Read Capriccio for Free Online Page B

self-centered. Artists are like that. I haven’t even thanked you for everything. I’ll—I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be home by then.”
    “What makes you think so?” he asked. “It doesn’t add up to me. I can’t see a guy coming in and mussing up his own apartment. We decided your break-in artist was looking for something, remember? More likely you’ll get a phone call from the kidnapper. If you’re as smart as I take you for, Cassie, you’ll call the police. It’s up to you, but the longer you wait, the colder the trail gets.”
    “Kidnapper!”
    “When rich people suddenly disappear, it’s usually kidnapping. I was hoping they’d just kidnapped his violin, but it’s been a few hours now, and there’s still no sign of Victor. Think about it.” He gave me a long, dark look, and went out. Before the door clicked, he stuck his head back in and said, “Lock this after me, and put on the chain. Whoever was watching earlier is likely still out there.”
    On this comforting speech, he left. I ran to the door and did as he suggested. Was Sean right? Was Victor kidnapped? What could Sean possibly know? He’d never even met Victor in his life. And he didn’t know the cigars were gone—I’d forgotten to tell him that. Nobody but Victor would have taken them. A kidnapper didn’t take such pains for his victim’s comfort. Of course it was Victor himself, the wretch, and when he came back, I’d give him the tongue lashing of his life. No wonder his wife left him!
    Sleep was obviously impossible under these harrowing conditions, so I went to the sofa to think. When no new thoughts had occurred to me by ten o’clock, I turned on the TV to watch the news, and see how much coverage Victor got. He’d be annoyed that a royal visit took precedence as an opener, but he was the second feature. I listened sharply as the announcer outlined the story.
    Victor Mazzini, the celebrated violinist, had failed to appear for a scheduled concert at Roy Thomson Hall. His whereabouts were unknown, but foul play was not indicated. There was a snide mention of his former fight with alcoholism. Poor Victor, he’d done himself more harm than good with this gambit. Maybe he’d meant me to call the police and show them the messed up apartment. The police weren’t dopes. They’d see the lock hadn’t been tampered with, and soon suspect the truth. The best thing was to sit tight and wait for him to phone or come home. He wouldn’t stay away long once those old alcohol rumors resurfaced.
    The next item on the news was a report on the St. Jean Baptiste celebration in Quebec. That French province has a unique provincial holiday not shared by the rest of the country. All businesses were closed; there were street parades, a picnic on top of Mount Royal in Montreal, but no demonstrations by the Separatists this year. I remembered that Ronald was in Montreal. Funny he’d gone on St. Jean Baptiste day, when the banks and brokerage houses would be closed. Or maybe he’d chosen this day on purpose. Everything would be quiet in the offices, so the meeting wouldn’t be interrupted by the crush of ordinary business. I thought there might even be a measure of secrecy to his trip. Lots of businesses had left Quebec, and if Ronald was luring another one to Toronto, he wouldn’t want any publicity before the fact. The Quebec government occasionally made noises about putting a stop to those business emigrations.
    Eleanor phoned again before I went to bed. There was a wild flare of excitement, thinking it was Victor calling, but Eleanor’s voice brought me to earth with a thump.
    “Is there still no word from him?” she asked.
    I considered telling her about the cigars and my suspicion, but decided against it. Eleanor wasn’t a serious lady love, only a convenient companion who opened pleasant doors. I did try to console her though.
    “I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow. Why don’t you go to bed and try to get some