by Gerald Elias
Jacobus remained fixed, his head cocked, listening as he had never before listened, and with a cautious sniff in the air like a sightless mole that has detected the presence of a rattlesnake, scouted for information with his nose.
The faucet on the wall was turned on—diversionary white noise?—scalding water spattering on the tile floor, giving Jacobus a moment to think.
I’m a naked old blind man in a bathtub, is what he thought.
The faucet was turned off. The intruder approached with near-silent tread. Closer, coming toward him. A delicate clink of porcelain. He had neither the means nor the desire to resist. His nemesis slid into the hot water, opposite him.
“Ah, Miss Padgett,” Jacobus whispered, “you’ve brought sake with you.”
“May I join you?” whispered Kate.
“It’s your tub,” said Jacobus.
“Then I shall. Was I that obvious, sneaking in here? I thought I was being quite devious,” Kate whispered back.
“Who else could it have been?”
“Perhaps a ninja assassin, come to do you in for having solved the mystery of the Piccolino Strad? Here, have some sake.”
“Would a ninja assassin have scrubbed himself clean before doing his dirty work?”
He drained the small glass in one gulp, as he had before with the Suntory number one through whatever. The warm, lightly sweet rice wine went down smoothly. She poured him another.
“Good point. You have to admit, though, I was exceedingly quiet. And I did remove my perfume so you wouldn’t smell me.”
“Not bad. And you remembered not to switch on the light. Yumi and Keiko will never know you were here.”
“Quite right. Part of my plan. But then again, you seem to have had no trouble solving the perfect crime either.”
“Except that it’s the wrong violin.”
“Minor detail. Jake, I have to ask you, how did you catch on in the first place?”
The compact size of the furo made it impossible for Jacobus’s ankles to avoid contact with Kate’s. A small surge of heat made Jacobus’s body tingle. Must be the hot water, he thought.
“Catch on?” he asked. His mind had wandered to other matters. Does Kate mind hairy legs?
“Yes. We thought we had everyone totally baffled.”
“Oh, the theft. Well, when I first heard about it on the news I concluded that whoever did it had extraordinary reasons. That the thief was someone very much like . . . me.”
“By that I gather you mean extremely intelligent, highly moral, sensitive, shrewd. Musical.”
“Precisely.” Jacobus was beginning to revive. He took another sip of sake, savoring its freshness. He began to sweat freely.
“Well, that’s a lovely start, but there must be more people than me in this world who fit that flattering description.”
“Not as many as you may think, but yes, that was the challenge. I asked myself—assuming that the thief’s reasons were similar to mine for abhorring that Competition and its mascot violin—what person, or group of persons, might be involved?”
He explained his revelation after hearing Henry Lee Higginson’s quote in the Matthilda Grimsley diary about finishing second as his inspiration to search for Grimsley runners-up.
“Genius!” exclaimed Kate. Pride glowed in her voice.
“Common sense,” said Jacobus, “but maybe you should keep your voice down.”
“Yes, of course,” she whispered. “But Jake, there must have been so many. After all these years.”
“Surprisingly few, actually, when you consider that the first Grimsley was in 1905 and they’re only every thirteen years. So if my theory was correct—and if it had been wrong I had others to try—there would be only seven violinists to check out. And I was helped by a variety of sources.”
“Such as?”
“First, the obituaries. I’m afraid that you have the honor of being the oldest remaining Grimsley second-place finisher, Kate.”
“Quite an honor. I think I’ll pour myself another sake. And you were in the Grimsley too,” Kate continued. Jacobus felt her eyes on him. “You were that pale, skinny boy who got sick the day of the group photo.”
Jacobus froze. He had never told anyone and couldn’t even now. Later. Maybe. He forced his mouth to form words.
“Neither here nor there. What about your experience?” he asked. “I haven’t been able to fill that gap, except for a couple newspaper clippings Nathaniel found.”
“You mean the ones that stated how well all the children played, how difficult it was for the judges to determine a winner, and how without doubt all the finalists would go on to glorious careers?”
“You’ve seen them, then?” he asked.
“No, never. That’s just what they all say. But to answer your question,” Kate continued, “it was hell. I was only nine years old, the younger of the young, but for months before the Competition I was put through the paces. Whenever I wasn’t in school I was practicing. Practice, practice, practice. Practice scales, practice études, practice concerti. If it was written, I practiced it. But not because it was beautiful or stimulating. Because, as they say, it was there. Make one mistake and you’re out, even if the child who won was as musical as a . . . as a . . . fish.” She made little ripples in the water with her hand.
“And ‘Required Repertoire’! Now there was the rub. Even at that tender age I had an inkling that the true purpose of music was more than just to show you can jump through a flaming hoop better than the next toddler.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it. There was the wardrobe selection, the bowing rehearsal, the smiling practice, if you can believe it. Trying to get us to simultaneously play like old men and look like infants. As you well know, for the entire two weeks of the competition it was against the rules to leave our rooms in some dingy hotel because they were afraid we would receive assistance in our preparations! Can you believe that? ‘Can’t allow these deceitful eight-year-old buggers to receive assistance. Not proper.’
“You may laugh, Mr. Jacobus, but it wasn’t very funny at the time, especially an experience I had with the great Malinkovsky, which someday before I die I may be able to talk about.”
“Sounds like you need another drink.” He handed Kate his whiskey bottle. They had even more in common than he imagined. Perhaps.
“Thank you. After the Grimsley I packed my bags and went back to England with Mum and Dad. You can’t imagine how relieved I felt to be going back home, where I thought I had friends. Unfortunately, I turned out not to be the celebrity the UK had banked on. No engagements with the BBC. There was an article in our local paper. ‘Dorchester Deb Doesn’t Deliver.’ Page eight, under the unemployment figures. So there. That’s my story.”
“Perverse, the whole business. Isn’t it?” said Jacobus.
Kate’s leg rubbed against his. Intentional? Should he rub back? What would she think? Maybe not.
“To say the least,” she said. “I hated it and vowed somehow I would make the world a better place.”
“By stealing the Piccolino?”
“Well, somehow, anyway.”
“You did record the ‘Sicilienne.’”
“What a lovely thing for you to say, Jake. It really is. And I’m amazed your Mr. Williams was able to find it. You see, we only made a hundred copies. I was ten years old. Intended for friends and family. And my pianist was so wonderful. About my age too. So sensitive. Lilburn, I think his name was.”
“Lilburn? Martin Lilburn?”
“Yes. I believe that was his name. You remember him?”
“I know Martin Lilburn. Now! He’s the music critic for the New York Times.”
Am I being jealous? Jacobus asked himself. They were only toddlers at the time. Hardly a rival. And now we’re all just old farts.
“How amazing! I have been so out of touch here. You must please tell him how much his collaboration meant to me. You see, it was the only recording I ever made.”
“That’s a loss to
the rest of the world, but makes it all the more special.”
“What made it special was that after the Grimsley I hated music. Absolutely hated it. But recording that piece, thinking about Paradis, made me realize that musicians far greater than myself have overcome far greater obstacles in life than losing ridiculous little competitions.
“But now I’m getting maudlin. Tell me what other aids you had in tracking me down.”
“Well, I must admit that Yumi helped me quite a bit.”
“Yumi? She told you?”
“Calm down. You’re making waves. She did her best to act innocent, but remember, she’s still a child herself. It’s really what she didn’t tell me.”
“What didn’t she tell you?”
Jacobus explained his observations of Yumi’s curious behavior during her lessons and her response—“Oh?”—to his first mention of the Piccolino’s theft.
“But surely, Jake, you couldn’t conclude an old lady in Japan had stolen a Stradivarius violin just because a young girl in Massachusetts said ‘Oh.’ ”
“Of course not. It was simply a signal for me to keep my ears open.”
“You know, Jake, I’m beginning to be happy I had Keiko and Yumi steal the violin if for no other reason than for you and me to be here like this tonight. Are you happy to be here too?”
“Well, I hadn’t actually thought about it like that.” He paused. Unaccustomed to the idea of happiness, or the discussion of it, Jacobus was at a loss how to proceed. He was fairly certain, though, that he was not feeling as miserable as he thought he should be.
“Do you want to hear more about how I tracked you down?” he said, changing the subject.
“Mmm, by all means.”
Jacobus cleared his throat, seeking security by assuming a professorial tone.
“It was simply a matter of analyzing Yumi’s behavior after the initial ‘Oh.’ Every time the subject of the Piccolino came up, her reaction was always evasive. Either she’d just clam up or change the subject. That’s why I decided to take her to all those interviews with me. I made it hell for her, but I had no choice.”
“How distinctly Machiavellian of you.”
“You and I are two peas in a pod, aren’t we?” asked Jacobus.
“More like two peas in a pot at the moment,” said Kate, gently wiping the perspiration from Jake’s forehead, the washcloth lingering on his cheek. “Tell me what other things Yumi said that gave us away.”
Jacobus felt the weight of her elbows on his submerged knees, as she propped her chin with her hands.
“The biggest thing was her touching tale of Noda-san as an allegorical defense of the Piccolino thief.”
“Noda-san the wood-carver?”
“Yes, the wood-carver. I had never heard that tale.”
“For good reason,” said Kate.
“Oh?”
“There never was a Noda-san.”
“You mean she made that up?”
“She didn’t. I did. When she was a child, I used to make up didactic ‘legends’ for bedtime stories. You know, to build moral fiber without the toddlers realizing it. That’s what grandmas are for, isn’t it? I’m sure you do it in your teaching all the time. I had no idea she would remember that one.”
“Next time be careful what you tell your grandchildren.”
“I’m chastened. Cheers,” she said, pouring them both another glass of sake.
“Interesting, though,” said Jacobus. “Your mythical Noda-san reminds me of Martin Lilburn, in fact. Or what Lilburn’s become, anyway. Thinking they’re helping humanity when what they’re really doing is trying to predict human nature. Bottoms up.”
That should take care of any fond memories she has for Lilburn.
“Poor Martin. He was such a dear.”
Damn.
“But one is always bound to fail at that in the end,” she concluded.
“Hmm. Anyway, getting back to Yumi, I still had nothing to go on. Just suspicion. And the why was still gnawing at me,” continued Jacobus, realizing he was grateful for finally being able to unburden himself.
“That’s when I asked my friend Nathaniel Williams to research the lives of all the second-place finishers. Yours was the hardest trail, and we almost gave up.”
“I tried to leave no trace. I wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.”
“Kate Padgett, child prodigy. After the Grimsley you went back to England. And then what?”
“It was the Depression, then the War. Any career I might have gleaned from finishing second was trod on by those two heavy boots. I tried a few concerts here and there, then simply gave up.”
“After making the recording,” said Jacobus.
“Yes, and you found it.”
“Actually, Nathaniel did.”
“Remarkable.”
“Still, there was nothing definite to go on, more of a . . .”
“Nagging suspicion?”
“Yeah. A nagging suspicion, bolstered by something a friend of mine, Solomon Goldbloom, said.”
“Solomon Goldbloom?”
“That old friend Yumi and I bumped into at Dedubian’s. I was trying to find a thread in my search . . . give me direction. So out of the blue I asked him what he thought were the most important things in life.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘Family, music. Doing the right thing. Good food.’ ”
“In that order?”
“ ‘It depends on what’s on the menu,’ he said. Helped clear my vision . . . so to speak . . . about a possible motive.”
“Ah! The Wisdom of Solomon. I like your friend already. His list fits mine to a T. But it didn’t do me any good, did it?”
“I’m afraid not. Especially after Nathaniel finally traced your odyssey to Japan after the war, starting with a call to the Piddletown Herald. Passport records, ship manifests. Little things like that.”
“Yes, those little brushstrokes paint quite a picture. I came here with my first husband.”
“Mr. Desmond?”
“Yes. He was in business and thought he could ‘open up markets’ here. Businesspeople are always trying to ‘open up markets,’ aren’t they?”
“He died shortly after coming here?”
“Yes. He wasn’t very strong. Dysentery took him. Poor man. He was lovely.”
“But you stayed.”
“Yes. I had no good reason to go back. And the people here were so considerate. And forgiving.”
“Forgiving? What had you done?”
“Not me, specifically. But the War, you know. There was no animosity. It surprised me. It also surprised me that I married again. Never thought it would happen. Frankly, I was more fascinated by what he did than who he was.”
“So from being Kate Padgett Desmond you became Cato Hashimoto.”
“That must have thrown a monkey into your wrench.”
“It didn’t help. What did he do?”
“Mr. Hashimoto? He was a traditional papermaker. He made paper by hand, from scratch. Cutting down the saplings, mashing the pulp, soaking it, sieving it through the wire screens to get the water out. Washi.”
“Thank you, I already did.”
“No. That’s what the papermaking is called. Washi.”
“Aha. Could you pour me a little more sake? So what did he do with the paper? Write music for you?”
“No no. Nothing like that. It was for shoji screens. They’re actually quite beautiful, and durable too.”
“Except when biwa are thrown through them.”
“You heard about that.”
“Yeah. When I heard about Yumi’s baseball exploits with the biwa it became obvious who threw the rocks through the Carnegie Hall window. So those shoji screens were Mr. Hashimoto’s?”
“His were the screens that went in after the incident. No charge, of course. Mr. Hashimoto was like that. A very kind man, though he didn’t open many markets either. He died two years ago.”
Jacobus gave this fact
some thought, though through his thickening haze it seemed to be taking him more time to than usual to digest its implications.
“You waited for him to die before stealing the violin!”
“He was quite old. But yes. I waited.”
“Just a minute! I don’t mean to bring up sad memories, but that was only the last piece of the puzzle. You raised a daughter and taught her the violin, and she had a daughter who you also taught to play the violin and who also learned to throw a fastball at the same time. Then you found her the best violin teacher in Japan. Was this all part of the plan too, Kate? Did you plan this vendetta fifty years ago and indoctrinate two more generations to go along with it?”
“Hmm, it’s all fitting together, isn’t it?” said Kate after a pause, with amazing calm. “But no, even though it sounds like it, I truly did wait until my second husband passed away before putting my thoughts into a plan. Plan or no plan, there always would have been music in our lives. But one thing I don’t understand, Jake. Of all the stories, why did Yumi have to tell you that one about the biwa, I wonder? It is a bit incriminating.”
“She didn’t do it intentionally. Furukawa led her through it without her knowing why. I gave him hints I was in Japan to make contact with her family but didn’t want her to know why. She suspected, no doubt, but had no idea how much I knew. Max caught on and planned a conversation so that even with Yumi translating, it would become reasonable for him to innocently suggest I meet you. If I had suggested it to Yumi, she would have found a way to prevent it. So Furukawa took advantage of being at the biwa tree when Yumi joined us, and then at his ancient family tree. I only had to ask the right questions.”
“Why didn’t you want Yumi to know you suspected?”
“Well, at first, when we were in New York, I did want her to suspect, but then I had to change my strategy. But that’s a long story. Once we got here, though, I had two reasons. First, if Yumi was sure what I knew and made a scene, Furukawa would no doubt have discovered what was up, and I didn’t want anyone ever to know who stole the violin.”
“How considerate of you. But doesn’t your friend Mr. Williams know?”
“I told him that I knew the culprit was in Japan, and I also told him that I was meeting you, but only for consultation and assistance, just like with Furukawa, that you’re doing for me simply what I’ve done for Nathaniel, which is to assist an investigation.”
