanted the papers to announce it was found, so you—they'd let Victor go."
Sean didn't mention my slip, but I knew he'd noticed it. “Where's Ronald?” he asked suddenly.
“Out with some friends. Why?"
“When you stood me up, I thought maybe he was the cause."
“Where are we going?"
“To your place. A shame to let those two steaks go to waste. I didn't bring my pajamas. I figured they'd just be in the way."
That was when the panic began getting out of control. I could almost taste it, bitter and burning at the back of my throat, making me weak and breathless. The talk so far had been very low key, not what I'd expected at all, but now he was going to get his revenge. He had the Strad, he had Victor and Victor's money and he had me. All he wanted was revenge. And there was nothing to prevent his getting it. He had evaded the police. Ronald was out somewhere with friends. He was going to take me back to the apartment ... Beads of perspiration gathered on my brow and my fingers. I heard my shallow breathing in the closed car.
CHAPTER 16
My mind soon turned to escape—preferably before we reached the apartment. The blur of buildings and street lights told me we were going too fast to jump out. I thought Sean knew what I had in mind. He kept to the inner lane which made getting out in the traffic nearly as dangerous as staying with him. He rushed all the orange lights and once leapt through on a light that had just turned red. The time to make my bolt would be after we stopped. With luck on my side, there'd be some other people in the parking garage at the apartment; with divine providence, some of those people might be policemen. Or Ronald.
When we entered the garage, there was nothing but silent rows of dully gleaming cars and long shadowy aisles leading to the service elevators. Sean took a good look around before he got out. In all the excitement, it hadn't occurred to me that he might have a gun. And if he did, I could forget trying to bolt. I wanted to discover if he had one and peered for suspicious bulges in his clothing. It was impossible to tell by his lumpy jacket whether he carried a concealed weapon, but at least he didn't have one in his hand. I'd make a run for it as soon as the car stopped.
He parked so close to the other car on my side that I couldn't get my door open. He had done it on purpose. I knew by the smug set of his lips. This wily maneuver convinced me that he was too experienced to be walking around without a gun. I had to jiggle over and get out by his door while he stood waiting, watching cl
osely.
He put on his hat and said, “You carry the violin."
I took it from him, he clamped a menacing hand on my arm, and we walked swiftly toward the elevator—the service elevator to lessen the likelihood of company. I uttered a silent prayer that when the elevator arrived, someone would be in it, a man, or men. It was already there, empty and waiting. My next and last hope was the hallway when we got out.
Sean stood behind me as we rode silently up in the elevator. I expected every minute that he'd do something—attack me with either lustful or other intent. And if he did, all I had for protection was my little evening purse and the Stradivarius violin worth a fortune. Not that that would have stopped me, but it was too fragile to do any good. There was no hope of the elevator stopping on the way up. Anyone using it would be going down to the garage. I kept picturing the hallway of the seventeenth floor, my last hope. Please God, make there be someone in the hallway.
When the elevator door rattled open, I looked into a perfectly empty stretch of corridor with rows of closed doors along either wall. Maybe if I screamed ... I opened my lips. Sean heard my intake of breath and clamped his hand over my mouth. He dragged me along to Victor's door. At the door, he pulled out the key he'd taken from Victor and waited for me to go in before him. When I didn't he gave me a shove. Those two little inches of metal were as good as a confession that he'd kidnapped my uncle. I wondered what he'd done with the key ring and all Victor's other keys.
It was a strange feeling, the usual security of home all mixed up with the sheer terror of being here under duress with a dangerous criminal. But at least it was home. I knew the apartment more thoroughly than Sean did. Maybe I could find a weapon.
