I didn’t know quite how to respond to this brilliant exculpatory argument, which I felt was worthy of a very good defense attorney. But before I could say anything, Levy added, “And while I mention it, just how did you get into my room? I don’t see any evidence of forced entry—broken locks, jimmied windows, that sort of thing.”
At least I was now on firmer ground. “Oh, that. I just found out when your room would be cleaned, rented a uniform, learned the code for the service elevator, hung around looking like I belonged until the real maid was busy in the bathroom, and snuck into the closet until she left.” I omitted the part about my friend Janice’s inadvertent assistance, not wanting to take a chance that he would pass that information along to the management. One must always protect one’s sources, including unintentional sources.
Levy thought about that for a minute, then asked me, “Are you usually this clever in getting into places you want to…to get into?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t like to brag or anything, but I don’t think there are too many places I couldn’t find some way into; and those I couldn’t, I’m probably better off staying out of.”
“Hmm…a pretty sound philosophy,” Levy said, rubbing his chin.
But I wanted to return the conversation, which had drifted off toward hypothetical unlawful entries in the abstract, back to the actual unlawful entry at hand. “So, taking into account your excellent summation of my situation a minute ago, just what do you plan to do with me, now that you’ve caught me?”
Levy looked directly at me, so that I felt a little chill go down my back. This must be what a rainbow trout feels like when it’s just been landed. I was hoping Levy practiced catch and release. But the violinist seemed to be giving my question considerable thought. Either that or he was giving my long hair and short skirt considerable scrutiny. Or maybe both. Never underestimate the value of a good figure.
Finally he said, almost wistfully, “Nothing. You’re free to leave. Like they say in basketball, ‘no harm, no foul’.”
Having played basketball myself, I was very familiar with that phrase, and I wasted no time in putting it to the test. “That’s really very kind of you,” I said in as sincere a tone as I could muster. “It’s very generous of you to…to let me off the hook like this.” That trout analogy seemed to be stuck in my head. I had an urge to give Levy a hug but decided that would be inappropriate.
I rose to leave, which as I mentioned took some effort, again thanked Mr. Levy for his understanding, and made my way to the suite’s door, much relieved. But just as I was about to pass over the threshold to freedom, Levy called out, “No, wait!”
For a second I considered making a run for it, but that seemed out of keeping with the civilized way in which the matter had been handled up to this point, so I quickly rejected that impulse and stopped midway through the door.
Levy was still sitting in his overstuffed chair and seemed to be thinking very hard about something. He gestured with his hand, palm outward, that I should wait until he could think through whatever it was.
I waited. It wasn’t easy.
After probably two minutes, during which I perspired more than I had during the entire operation up until then, Levy looked up at me and asked, “Do you think it’s possible that you might be willing to do a little, uh, something for me?” Then he added, before I could reply, “Well, maybe not so little.”
Completely taken aback by this turn in the conversation, I could only reply with the obvious question, “What did you have in mind?”
Levy now seemed to relax a bit. He stood up and gestured me back into the room, walking over and closing the door behind me. I wondered whether what he had in mind had sexual overtones, requiring me to earn my freedom with my body; but somehow I didn’t get the kind of vibrations from him that I generally did when someone was about to hit on me, or to suggest I do something my parents wouldn’t have approved of. (Of course, they wouldn’t have approved of burglary either, but I had long ago come to terms with that small failure to meet my parents’ expectations.) Mind you, I have nothing against a roll in the hay with a rich celebrity; I just don’t want to have to buy my freedom with it. So I went back to the billowy sea of down, sank back below the surface, and waited for Mr. Levy’s proposition.
“First,” he began, “now that we’re no longer burdened with the…uh…little contretemps of the last few minutes, I think we should properly introduce ourselves and start over on a more business-like basis.”
Then, before I could answer, Levy rose from his chair and said, apologetically, “I’m sorry—I guess I should offer you a drink first. You’ve had a pretty rough day so far.”
I couldn’t agree more with that sentiment, and I definitely could use a drink. My host and erstwhile victim went over to the credenza, which as I had suspected contained a mini bar/liquor cabinet. I could see an assortment of little bottles with fancy labels, plus the usual soft drinks, salty snacks, and candy bars. Levy opened two little bottles, poured the brown liquid from each into a glass taken from a shelf above the credenza, and returned with them to the sitting area. He handed one of the drinks to me, and I accepted with thanks.
“To greater success—with someone else’s possessions, of course—in the future,” toasted Levy, and he and I drank to that.
“Now,” Levy continued, “I assume you already know who I am. But just in case you have me confused with some other world-famous fiddler, I’m Aaron Levy. You can call me Aaron—all my closest friends and burglars do. So now I’m at a disadvantage.”
I was feeling quite relaxed in the warmth of this gregarious virtuoso’s considerable charm and enthusiasm, not to mention the warmth of my straight bourbon. I answered, “My name’s Florence Palmer, but everyone calls me Flo.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Flo,” Aaron responded, sounding as if he meant it, “even if the circumstances are a bit…a bit awkward. And is this sort of thing” —he gestured toward the Guarneri-like instrument— “what you do for a living?”
“I’m afraid it is. I tried several other professions—all of them on the right side of the law, I might say—before I found the one that offered the kind of challenges and rewards that I was looking for.”
“I see. And are you pretty good at it, today’s little hitch notwithstanding?”
“Well, I certainly had thought so. Even today, I had every reason to believe that you kept a real Guarneri in your room, and that you would be tied up in some kind of interview for most of the afternoon. The cleaners had just left, so I should have had at least a half hour to myself. Just goes to show you that the best laid plans….”
Before Aaron could respond, I added, “But I still want to know what a fake violin is doing in your room. Why’s it here?”
“Hey, you can never have too many violins,” Aaron said with a slight smile.
“And where’s the real one?”
Aaron, now no longer smiling and looking somewhat troubled, stood up and began to pace the floor. He turned to me and said, “Yes, where indeed. That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”
Chapter 5
Aaron Levy returned to his chair and turned to face me, while I, still not entirely sure what to make of the last several minutes, sat forward and waited for him to begin.
I took notice for the first time of Aaron’s appearance, having thus far been totally focused on my awkward predicament. Aaron was about my middle-forties age, somewhat stocky build, with almost-black hair cut a bit long—probably so he can toss it dramatically while he plays, I thought. He was wearing an expensive-looking sport coat and slacks with a jaunty multi-color tie. Although not appearing overweight, he probably could stand to shed a few extra pounds, doubtless the result of long hours practicing the violin rather than working out at the gym. He had cherubic features and a nonthreatening demeanor, with a warm smile that seemed to be just beneath even his sternest look. Seems like a nice guy.
“First, let me explain about the violin,”
Aaron said. “I had a few weeks to myself before this gig in Seattle, so I thought I’d arrive early and do some sightseeing and maybe relax a bit, which I don’t often have time to do.”
“Too busy practicing, I assume.”
“Mostly that. Anyway, I drove here in a rented car from L.A., where I’d been performing. The very day I got here, my Guarneri—the real one, I mean—was stolen from my car.”
“You mean you left a priceless violin in a car? All by itself?” I was incredulous.
“Yeah, I don’t believe it myself. It was really stupid. I was traveling alone, and I stopped at a rest stop and ran into the restroom for…well, for just a minute or two.”
“And that was enough?”
“It was. Apparently I was being followed. Someone was just waiting for an opportunity, and I handed it to them.”
“I assume you called the police?”
“Well, no. You’ll see why in a moment. I assumed that, following a well-known pattern, the thief would soon contact me and ask for some kind of ransom to recover the violin. Then I could go to the police and maybe set some kind of trap for him.”
Since this was just what I had intended to do, I wondered whether I would have fallen into such a trap.
Of course I would.
“This has happened to you before?” I asked.
“No, but it has to other artists I know. Anyway, I waited a few days but heard nothing. I was getting worried that maybe the violin was stolen by some damn amateur who would try to hock it for a few dollars, or accidentally damage it, and I might never get it back. You can’t trust high-class merchandise to a low-class thief.”
“I can see your point,” I agreed. As I considered myself to be in the upper tier among burglars, I didn’t take offense.
“I was about to go to the police, hoping they could search pawn shops and other places it might end up, when I got a call from someone I used to know, someone I helped out financially when he was in trouble some years ago. He now works for James Edward Sanders.”
“Isn’t he a billionaire oil baron or something?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Billionaire yes, or at least many tens of millions. But he made his money in the grocery business—mega-supermarkets and all that.”
“Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”
“Right. So I got this call, from my friend. His name’s Rafael, by the way. He wanted to return the favor. He told me that while working at Sanders’ home, he had learned, quite by accident—he overheard a conversation he wasn’t supposed to hear—that Sanders was the one who stole my violin. Or rather had it stolen. Obviously, he wouldn’t go out and steal it himself.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “But why would someone that rich steal anything, especially your violin?”
“Remember, it’s not just any violin. That particular violin has been owned by some of the most famous violinists in history—myself included, I am immodest enough to say.” He had the grace to smile a bit sheepishly. “In other words, it’s one of a kind, and any collector would kill to add it to his collection. Or at least some collectors would steal to get it.”
“So this Sanders guy is a violin collector and stole it for his collection?”
“I wish it were that simple,” Aaron said sadly. “But it’s a bit more complicated.”
“How so?”
“Well, it seems, according to Rafael, Sanders is a collector, but not particularly of violins. While he has some rare instruments, he collects mostly art, and especially paintings, Monet and other French impressionists to be specific. Has one of the largest private collections of Monet’s paintings in the world. Some he’s displayed publicly, at his home, or lent to various museums for exhibits.”
I was getting confused. “I think I lost you there. What have Monet paintings to do with Guarneri violins?”
“I’m coming to that. It’s generally suspected in the collector community that Sanders, like certain other wealthy art collectors in the world, has both his ‘public’ collection, which the world is allowed to see, and a ‘private’ collection, about which one only hears rumors. And that private collection contains some works that, shall we say, were not necessarily obtained legally.”
“You mean he has stolen paintings in his private collection? I’ve heard of that kind of thing. But I still don’t see…”
“You will. It seems there’s another such collector in Japan, whose name Rafael didn’t learn, who’s in possession of—I won’t say ‘owns,’ because I doubt he got it legally—who has a Monet that Sanders would give anything to have, to add to his secret collection. Like Sanders, this man—let’s call him Mr. Suzuki for the moment—doesn’t need money—he just wants to add to his collection. Perhaps now you can guess what it is, in addition to paintings, that Mr. Suzuki collects.”
“Uh, violins?” I hazarded.
“Right the first time. He collects rare musical instruments, and apparently one that he has coveted for a very long time is my Guarneri.”
“Okay, I’m confused again. So this Japanese guy stole the violin?”
“No, Sanders did. You see, Sanders badly wants the Monet that Suzuki has; while Suzuki desperately wants the violin that—now—Sanders has.”
“And they swapped, so the violin is in Japan now?” This did not sound promising for Aaron.
“I hope not. No, given the circumstances, it’s not that easy to make such an exchange. Sanders doesn’t want to send the violin to Japan until he has the painting, and Suzuki won’t let the painting out of his sight until he has the violin in his hands and has examined it. Rafael understands that Suzuki will be paying Sanders a visit sometime next month. He thinks that’s when the exchange will be made, although he doesn’t know just how.”
“So where is the violin now?” I asked. I was beginning to suspect just where Aaron was heading.
“Well, Sanders lives in California, but Rafael says Sanders doesn’t have the violin yet. It’s apparently still in the hands of the crook who actually stole it, guy named Donny Martin, who lives around here somewhere and who apparently is holding out for more money than he’d been promised.”
After a long pause, during which Aaron looked down at his shoes and did not attempt to continue the story, I asked him, a bit warily, “Have we arrived yet at what you have in mind for me?”
Aaron looked up and smiled. “Well, yes, I suppose we have. I want to get that violin back before it goes to Japan.”
“And you want to get it back by…by what means?”
“Well, until today, I didn’t have a specific plan in mind. But now that I’ve met you…”
I was afraid of that.
It was now my turn to be silent. I had to get this straight in my mind. Finally I asked, “Why not tell the police what you’ve learned and let them recover the violin? They could get a search warrant…”
Aaron waved that off. “First of all, by the time the police got the warrant and got around to using it, the violin would probably be in Sanders’ hands. They would never invade Sanders’ home, even if they had all the warrants in the world, certainly not without an absolutely concrete case against him. And in any event, I can’t even tell them the name of my informant, because I promised him I’d keep it a secret. If Sanders found out…well, I’d never put him in that kind of position.”
“I see. So you want me to…to recover your violin from Mr. Martin?” My eyes and my tone of voice both no doubt revealed a great deal of skepticism. It was not lost on Aaron.
“Well, yes, that was the idea I had. Recover the Guarneri and leave the copy in its place.”
“Oh yes, the copy. Tell me about that.”
“It’s pretty simple. I wanted to complete my tour, and I was willing to take a chance that, playing in a big recital hall, most people in the audience would not be able to tell the difference between a very good violin and a Guarneri.”
When my features assumed an even more skeptical pose, he continued: “After all, I played almost my whole life without the G
uarneri, and no one ever complained. So long as I don’t actually say I’m playing it, I’m not misrepresenting anything.”
“Except your recitals have been written up in the newspaper with a detailed description of your instrument,” I pointed out.
“Yes, well, I still didn’t say I’d be playing it for every recital. In fact, on occasion I haven’t been able to use it for one reason or another. Anyway, the fact remains that I didn’t have any choice, other than to either cancel the recitals or announce I was playing a different violin. Then I’d have to explain about the theft, and that would become a big story and probably scare off the thief, and I might never see the violin again. So I decided to compromise.”
“Compromise how?”
“Over the years, there have been several very good copies of Stradivarius and Guarneri violins made, some intended to fool a buyer and others just intended to look and sound as close as possible to the real thing. Similar to the excellent copies of famous paintings that show up from time to time for the same reasons. As you saw for yourself”—Aaron reached over and picked up the “fake” Guarneri—“at first glance the copy looks very authentic. It doesn’t sound exactly the same, perhaps, but superficially it looks quite similar and it sounds very good. What’s missing in this case, and I saw you were looking there, is the label. But of course that can only be seen close up.”
“Yes,” I said, “if I hadn’t read up on how to identify the genuine article, I wouldn’t have known.”
“No. This violin wasn’t intended to defraud anyone, it’s just a very good copy, and the maker didn’t bother with the label. Anyway, I know a dealer who has access to such copies, and I arranged with him to buy one. It cost me extra to get it immediately, but he managed.”
I let all of this sink in. Finally, I said, “Okay, I think I understand. You want me to steal the real violin back from Sanders…”
“No, from Martin, if we can get to it in time, before it gets to Sanders. If not, then from Sanders.”
Murder with Strings Attached Page 3
