He was uncomfortable at receiving anything from a woman. “Tomorrow it’s my treat,” he bargained. “You notice how cagily I weaseled my way into another date? Here you thought I was a rube, just because I hail from Nebraska.”
“I didn’t know you came from Nebraska. I really don’t know a thing about you. What you do for a living . .
“I sell hardware.”
I looked at his face, which minored the unspoilt plains of Nebraska. Yes, I could picture that moustache and crooked smile behind a hardware counter in some small midwestern town, those strong hands hefting a wrench or hammer. He would be knowledgeable about “two-by-fours” and “ratchets” and such things. A vision sprang into my head of him putting up shelves in a white bungalow and turning hamburger patties on an outdoor barbeque. All in a flash it came to me, as things do sometimes. I’m not psychic—more of a dreamer really, but snatches of things that never were just pop into my head.
I became aware of a hand waving three inches in front of my eyes. Hardware—Nebraska,” he repeated, frowning at my faraway look. “Threw you for a loop, did it? You mistook me for a brain surgeon? Maybe you were wondering what a hardware type was doing touring a medieval castle. I like old things,” he said simply.
The white bungalow transformed itself to a Victorian house with gingerbread trim, in a state of being restored by those same brown hands. “I heard you. I like old things, too.” Old masters, old money. “I wonder what’s keeping Victor. I hope nothing’s happened to him.”
“What do you mean—an accident?” he asked sharply.
It was more an excess of wine I actually had in mind, but I said, “He’s never been so late before. They’d announce it if he weren’t here.”
“Do you want to go around to his dressing room and ask?” Sean said. I just knew he’d be one of those men who always wanted to be handling situations. I like the French wait and see philosophy myself.
“Let’s wait a minute longer.”
In exactly sixty seconds, the large, cheap, ugly Timex was hoisted under my nose again. I was just gathering up my things to leave when the curtain opened and a man came out and bowed. A buzz of excitement ran through the hail. Was it a preamble to the “surprise” we had been reading about? When the noise subsided, the man announced that Mr. Mazzini had been unavoidably detained, and the concert was being postponed. He went on to explain that ticket holders could receive a refund at the box office or wait to hear the new date announced, apologized for the inconvenience, and extended his heartiest apologies on behalf of the Directors of Roy Thomson Hall and Mr. Mazzini.
Victor couldn’t be drunk. He hadn’t been overindulging at all, and this concert had meant so much to him. His heart was the next thing I thought of. “A stroke!” I gasped, and clutched at my own heart, which was performing aerobics in my chest. “He’s had a stroke! He has high blood pressure, you know. The doctor put him on medication just two weeks ago. Oh my God, Sean, I’d better get to the hospital.”
Sean flew into a towering calm. “Steady now, steady,” he said, holding my hand in a firm grip. “Nobody said anything about a stroke or hospital. High blood pressure’s as common as headache these days. Let’s go around and find out what’s going on.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course,” I said, trying to be reasonable, but my hands, my whole insides were shaking.
It took us a few minutes to work our way out of the hall and into the lobby. Sean formed a driving wedge through the mass of irate humanity, dragging me behind him. The departing crowd grumbled in well-bred voices and gathered in groups to discuss alternative entertainment, since they were dressed up and ready for a night out.
The most accessible route to the dressing rooms was by leaving the front door and walking around to the rear entrance. At least it was the easiest for me, as it was the only way I’d ever gone. I went up to the first workman I saw and asked if he knew anything about Mr. Mazzini’s failure to perform.
The man wiped his brow with his hand and gave us a disgusted look. “He never showed up. Never called the hall— nothing. Are you from the press? I’ll tell you what
I
think. I think the guy did it on purpose, planned it for publicity. He’d do anything to get his picture in the papers. Performers— they’re all alike.”
I weighed his opinion and found it not entirely incredible. It was a fact that the tickets for the fourth and last performance weren’t moving as well as Victor had hoped. The first night was sold out, the second and third nights selling well enough, but sales for the last performance were flagging. There were plenty of other things to do on a Saturday night. And Victor disliked playing to anything but a packed hall. Not appearing for the first concert would stir up a lot of publicity and put a rush on tickets for the other nights. He was probably sitting at home smiling to himself at the furor he was causing.
We asked around till we found the manager, and I introduced myself but learned nothing more. Mr. Mazzini had not appeared. He had not been to the hall before the concert, though he’d told me he’d be there at five o’clock. The manager was more angry than worried. He didn’t say it, but you didn’t have to be a mind reader to see he shared the stagehand’s opinion.
Sean assumed a strong, take-control manner and asked, “Did you phone his home?”
“Of course we did. We sent a man over at five to eight, and he wasn’t there. The doorman hadn’t seen him for hours.”
“Did you phone the hospitals?” Sean asked.
“Certainly. Every effort was made to find him. Have you any idea how much money is involved in this performance? The tickets sold, a
massive
advertising campaign
“A man’s life is also involved,” Sean reminded him, with a haughty stare that surprised me. He took my hand. “Come on. We’ll find him,” he said confidently, and we left.
“I guess the first move is to go home,” I said doubtfully.
“That’s as good a place to start as any. I’ve hired a car. You’ll have to give me directions.
It seemed an eternity passed as we waited in line to get out of the parking lot. We didn’t talk at all on the way home, except for my giving Sean directions. I was wrapped up in my own worries, and finding his way through the traffic seemed to occupy Sean’s mind. When we drove into the underground parking garage at the apartment, I spotted my uncle’s car in his personal parking spot.
“He’s here! He’s back!” I shouted.
“Wasn’t his car here when you left?” Sean asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t come this way. I use the front door, but he had his car at Casa Loma this afternoon.”
Sean parked in a visitors’ space and we went into the building and up the elevator to the apartment. The door was locked, but I let us in with my key, calling Victor’s name as we entered.
I hurried in, pushing light switches as I went, but I already knew he wasn’t sleeping, or sitting in the dark. I knew he wasn’t there, and felt sick with apprehension. Everything looked exactly as I had left it. The indentations of the pillows on the ornate Italian provincial sofa were mine. There were no fresh cigar ashes or butts in the crystal ashtrays, no wineglass, no Victor.
“He must have been here. Where can he be?” I asked.
“How about that doorman downstairs in the comic opera uniform?” Sean said. “He’d have seen him if he came in.
“The man at the concert hall said the doorman hadn’t seen him. When you park your car, you take the service elevator. Anyway, I know he hasn’t been here.” I explained about the lack of cigar ashes or butts.
I went into Victor’s bedroom, Sean following at my heels, and the room was exactly as I had last seen it. “Maybe he was in his studio!” I exclaimed, hope soaring again.
We went down the hall to the area where the wall between two bedrooms had been knocked out to form a large studio. It was tiled and insulated for soundproofing. The room was austerely simple. The white walls held no adornment except a few posters from his own and other concerts, and an embarrassing collection of Playboy centerfolds. Their airbrushed innocence appeared to interest Sean quite as much as it interested my uncle.
There was a wall of sound equipment on one side: tape recorder, amplifying equipment, speakers, a stereo radio and record player. In the middle of the room was a high stool and a music stand in front of it with a sheet of music spread out. The floor around this area was littered with discarded sheets of music. Rhoda wasn’t allowed in here. There was also a desk in a corner where Victor composed his occasional pieces and did his personal correspondence.
While I looked around the room, Sean tore himself away from the centerfolds and strolled to the desk. He hastily rifled the papers on its surface. My uncle didn’t smoke in this room. There wasn’t even an ashtray.
“I don’t come in here very often. He doesn’t like to be disturbed,” I said. “I don’t see any sign that he’s been here.”
Sean began tugging at the locked drawers of the desk, which struck me as rather presumptuous. “You won’t find him in there, Sean. That’s his personal stuff. Love letters, bank books, whatever work he’s composing. He wouldn’t have been at his desk tonight.”
Sean left the desk and walked back to me. “What do you want to do next?”
I put my hand on my forehead, which had developed a nagging ache and felt warm to the touch. “I don’t know what to do. Eleanor Strathroy may have heard something. Maybe he phoned her about the party—to cancel it, I mean, or . .
But I couldn’t really picture Victor canceling a party devised for his sole honor and glory when it would have given him such pleasure to attend it. The mayor was going and everything. If this were a publicity stunt, he would have cancelled the second concert.
“It’s worth a try,” Sean urged.
We went back to use the phone in the living room. When Eleanor, with three servants, answered her own phone, I knew she was in a state of distraction, too. Her voice was strident, querulous. If she hadn’t been worried, she would have been doing her imitation of Bette Davis.
“Cassie, where are you?” was her first question.
“I’m at the apartment.”
“Is he there?” she asked, almost before I finished speaking. “No, I was hoping you’d have heard from him. He’s not with you, then?”
“I haven’t heard from him since ten o’clock this morning. He’s had an accident,” she decided dolefully. “Victor would never disappoint me like this without a good reason. Did you try the hospitals?”
“The people at Roy Thomson did. He’s not in the hospital," I assured her, trying to get confidence from a vacuum.
“I can’t understand what happened. He wasn’t drinking today, was he?” Her voice was carefully lowered, to hide her words from listeners at her end.
“No. He wouldn’t before a concert. You’ll let me know right away if you hear from him? And I’ll call you if he turns up here.”
“Yes, of course. What a shambles! Half the party came on here and I’m trying to entertain with my head in a whirl. I wish they’d go home.” There was a trace of the Bette Davis growl in her last speech. I thought that pretty soon Eleanor would find some entertainment in her role of worried and loyal mistress.
“I’m awfully sorry about the party.”
“Dear child, your mustn’t apologize. It’s not your fault, and not Victor’s either. Something has happened to him. If only Ronald were here,” she sighed, her voice petering out.
“He’s not home yet?”
“Not till tomorrow. I must get back to my guests. Thanks for calling, Cassie. Bye.”
I hung up and sat frowning into the receiver. I had run out of ideas of how to find Victor. As I sat thinking, Sean came out of the studio. He was frowning, too.
“Maybe it’s time to call the police, Cassie,” he suggested hesitantly.
“And report a missing adult, gone for all of three or four hours? They’d think I was neurotic.”
His look of hesitancy deepened to doubt. “Is there any chance he got loaded somewhere? Pre-concert jitters— something like that? I read the newspapers. If you think he’s tied one on, I could take a run around his favorite bars and get him home.”
“He’d never get drunk in public. He’s too proud and too jealous of his reputation. He’d hole up in his own digs for a binge. Besides, he was looking forward to this concert. He wasn’t in a drinking mood.”
“If you say so.” We looked dejectedly at each other for a minute, then Sean spoke. “I don’t know about Victor, but it’s time you and I had a little something. Where’s the liquor cabinet?”
I hate the woody, poisonous taste of Scotch, but it’s part of my diplomatic training to take it without wincing, so I made two Scotch and sodas. No calories in the mix anyway. A diplomat can hardly order a pi
Ô
a colada. We took our drinks to the sofa to talk. I went over when I’d last seen my uncle, what his normal routine would be before a concert, and the reasons why I thought he hadn’t been in the apartment, though his car parked below suggested he’d been here. I told him about the tuxedo being gone from his room when I got home from work after five. Actually I hadn’t seen it since yesterday.
“I imagine a guy like Victor has a housekeeper?” he said.
“Yes, Rhoda Gardiner. She leaves at five. I’ll call her and ask when she last saw him.”
I know Rhoda mostly through notes, as she comes after I go to work and is gone when I get home, but I’d met her a few times and knew she was no jewel of a woman. Her chocolate cake is about the best thing about her. She told me with an utter lack of concern that Mr. Mazzini had played his violin in the morning and left the apartment sometime during the afternoon, taking his tuxedo and violin with him. She couldn’t pinpoint “sometime” more closely.
“Did he seem like himself?” I asked.
“Who else would he seem like?”
“He wasn’t nervous or anything?”
“He ate some salami and bread. He wasn’t too nervous to eat anyway, but he was a bit jumpy. The concert, I figured. He was in the studio all morning. Did you get my note about dinner?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“That’s all I can tell you.” The TV was playing in the background. Rhoda had adopted the stars of the nighttime soaps for her own family. I knew she wanted to get back to them and hung up to tell Sean what she’d said.