Capriccio (23 page)

“You’re nuts. You’re way off base. You’re going to send Ron out there alone to get himself killed.”

“Oh, he won’t really be alone. The place’ll be crawling with cops. Especially the roads into the suburbs since he’ll tell his friend we’re only blocking access to the 401. He seemed to swallow it, that there’d only be me and Marven. That guy’s sinfully gullible.”

“But what if you’re wrong? What if Ron’s innocent?”

“I’m not wrong. And if I am, what I said about murder one still stands. They’re not going to bump off your uncle just for the hell of it, and they’re not going to kill Ronald, either. Etherington at least is a pro. He’d stick at murder.”

“But if Ron is involved, he won’t really put the bug in the violin case! He’ll say it got broken or lost or something.”

“Bug? Oh that. No, he won’t use it of course, but it doesn’t matter. Etherington will never get out of our sight. That was just to make him think it would be easy to get away. I’d better give Marven a call. I really don’t want him sending marked cars over here to screw up the works.”

He dialed Marven and spoke with no effort to hide his talk from me. “He took the bait. Did you get a trace on the incoming call? . . . Too bad, I figured there wasn’t time when Strathroy scared his pal off. . . . Good! I have the violin, so he has to be in touch with me. This is it. We’ve got him, Fred.”

He hung up, smiled, and patted his stomach. “We might have time to cook that steak and eat it if we hustle.”

“I don’t think so. First we’d have to find a cow and butcher it. Do you want an egg sandwich?”

"No steaks marinating? No wine breathing?” he chided. “If I eat another egg, I’ll start cackling.”

"A ham sandwich—or are you not into cannibalism?”

“Male Chauvinist Pig, right? You didn’t like my leaving you out. I had to find some way to draw Strathroy in. You were the obvious one for Etherington to phone, but I used the myth that women are helpless critters to let Ron join the fun and games. Part of the trick of a sting is to make the illogical seem logical.”

"Like making me think I came up with the idea of Victor buying a stolen Stradivarius, for instance?”

"You would have thought of it sooner or later.”

“Not in ten years. Who’s Betty Friske? I mean why was your little friend in the blue suit at her door?”

"I sent him—Gino. Betty’s thinking of buying a life insurance policy from him. You got me wondering if the poor innocent woman might be involved somehow. She isn’t—her only involvement is that Victor tried to put the bite on her for five thousand to buy the Strad. A loan only, and she would have obliged him, too, if he could sell her jewelry. But his stocks were up, so he didn’t need it after all. He was selling his car and cottage to pay off the bank. You were lucky he didn’t put his condo on the block.”

“I’ve had a lot of occasion to thank Lady Luck lately.”

His brows wriggled lecherously. “You and me both, Cassie. I thought you were just another airhead when I first met you. A real space cadet, but I see you’ve got grit. It took some guts to get into my hotel room and nick the pictures. It would have been even smarter if you hadn’t dropped your comb—the little pink one with the broken handle.”

I didn’t believe him, but a quick search of my purse showed me it was missing. “I was kind of hoping you’d admit it. I gave you a couple of chances to unburden your black soul. When you went to the Casa Loma alone, I thought maybe you’d figured out it was Ron who set your uncle up. You did tell him you took the pictures from my room, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I even invited him over. He must have thought about the locker, too, and stopped in on his way to the apartment to have a look for the Strad. I guess he unscrewed the bulb when he heard me coming. But he must have known Victor didn’t hide it there since he was taken in the garage before he got to the apartment.”

“They didn’t know where he’d hidden it, or when. They searched the apartment and the cottage, too. They must have figured he handed the violin over to somebody.”

“Imagine, Ronald Strathroy bopping me on the head. But how did he get into the apartment to rifle my purse?”

“He got Victor’s key from Etherington.”

“Of course.”

“Never trust a guy that gets his fingers manicured professionally. He’s weird, one way or the other. You should have come running to me for help. Begging for forgiveness. Promising me anything I wanted . . ."

“You shouldn’t have given Ron a gun,” I said to cut off this embarrassing fantasy.

"Blanks,” he said curtly. “This one’s got real bullets,” he added and pulled a black pistol from his boot.

“Why don’t you get into some more practical clothes?” he suggested. “That white thing will show up too well in the shadows.”

My anger with Sean had shrunk to manageable irritation; the irritation evaporated like mist in the sun when he said that. “You mean I can go with you?”

“What’s Sherlock Holmes without Dr. Watson?”

“What’s a ham without grits?”

“Apple pie without cheese—a kiss without a squeeze?”

His long arms reached for me; his moustache attacked violently. The Mounties trained their men very well in the amorous arts. Two dozen or so questions were still waiting to be answered, but I let them wait and savored the experience of being attacked by an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It was easy to imagine Sean’s western hat as the traditional Mountie’s Stetson. The jeans jacket and jeans gave way to scarlet tunic and navy jodhpurs, the cowboy boots to tall black Wellingtons, or whatever those calf-hugging boots were called.

A man in uniform was every bit as satisfying a fantasy as a world-weary intellectual. He kissed much better. No fooling around with sweet nothings in my ear. It was serious, nonstop kissing of an energetic and accomplished sort that left me reeling in abandonment when the phone rang.

“Square One, Mississauga, at midnight,” Sean relayed after he hung up. “What the hell is Square One, Mississauga?”

“A shopping mall. Mississauga is a kind of urban sprawl west of Toronto,” I smiled inanely. “What about the violin?”

“Ron’s picking it up here. I’ll put in the bug for him to take out. I’m meeting him down at the garage. Want to be waiting in the back seat of my car? It’ll save time.”

I got out of my dress and into jeans and a dark jersey while Sean phoned Marven and laid plans to trap Ron. Very detailed plans; they even had boats standing by at the edge of Lake Ontario. I was in the back seat of the Monte Carlo with a rain coat over my head when Sean handed over the violin to Ron, and as soon as Ron left, Sean had me hop into the front seat to direct him to Mississauga. He drove about ninety miles an hour in the city to make sure he was there before Ron. The other policemen were already in place.

“You know if Ron were really involved in this, he wouldn’t have phoned you. He’d have done the whole thing behind your back. What makes you think he’ll actually go to Square One?” He squealed around a corner, throwing me against the door, and as we straightened out, he answered.

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s playing the role of hero. His fingers would look clean if Etherington got away, and as far as he knows, Etherington
will
get away. That’s the way we planned it, remember?”

“
You
planned it. When it blows up in your face, I want to be able to say ‘I told you so.’ Do you know why Ron got involved in all this?”

He leaned into the windshield and squeaked past an oncoming car with his knuckles turning white on the wheel. “Sure. He’s in debt over his ears. He’s siphoned thousands out of his clients’ accounts at Graymar and had to cover his ass.”

“How did you suspect him?”

“Ozone lady, you disappoint me. He had been to the Carpani villa, knew all about the treasures there, and had a few ideas about nicking them. He claimed to be in Montreal transacting business on a holiday when no business was done, and a check showed no Ronald Strathroy had a plane ticket. He was here, giving his friend Etherington a hand. He knew Victor would give his false teeth for a Strad and knew he could raise the dough.”

“Sean! Watch out for that fire hydrant!” His wheels had roamed up over the curb, but at least there were no pedestrians on the sidewalk. After we had bumped back down to the road, I said, “I wonder how Ron ever got in touch with a crook like Etherington. His friends are all very respectable. More than respectable.”

“Except for Etherington. Etherington owed him money. Something to do with buying on margin and having to cover or lose his down payment. I don’t imagine Etherington is a brand new acquaintance. He’s an old Oxford type—there the same time as Ron, actually. Etherington’s fingers have proved sticky in the past. He’s the guy I’ve been following—ever since a certain Raphael sketch turned up in Toronto last month. It was sold to a rich recluse-type collector who didn’t ask too many questions, but the guy did show it to one expert who recognized it and reported it. I guess the buyer had a streak of Victor in him somewhere. He just couldn’t keep it to himself.”

“You mean you’ve been here ever since May and knew all along that Etherington had my uncle! But why didn’t you . . . That light was
red,
Sean!”

“It was orange. That’s what orange lights are for, so you don’t have to stop when you’re going fast. About your uncle, I didn’t know
where
he had him. Etherington was living in the Delta Inn. Why do you think I’m there? He checked out Wednesday. He’d moved two or three times already. That’s how guys like him operate. He’s holed up somewhere, probably not in a hotel now—too public. He didn’t have the rest of the loot at the inn. I’ve searched his room a dozen times. Strathroy wouldn’t have it. They’ve rented some place, probably in the country, and that’s where they’ve got Victor.”

“It seems a dirty trick to kidnap Victor after he paid them good money for the violin.”

“It was that unexpected stop at Bitwell’s that threw them into a tailspin. The Royal Conservatory—a good place for an expert on musical instruments to hang out, and the grim look on Victor’s face when he came out probably told Etherington your uncle knew the truth. They had to keep him quiet, or they’d never be able to unload the rest of the Carpani loot. Etherington looks like a rich Englishman. His M.O. is to sell the stuff privately, pretending it’s family heirlooms he’s obliged to sell. He gets more for it that way than fencing it. Etherington panicked, I imagine, and just hustled Victor into a car. And then discovered he didn’t have the violin. I wonder where they’re hiding him. That I couldn’t find out. Should I have turned there?”

“No, straight ahead.” I gave up the battle of trying to get him to slow down and drive on the road. “Why couldn’t you find where they’re hiding him? You were following Etherington—and Victor. Where did you lose them?”

"Gino lost his quarry. I stayed behind to strike an acquaintance with Victor’s niece."

"You left with Gino.”

“All right!” he said, through clenched teeth. “You don’t let a guy put up a good front, do you? We lost them at Casa Loma. When we got there, both their cars were empty—Victor’s and Etherington’s. We figured they’d both gone in. Gino went looking for Etherington; I followed Victor. When we got out, Etherington’s car was gone. I stuck with the white Corvette. There were three damned white Corvettes there that day. Can you believe it, three white Corvettes? And a guy with silver hair got into one of them. I followed him—to the 401. At the turnoff I got close enough to see his license number and realized I’d goofed.

“I followed this guy who wasn’t Victor, and Gino was supposed to look for Etherington. He didn’t find him. Of course, later we figured Etherington knew it was too hard to kidnap a guy in broad daylight and had driven to Victor’s apartment to take him, probably at gun point, when he got out. It was during that time they were apart that Victor ditched the Stradivarius, and Etherington had no idea where. That’s why Ron’s been looking in the apartment and the cottage, and probably why he was breaking into the locker when you were there.

"Meanwhile, Victor wasn’t sure whether he was still being followed or not, and decided to confuse Etherington by putting his empty violin case in the locker. We weren’t entirely positive how innocent Victor was—how much he was paying for the Strad, and whether he knew it was hot. It seemed like a good idea to be on friendly terms with the family. Especially when the family was so darned pretty,” he added as a sop.

“Let’s try to keep her that way. That means don’t cross any more double lines.” He pulled an inch to his own side. “Gino’s a Mountie too?”

"He’s my assistant.”

It was a pretty good story. I was convinced, but a few loose ends were still sticking out, here and there. "Who searched the apartment the night Victor disappeared?”

"Had to be Ron. He left Etherington in charge of your uncle for obvious reasons—he didn’t want Victor to see him.”

"Do you suppose Eleanor knows what’s going on?”

“Eleanor doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. All that lady knows is spending money. That’s half of Ron’s problem. She wouldn’t have blurted out that it was the Carpani Strad if she’d been in on it. Till then, we hadn’t tied Etherington to Strathroy. They were never seen together. I’ve looked into all Etherington’s pals. We knew he had an accomplice. It was a gift from the gods when the accomplice turned out to be my competition,” he grinned.

“I bet he mentioned the cottage on purpose to send me running up there and get me out of the way. He’d already been there himself and knew I wouldn’t find anything. He never kept such close track of me before. Boy, he’s been camping on the doorstep ever since Victor vanished.”

"The greater mystery is how you could let that cashmere creep near you."

“I’m not allergic to cashmere.”

"Real men don’t wear little striped suits—that’s for pencil pushers. But we’ll call him a man tonight, since a Mountie always has to get his man. As soon as I get my man, I’ll go after my woman,” he promised and smiled like a satyr.

He was so smitten he nearly missed the turnoff to Mississauga. A driver should keep his eyes on the road and at least one hand on the wheel.