Devil's Trill

by Gerald Elias

  In the midst of the swirling crowd, Jacobus’s jet-lagged mind was on overload. Just a day before, the Japanese immigration officials at Nagoya airport had politely but firmly requested that he, Nathaniel, and Yumi enter a private room. Waiting for them was Detective Al Malachi of the New York Police Department, who had been contacted at his prior request by Intercontinental Insurance Associates immediately after Nathaniel had called them that the Piccolino had been found. Malachi placed Jacobus under arrest and read him his rights.

  When Jacobus handed him the violin, Malachi said, “This doesn’t prove you didn’t steal the Piccolino Stradivarius, Jacobus. All it proves is that you have just handed me a violin.”

  Jacobus said, “Up yours.”

  On their long flight back to the United States, the three of them were grilled individually by Malachi. Each told him his or her part of the story, leaving Malachi to piece together the mosaic. Malachi tried to use his rudimentary knowledge of classiscal music to break through Jacobus’s defenses but made a big mistake when he commented that he thought Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture was a great piece of music.

  “In that case, schmuck,” said Jacobus, “you should be the one going to jail.”

  When Malachi finished his questioning, Jacobus asked if he would in return provide him with one bit of information.

  “You ask what you want, and I’ll decide if I’ll give it to you,” said Malachi.

  “The G-string that was used to kill Victoria Jablonski. What was the color of the wrapping at the end of the string?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Though Jacobus, Nathaniel, and Yumi didn’t say everything they knew, everything they did say was true and was sufficient to bring Malachi around to the conclusion that MAP had indeed tried to pin the theft on Jacobus. There simply had been no hard evidence to conclude otherwise. Malachi had checked with Air Canada and JAL, the two carriers that the fleeing trio had used, and they both confirmed that neither Jacobus, Yumi, nor Nathaniel had either checked or carried on any baggage. Thus it appeared to be true that Jacobus had not stolen the violin but had fled in order to retrieve it and clear himself. Indeed, one of the reasons Yumi returned to the United States with Jacobus and Nathaniel—over Jacobus’s vociferous objections that were quietly but definitively overruled by Kate—was to demonstrate that there was no reason for them to fear justice. Nevertheless, Malachi still had sufficient doubt about Jacobus’s flight to Japan that, upon their arrival at JFK, Jacobus was immediately taken into custody as the one and only suspect in the murder of Victoria Jablonski. He was fingerprinted, handcuffed, had his passport confiscated, and jailed. However, in consideration of his efforts to secure the return of the Piccolino, he was freed on one million dollars bail, paid by Intercontinental Insurance Associates at the behest of Nathaniel Williams as an advance on his commission. Roy Miller, who wanted to prove that his previous trust in Jacobus wasn’t entirely mislaid, also made an effort to persuade the judge to agree to bail, arguing that as long as Nathaniel remained with Jacobus there would be no danger of him fleeing again. The judge was not wholly convinced and required Jacobus to wear a remote-controlled tracking device around his ankle before granting his liberty. Jacobus thought, This anklet’s not nearly as bad as this goddam tie Nathaniel made me wear.

  The violin situation had been resolved. Dedubian, the recipient of Jacobus’s second phone call from Japan after the one he made to Lil-burn, had ultimately, though grudgingly, agreed to his plan. Malachi had turned the violin over to the court. A representative of Intercontinental, who verified the authenticity and condition of the instrument, was present at the exchange. The violin was then immediately transferred to Boris Dedubian, its legal custodian, for safekeeping. Within hours of taking the instrument into his possession, Dedubian sent a box of souvenirs to a strange address in Japan. He then called the Vanders, who arrived at his studio minutes later, at which point he placed the Piccolino Strad back into Kamryn Vander’s hands.

  Now Jacobus was back at Carnegie Hall, and he couldn’t stand waiting in the lobby like this. Nothing to do now until after the concert when they would apprehend the killer. Jostled by a throng as unseeing as he was, Jacobus wandered aimlessly, a useless concert program in his hand. No one was talking to him, notoriety notwithstanding. He was being ignored.

  Hell, they all think I’m a goddamn killer, he thought. Why would they talk to me? “Hello, Mr. Jacobus. Good to see you again. Murder anyone lately?”

  On sensory overload, a barrage of perceptions inundated his brain. Usually he could block out the extraneous stuff, but now in his hyperactive, overstressed anxiety he couldn’t filter it. Street noise—buses, cars, horns, engines, brakes—alternately amplified or muted when the doors of the Hall opened and closed. Shoes shuffling—it was too crowded to actually walk—the clatter of jewelry. Voices—hundreds of voices in the lobby, at the box office, at the concession stand, murmuring, laughing, conversing, disconnected bits of gossip about the concert, the Grimsley, the violin, business. Deafening.

  He felt the low rumbling vibrations of the New York subway under his feet, the hum of electricity. He smelled perfume, cologne, hair spray, aftershave, deodorant, body odor. He noted with a conspiratorial chuckle that some silently embarrassed patron of the arts had stepped in dog shit.

  Jacobus was going mad with apprehension and anticipation.

  What a contrast to a quiet village in Japan. He promised himself to return for a vacation—for Kate—if he wasn’t in prison.

  If all went as he had planned, he needn’t worry. Justice was imminent. He’d wait until after the performance—let everything proceed as scheduled. Let the Infanta have her moment in the sun with the violin. Why not? It was because of him that she was now able to perform on it.

  He would confront the killer at the reception. The police hadn’t cooperated when he requested their presence. They said he was their one and only suspect, that he should count his blessings he wasn’t in jail, that even their most minute concession toward his possible innocence would damage their case against him, and if he caused any more trouble they’d lock him up and throw away the key.

  Pizzi and Robison, the security guards, though, would be there. They were employees of Carnegie Hall, and because their bumbling had opened the door—literally—to the theft of the Piccolino, Jacobus had no doubt they’d be glued like epoxy to their stations.

  The cops wouldn’t have believed who had done it, anyway, even if he had told them. He hadn’t told anyone. After all, he didn’t have a scrap of evidence. But everything pointed to it. He was certain he was right. Jacobus knew what he had to say to get a confession. That was the key. The rest of the MAP bastards would be there as witnesses. Lilburn would be there to get the story. Jacobus had faith in his journalistic skills, if not his integrity, to get the facts straight.

  Jacobus forced himself to think about the performance while his mind raced. Kamryn Vander would be playing the Paganini First Violin Concerto—in how many minutes? fifteen? twenty?—on the instrument everyone believed was once owned by Paganini himself. Have I thought of everything? The damned instrument I had wanted to disappear, why the hell did I have to find it? Damn, still at least thirty minutes; they haven’t even opened the doors to the seats yet. Why can’t I get myself to think about music? Ironic.

  So, Jacobus thought, tonight’s the final chapter—Kamryn Vander, a talented but immature kid, becomes the heir of Piccolino and Paganini. Talk about irony. Victoria Jablonski’s murderer is apprehended. By me. And I ride off into the fucking sunset, whatever that looks like. Great story. And it will end tonight, after the concert.

  “Jake! Jake!” said Nathaniel.

  “Yeah?”

  “You daydreaming or what? Here’s Lilburn.”

  “Mr. Jacobus,” said Lilburn, panting.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Getting through this crowd was just impossible. Your fault. There wouldn’t be a soul here tonight but for your not insignificant
efforts.”

  “You check on Pizzi and Robison?” said Jacobus.

  “Yes. They’re firmly ensconced right outside the door to Kamryn’s Green Room and promised they won’t budge.”

  “They’ll escort her to the stage?”

  “And back.”

  “They won’t let anyone into the Green Room?”

  A hand grabbed Jacobus’s shoulder from behind. He whipped himself around, knocking a lady’s purse from her hand.

  “Hey, Jake. Take it easy.”

  “Sol.”

  Jacobus had asked Goldbloom to stick with Yumi, just in case she needed protection too.

  “Yumi there?” asked Jacobus.

  “Yes, I’m here, Mr. Jacobus.”

  “Good. Just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “So what’s not to be safe?” said Sol. “Ah! They’re opening the doors.”

  Jacobus heard the familiar change in the crowd’s buzz as they started to herd themselves to their seats. But almost immediately there was another change. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it.

  “What the hell?” said Sol.

  “Sol, what’s happening?”

  Lilburn answered. “It’s pitch-black in here, Jacobus. The lights must have gone out. Can’t see a thing!”

  People started pushing. Hollering. Screaming.

  “Imbecile!” Jacobus yelled. “Imbecile! Imbecile! Imbecile!”

  Lilburn shouted back, “It’s not my fault, I couldn’t—”

  “Not you! Me!” said Jacobus.

  He tried to think. Someone tried to yell for calm but was drowned out by other voices more strident. The crowd was panicking.

  “Nathaniel! Are you here?”

  “Yeah, Jake. I’m here.”

  “To the Green Room. Now!”

  “Jake, I can’t see my hand in front of my face. How am I gonna get you to the Green Room?”

  Jacobus felt the surging pressure of bodies against him, throwing him off balance. He knew what he had to do, and he had to do it before the stampede began.

  “Hey,” he said, “if a blind man doesn’t know how to goddam walk in the dark, what else is he good for? Grab on to me.”

  He yelled at Lilburn to call the police, but before Lilburn could answer, Jacobus heard a voice.

  “I’m right behind you, Jacobus,” said Detective Al Malachi of the NYPD.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Jacobus. “You’ve been tailing me all this time?”

  “Hey, aren’t I allowed to go to a concert?” asked Malachi.

  Under normal circumstances, Jacobus could have made his way to the side corridor in seconds. Now, pushed and shoved by by a mob made increasingly hysterical by the pitch blackness, with Nathaniel’s stumbling bulk clinging to him, and with Malachi holding on to Nathaniel, he had to continuously reconsider his direction.

  No time to spare. He made a decision and headed unswervingly to the point he concluded led to the corridor, grabbing and pushing people out of his way, hoping he was right.

  “Hey, fella, who d’you think you’re shoving?” said someone with a Midwestern twang.

  Jacobus said, “Sorry, I’m a New Yorker.”

  They made it to the corridor. Next, the stairway.

  “Faster,” said Jacobus.

  “How can you walk without seein’ where you’re goin’?”

  “Two things,” said Jacobus, panting. “Left foot. Then right.”

  Jacobus hauled Nathaniel up the stairs, telling him his plan along the way.

  Left turn. Race along the corridor.

  “We’re almost there.”

  Jacobus suddenly tripped over something and went sprawling, Nathaniel and Malachi on top of him. Jacobus braced himself for a crushing impact against the hard floor but was momentarily relieved to land on something soft, cushioning his fall. That relief quickly turned to anxiety as he groped for tactile information.

  A heavy metal music stand lying across the corridor. A body. Two bodies. One fat. One skinny. Two badges.

  Pizzi and Robison. Unconscious. Bloody. But alive.

  Jesus! The Vanders!

  No sound from the Green Room.

  Jacobus struggled to his feet, feeling the wall as much for support as a guide to the door. He found it. Turned the knob.

  Locked. Thank God. Hope.

  He knocked. No answer. Banged the door.

  Called out, “Open the door. It’s me, Jacobus.”

  No answer. Banged again.

  Malachi spoke softly. “Mrs. Vander. This is Detective Malachi of the New York Police Department. If you’re in there, let us know. We’re here to make sure Kamryn’s safe. We’ll protect you. Please trust us.”

  A moment of silence.

  Then a voice. Muffled crying.

  “We can’t see in here. We heard yelling. Fighting.”

  Jacobus whispered to Malachi, “Why didn’t the bitch answer when I called them?”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Vander,” said Malachi, ignoring Jacobus. “Please open the door so we can take you to safety.”

  Tentative steps to the door. Bolt unlocked.

  Jacobus barged through.

  “No time to explain!” said Jacobus. “The two of you, leave with the cop! Immediately! Leave the violin with me!”

  “For you to steal again?” said Cynthia Vander, hysterically. “You must be out of your mind! I’m not letting go of this violin.”

  Before Jacobus could argue, Nathaniel interrupted, panting and sweating. “Jake, I can’t leave you here with a killer!”

  “It’s the only way. If we don’t catch the killer now—not to be too melodramatic—I’ll be in prison for the rest of my life. Now hurry! Get the hell out of here. All of you.”

  “What’s going on?” shouted Cynthia Vander. “What killer?”

  Jacobus heard Kamryn on the other side of the room, sobbing softly.

  Jesus, what’s the rest of this kid’s life going to be like? Short, if her mother doesn’t hurry up.

  “Mrs. Vander, your daughter’s life is in danger,” said Malachi. “We have reason to believe Victoria Jablonski’s killer will return to this room. For Kamryn and for the Piccolino. Please let Nathaniel take the child to safety. Stay here with Jacobus and me if you must.”

  “You’re leaving too, Malachi,” said Jacobus. “As we both know, I don’t have a shred of evidence yet, and I can only get a confession if you’re out of smelling distance. Get out of here.”

  “You better be right,” said Malachi. “I’ll get the medics to take care of Pizzi and Robison. Then I’ll be back.”

  “Mrs. Vander, Kamryn needs to go now,” said Nathaniel.

  She said, “Princess, go with Mr. Williams. It’ll be all right.”

  Jacobus said to Nathaniel, “You stand here where you won’t get lost. I’ll get the kid.”

  In the blackness, Jacobus easily found the source of the whimpering.

  “Stick your hand out, Kamryn.”

  Jacobus waved around, found it, and held it in his as he led her cautiously back to Nathaniel.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” said Jacobus as he transferred the girl’s hand to Nathaniel’s. “You’re okay.”

  “Good luck, Jake,” said Nathaniel.

  “Get the hell out of here,” said Jacobus.

  Jacobus closed the door and found a chair facing it on the far side of the room.

  He sat down and said to Cynthia, “Hand me the violin.”

  “How dare you talk to me like—”

  “Hand me the fucking violin! Now!”

  She handed him the violin.

  “Sit here next to me.”

  “What?” A little fear returned to her voice.

  The room was dark and silent.

  “What do you need the violin for?” Vander asked quietly.

  “Have to lure the killer back.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure the killer will strike again.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  He lif
ted the violin to his shoulder. He tried to be calm, but he was trembling. Frustrated, flustered, fuming at himself for his vain confidence, adrenaline rushing, he couldn’t think of anything to play. He couldn’t remember anything.

  Ah, what the hell.

  He started playing the Siciliano from the “Devil’s Trill” Sonata.

  Sounds like shit, he thought.

  He switched to the Paradis “Sicilienne.” He tried to play it the way he heard it on Kate’s recording. It helped calm him down.

  Vander was quiet.

  Jacobus thought, well, at least that shut her up.

  Wait! Imbecile again! Don’t play like Kate! Don’t play like Kate! Play like Kamryn!

  Now he started playing Paganini, playing the way Kamryn played—the way Victoria had taught her—faster vibrato, louder, more accents. Fool the killer. Fool the poor, disillusioned killer.

  Jacobus heard the footsteps. He kept playing. He heard the key inserted into the lock. He heard the heavy doorknob slowly, quietly turn. He heard Cynthia Vander whisper something to herself.

  Yeah. Say your prayers, babes. He kept playing.

  The door opened.

  He smelled the perfume. Talon. The perfume that, unlike Kate Padgett, she had forgotten to remove.

  “Hello, Rachel,” he said quietly. He felt defeated, as if his life was a failure. He had failed Rachel. All the other successes, such as they were, didn’t make up for this. “May I please have my G-string back?”

  “Jacobus! You? Again?” Her voice was confused but spouted venom. “No!”

  “Rachel,” asked Jacobus. “Why?”

  “I already told you once. That violin belongs to me, not to you or that little twit, Kamryn. She’s just one of those little twits.”

  “But Victoria. Why Victoria?”

  “Be-cause-I-hate-ed her!”

  Her piercing, high monotone tore through Jake’s soul. In the most profoundly sorrowful sense, her voice was devoid of music. Nor was he comforted by the sound of Rachel locking the door behind her.