Capriccio (14 page)

“There’s probably nothing you can do,” I began, “but I was just wondering if you’d heard from my uncle before he disappeared. I’m trying to contact anyone he might have talked to that day, you know, and as you’re one of his friends . . ."

“I did! That’s why I was going to phone you or drop around to the apartment this morning before I left. He called on me at work Wednesday afternoon, about four o’clock. I was just about to leave.”

And my heart was about to jump out of my mouth. “What did he say—what did he do?”

His eyes glowed with a light that sent my nerves into convulsions. “He had the violin with him,” he said, nodding wisely. “I saw no mention of it in the papers. What happened to the Stradivarius?”

I stared at him, then turned to stare at Sean. You never saw such a satisfied smile on any man who hadn’t just won the Irish Sweepstakes. “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Sean said. “We were hoping he’d left it with you.”

“No, no. He’d hardly let me touch it, though he played it for me. The little capriccio he wrote for you, Miss Newton. A pretty air. The instrument was in good voice, with potential for greatness. Someone took excellent care of it over all the years. He wanted me to authenticate it for him. It was a genuine Stradivarius, of course—not one of the highly ornamented ones. There’s no mistaking a Stradivarius. His varnish is still a mystery to us after all these years—centuries. It had the soft, rich, mature appearance—nothing but age imparts that glow to the varnish. And there was that symmetry of the head, the exquisite design of the
f
holes. But you aren’t interested in that!” he said, drawing himself back from his reverie. “I put its date as Stradivari’s golden period—somewhere in the early seventeen hundreds. The back was in one piece, you see, so it came after his Amatisé models. Not a Long Pattern. I recognized it at once. It quite took the wind out of his sails.” He shook his head in sorry commiseration.

Not once during the speech did Sean so much as glance at me. I kept looking at him, trying to catch his eye, but he was staring at Bitwell the way a hunter cat stares at its prey. A quick, puzzled look flitted over his rugged features then subsided to a look of satisfaction.

“Why would your authenticating it take the wind out of his sails?” I asked. It seemed exactly the wrong reaction.

“He was hoping it was a new discovery. To learn he’d paid a hundred and seventy-five thousand for a well-known, stolen violin didn’t sit will, as you may imagine.”

“Stolen!” I gasped.

“Undoubtedly. It was the one stolen from the Contessa Carpani around the New Year. She had a robbery at her villa in Italy, some jewels were taken as well. It wasn’t given as much publicity as you might think. I expect she didn’t want to broadcast what other items she had, in case of another robbery. I was alerted by the Mounted Police, as a precaution only, in case it was brought to me for authentication. These thefts where the spoils are sold internationally are handled by Interpol,” he said. His red and white shirt expanded in pride at being connected with such sophisticated goings on.

“The only ornamentation on it was a small cluster of grapes and leaves, inlaid in ebony around the sound holes,” he continued. “It had never been displayed or lent out to exhibitions, so it isn’t a well known instrument like the Betts or Alard. I was very surprised Victor wasn’t familiar with the violin, though, as he had been visiting Italy quite near the Carpanis’ villa a few years ago, but it seemed he never managed an introduction and so hadn’t seen the violin. He didn’t even know it was missing.”

“Where in Italy was Mr. Mazzini visiting?” Sean asked.

“Why, near the Carpanis’ villa, as I said,” Dr. Bitwell repeated.

“Where’s that?”

“Not far from Cremona, where Stradivari created his instruments,” Bitwell told him.

“Victor comes from Milan! That’s where he was, visiting his relatives! It’s close to Cremona,” I said hastily. Next thing I knew, Sean would be saying my uncle had arranged the heist from the Contessa’s villa himself.

“Wouldn’t the price, only a hundred and seventy-five thousand, give Mazzini a hint the thing was stolen?” Sean asked.

“Ah no, he had no idea,” Bitwell said, with admirable firmness. “Not all Stradivari’s works sell for a million. He met the seller, an English chap, by chance at a party. Etherington, his name was. He got chatting to Victor about violins and mentioned a very fine instrument in his possession. He said he bought it for a hundred dollars in Dorset twenty years before and thought at the time he had a precious instrument, but he didn’t actually know much about violins, though he was an ardent amateur. He never bothered having it looked at by an expert. When he came to Canada ten years ago, he brought it along and still had it. Victor arranged to have a look at it, and made the tactical error of claiming it was a Stradivarius. Etherington was delighted, and of course the price shot up to the stars. Victor said he could have got it for a thousand dollars if he’d kept his mouth shut, but then he never is able to do that,” he admitted sadly.

“Why didn’t Etherington get it evaluated himself?” I asked.

“Because he didn’t believe for a minute it could be a Stradivarius, is what Victor thought,” Bitwell answered swiftly. “And Victor knew perfectly well it was, and knew he’d pay more than a hundred and seventy-five thousand for it at auction, Of course Etherington knew it
was
genuine, and knew it was stolen, too, but he let on he was just a semi-ignorant type. Each of them was trying to hoodwink the other is what it comes down to, but it was Victor who got fleeced in the end.” Dr. Bitwell was a big enough man that he really felt sorry and not jubilant.

“What did my uncle do when you told him it was stolen?” I asked.

“He put it back in its case.”

“His own case or a different one?” Sean asked.

“It was the case he carries his del Gesù in. I told him he had to go at once to the police, but he said no, he’d find Etherington first and blacken both his eyes. He couldn’t even stop payment on the check, since he’d paid cash. Such a foolish thing to do, but Etherington told him he wanted to keep it off the record for tax purposes, you see, which made the kind of larcenous sense Victor understands. And it saved himself the percent sales tax as well.”

I scanned the events and times and said, “He came to see me at the Casa Loma before five, so he obviously didn’t contact Etherington. He must have realized by then that Etherington was following him. Do you know where Etherington lived or worked?”

Dr. Bitwell shook his head. “He didn’t say, but Victor must have known. I’m sure they didn’t meet on a street corner to do business. He should have gone directly to the police, but he has a sort of fondness for rogues, you know. He didn’t want to throw Etherington into the arms of the law. Or maybe he was trying to figure out some means of keeping the violin, for a while at least. I wouldn’t be surprised if he planned to get his money back from Etherington and keep the violin till it could be returned to the Contessa in Italy.”

“Maybe he wanted to keep it for this series of concerts,” Sean mentioned.

"No,” Bitwell said, “Etherington asked him if he meant to use it for the concert series. He was too much of an amateur to realize Victor would have wanted to have it adjusted perfectly and practice on it for a few weeks.”

“What did Victor tell him?” Sean asked.

“He told him he wouldn’t use it. In fact, Victor asked Etherington not to mention the sale at all. He wanted to get it in voice then call in the press and play something for them. Victor understands self-promotion.”

Sean and I exchanged a telling look. So that was why Etherington tried to steal the violin back—because my uncle was taking it straight to have it authenticated, and once he learned it was stolen, there would be free advertising aplenty. Headlines galore and Etherington still in town.

“I imagine Victor hoped to buy it from the Contessa,” Bitwell continued. “If she’d ever sell to anyone, it would be to someone like the Great Mazzini. You should have seen how lovingly he handled it, running his fingers over the magical varnish, fondling it like a lover,” he finished with a wistful smile. Then added less wistfully, “He wouldn’t let me play a note.”

I felt there were dozens of things I should be asking Dr. Bitwell, but they refused to fall into place. It was Sean who spoke up.

“Did Victor think anyone was following him?”

“He didn’t say so. I didn’t think to look after him when he left.”

“Why would Etherington follow him anyway?” I asked.

“Just to make sure the Carpani Strad didn’t become public knowledge too soon,” Sean suggested.

“He need not have worried,” Bitwell said. “The grand gesture, the shocking surprise—that’s Mazzini’s way.”

Sean nodded. “Do you know where he originally met Etherington, where the party took place? Was it a private house?”

“I have no idea. All we talked about was the violin. I read Victor a lecture on his foolishness, and that made him angry with me.”

“I wonder what he did with his own violin, his del Gesù,” I said. “Did he mention that to you?”

Bitwell gave a frowning pause. “I had the impression it was at his apartment, but I don’t remember that he actually said so. He told me the Strad didn’t come with a case. Etherington had it wrapped in a towel, inside a plastic bag, so he took his empty case to carry it home. I assumed he’d left his own violin at home. What else would he have done with it? He’d never leave it in his car, unattended.”

“He bought this violin on Wednesday, did he?” Sean verified.

“Late Wednesday afternoon,” Bitwell confirmed. “He brought it straight to me. The label had fallen off and was loose inside the instrument. He shook it out, and saw it was indeed a Stradivarius. The label is quite unmistakable. Stradivari had a wooden date stamp that he used. It said ‘Antonius Stradivarius Cremonenfis Faciebat Anno 1,’ and he filled the date in by hand. The last numbers were unclear—I thought it said 1707, but Victor wasn’t sure it wasn’t 1701. There was the little symbol in the lower right corner as well, a cross with his initials beneath, enclosed in a circle. Quite unmistakable. The Carpani Strad is known to have been dated 1707, which is perhaps why Victor insisted the date read 1701. It was a very good time for Stradivari, his Golden Period.”

Dr. Bitwell was glancing at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’m supposed to pick up the children at ten,” he said politely.

“What’s that number in Muskoka where you can be reached?” Sean asked, and wrote the number down. “The police may want to be in touch with you.”

“I’m going to contact them before I leave. I should have phoned earlier, but it seemed more—kind to talk to you first, Miss Newton. I hope your uncle is found soon. You needn’t worry about his safety. Etherington is a rogue, but that’s not to say he’d murder. That’s a much more serious business. He wouldn’t do that only for a pile of money,” he assured me.

We thanked this naive optimist and left. Intriguing as the interview had been, I was more intrigued to discover how Sean knew all this had happened before we talked to Bitwell. He had outlined roughly the whole scene last night. Just pulled it out of thin air, so to speak. Obviously he knew more than a hardware merchant on holiday from Nebraska had any reason to know, and my next step was to discover who he really was.

He wore a cocky smile as we went to the car. “What did I tell you?” he crowed.

I got in and folded my skirt around me. “Strangely enough, you told me so. Now how’s about telling me how you knew so much?”

“Deduction,” he said, tapping his temple.

“Bullshit! Who are you anyway, and what’s your interest in Victor?”

He stared with a look of surprise that went beyond merely corrugating his forehead. Blank amazement was in his eyes, and he let his mouth fall open. “What are you talking about? We worked it out together last night. You had as much to do with figuring it out as I did.”

“Oh no, I can’t take credit for dredging up the idea of a Stradivarius violin—a stolen one at that! That’s a little too pat, Sean. You weren’t at the Casa Loma by chance, and you didn’t make a pass at me because you liked my fat body.”

“Boney, I’d call it.”

Flattery got him nowhere. “You saw Victor with me, and figured I was somebody who knew him well—that’s why you hit on me. So who are you? A policeman, a friend of Mr. Etherington, perhaps?” I suggested. I was only being ironical, though the words had hardly left my mouth before I realized the distinct possibility of this last-named identity. God, he could
be
Etherington for all I knew. His accent had a way of sliding around from the midwest to Texas, though it had never veered toward England yet.

Victor had gotten away with the Strad, which he quickly discovered was stolen. Etherington hadn’t counted on that. But what had then led him to kidnap my uncle instead of running for the hills? There had to be another piece to this puzzle. Had he planned all along to get rid of Victor? Did he make a career of selling that violin then stealing it back and killing the buyer?

All these unlikely possibilities flitted through my mind in seconds. “Be real,” was Sean’s disarming reply. “If Mr. deBeers vanished, wouldn’t you think maybe diamonds had something to do with it?”

“Yes, and if it were Antonio Stradivari who vanished, I might go along with that analogy.”

“Just hear me out,” he said. “And if it turned out deBeers had been lumping together a batch of money, wouldn’t you think maybe it was diamonds he meant to buy? So a famous violinist disappears, also his violin, and it’s staring you in the face. It has something to do with a violin. When you think expensive violin, you think Stradivarius. When the whole thing is done in a clandestine way, paying cash, the possibility pops up that there was something fishy about the deal. That’s all—simple deduction.”

“That’s about as simple as the theory of relativity.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged his shoulders and pulled into the line of traffic.

It was his innocent looks that made me doubt he was personally involved. I couldn’t decide whether he was an idiot who just happened to hit on the truth, or whether he’d been guiding my thoughts. He’d certainly been guiding my actions and with a very heavy hand. He had insisted we go to Bitwell, but why drag me there unless he wanted me to learn the truth? And Bitwell
was
telling the truth—that I refused to doubt. The staunch profile hunched over the wheel told me nothing. “Where to next?” he asked, with his usual disregard for the finer points of grammar.