Chapter 31

It was dark in the gallery. There appeared to be no windows to bring in natural light (and possibly fade priceless masterpieces), and only one door, the door we had entered. I found a light switch and flipped it up. Soft lighting bathed the edges of the ceiling and highlighted a beautiful display of artwork on the walls. Another switch illuminated the floor area containing various free-standing sculptures and other objets d’art, with single beams from ceiling-mounted spotlights. The light was not very bright, but it was sufficient to see around the room. From the low whistle he gave, I could tell that Aaron, despite the fact that he was probably used to being in elegant surroundings, was clearly impressed.

It was my hope that Sanders would want to put his new acquisition on display, even if he planned later to swap it for a painting. And if this gallery, which obviously was not open to just any visitor to the house, contained at least some of his “private” collection, Aaron’s Guarneri might be here. But if it was, we’d have to find it in a hurry.

Aaron was gazing at the remarkable display, but I was concentrating on only one thing: Is the Guarneri there? If it wasn’t, then finding it was going to be a very difficult proposition.

If it was there, it obviously would be among the objects on the floor. The door where we entered was located in about the center of the room, and the sculptures and such were displayed in an oval pattern, so one could walk clockwise around the perimeter and view the paintings on the walls to the left and the sculptures, etc. to the right. Or vice versa, of course, depending on which direction one chose to walk.

I left Aaron to watch the door, listening for an approaching intruder, and then started walking hurriedly to my left and quickly made my way around the gallery, examining the objects as I went. Halfway around I paused to check out something I saw on the wall, then I continued until I had made it almost completely around, with no violin in sight. I was beginning to lose hope, when there it was, almost the last object in line: what I was certain was Aaron’s beloved Guarneri, on display on an elegant wooden stand clearly made especially for it.

I ran up to Aaron and took his arm, pointing him in the direction of the violin display. When he saw what I was indicating, he suddenly looked faint. I’m sure that at that moment, all the emotions that he had experienced since his violin was stolen—the shock of its loss, the anger at the man who he learned had stolen it, the determination to get it back, the hope for recovery offered by finding a burglar in his suite, the stress of planning to recover it, the intervening murder of Donny Martin, and finally the fear and anxiety accompanying carrying out the plan—were momentarily replaced by the elation of suddenly being so close to having it back.

He put down the tools he was carrying and started to walk toward the violin display, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“No, I’ll go. You stay here at the door and warn me if anyone’s coming.” I actually had no idea what we would do if anyone did find us there after being told not to enter. Plead a very short memory? At least disobeying cleaning orders shouldn’t be a capital offense.

“Why can’t I go and you stay?” Aaron pleaded.

“Because it’s not that easy. These things on display are all fastened down in some way, and I’m sure your violin is too. You won’t know how to get it free and substitute the copy without it being noticeable.”

Aaron looked back through the open door, where one could just see down the hallway toward the kitchen, and then at his violin, which I know he dearly wished to rescue himself, and finally relented.

“Okay, you go get it and I’ll watch. But hurry.”

Don’t worry, I lost no time. I grabbed the custom wooden carrier, now somewhat lighter with the cleaning equipment removed, and almost sprinted to Aaron’s violin. I stopped next to the display stand that proudly supported a violin that looked, to me at least, like the one that I had first attempted to steal in Aaron’s hotel suite.

I bent down and extracted from the hidden compartment in the carrier that very violin, the one I had been holding when Aaron walked in on me.

I laid the copy down on the floor, glancing up to see if Aaron was watching me or the door. He was watching the door. As I had expected, the violin on the display stand was attached to it by a length of multi-strand cable looped around the neck and in front of the pegs, so that it could not be slipped off past the scroll on the end. The other end was inserted into a sheath that covered the vertical arm of the stand itself. It was a clever design that left only a small length of cable and the loop around the violin to be seen. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be an alarm connected to the cable, something that would have slowed me down considerably.

I had come prepared, and I took from the carrier a set of wire cutters. When I tried to cut the cable with them, however, I found they couldn’t penetrate its surface. Whatever the metal of the sheath was, it was tougher than that of the cutters.

I again looked up at Aaron, and he was giving me a “hurry up” sign. Either he was just antsy, or someone was headed our way. In either case, I knew there was no time to waste. I had anticipated the possibility of needing something stronger to cut the cable, but I had hesitated to bring heavy-duty cable cutters because of their weight and bulk. Now I was glad I had. I reached into the top compartment of the carrier and brought out an instrument that looked as if it could sever the cables holding up the Golden Gate Bridge. Although that might exceed its abilities, the small cable around the Guarneri did not. The only problem was to avoid damaging the violin with its oversized jaws. I carefully placed the front of the jaws over the loop and, pressing one handle against my chest and holding the other, closed the jaws on the cable.

At least I tried to close them. The awkward way I was operating the cutter gave me very little leverage, and even though a clever ratchet system greatly reduced the effort needed to operate the cutters, I couldn’t gain enough force to cut the cable. Looking up again at Aaron, I saw that he was looking very agitated, and his “hurry up” signal had changed to a frantic “what the hell are you doing.” I ignored him. With the jaws of the cutter now holding the cable in place, I slowly slid my free hand down to the handle that was pressing into my chest. When I had it in hand, I pushed the two handles together as hard as I could. Finally I heard a satisfying “snap” as the cutters overcame the cable’s resistance and opened the loop holding the violin.

As quickly as I safely could, I freed the violin from the cable and lifted it off the display stand. I put it aside, then picked up the replica we had brought and placed it on the stand in exactly the same place. I put the loop of cable around the neck of the substitute violin, then took out a small tube of super glue. I applied a dab to the cut ends of the loop, held them together for a few seconds, then stepped back to view my work. Only on close inspection would anyone notice that the loop had been cut and repaired, or for that matter that the violin on the stand was not the same one that had been there five minutes earlier.

I was proud of my handiwork, but I didn’t have much time to admire it.

“Someone’s coming,” Aaron called out. I threw the cable cutters into the top of my carrier and reached for Aaron’s violin to slide it into the secret compartment.

That was when disaster struck.

In my haste—okay, panic—I tripped over the carrier just as I reached for the violin. After a horrible few seconds of trying to regain my balance, I not only knocked the substitute violin off the display I had so carefully fashioned, but I came crashing down on top of the violin I had just liberated.

Apart from the noise this made—and it made plenty as I knocked over two other displays on my way down—it probably gave Aaron the closest thing to a heart attack he’ll ever have. He came rushing over to see what damage had been done—I’d like to think to me as well as the Guarneri, but I’m a realist. He picked me up, and then picked up the violin that lay beneath me.

It was a total loss, the neck broken and the body splintered. At that moment I wished it was my neck that was broken, but no such luck. As we gazed down at what had been a violin, we again simultaneously uttered the familiar three words that had first introduced us:

“It’s a fake!”

We both were staring at the inside of the broken instrument that, like the one we had brought with us, was missing that all-important label. Only in this case, it was not even a very good copy, except perhaps to a dummy like me in very dim light. I assume Sanders, awaiting the theft of the Guarneri, had acquired a cheap copy as a placeholder in the display he’d arranged until he had possession of the real one. Of course, at this point all that counted was that it wasn’t Aaron’s violin that got crushed.

Unfortunately, we hadn’t time to enjoy this reprieve before Benny entered the room, took one look at us amid a tangle of strings, cables, and burglar tools, and drew out his pistol.

****

To say this was an unexpected development would be somewhat of an understatement. It was about the worst combination of circumstances I could have imagined. Maybe even beyond my imagination.

Strangely, it flashed through my mind that at least we knew for sure who had shot Donny Martin—Benny. And at least I hadn’t crushed a priceless Guarneri. Small comforts now.

Benny, surprisingly, didn’t look particularly angry. In fact, he had something of a smirk on his face, as if to say, “Look what I found. I’ll probably get a nice bonus from the boss.” To me, that smirk was far more terrifying than had he simply been angry. Either way I didn’t give us much chance of survival.

Benny stepped around us, his smirk having become more of a grin. He was clearly enjoying himself. He gestured toward the door and said, “That way.” We obeyed, stepping over the wreckage of the ersatz Guarneri and backing up in the direction of the door.

Then an unexpected thing happened: Benny, perhaps enjoying himself too much, didn’t look where he was going and tripped over the tangle of wood and wire we had left on the floor. He pitched forward with a loud scream and fell heavily to the floor. As his hand hit the hard floor, his gun was propelled several feet in our direction. Aaron and I both scrambled for it, Aaron winning the contest and picking it up.

So there we were, gun in hand and trained on Benny. I couldn’t believe our luck.

Aaron was ecstatic. “We may not have the violin,” he said to me, “but we can clear you with the police. I’ll bet anything this is the gun that killed Martin and Fred Ballard.”

Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a voice behind us.

“I’ll take that bet.”