Chapter 8
Bored of strolling along the corridor that they were in, Laura led them through one of the doors into the main auditorium, and realized that they were at the rear of the upper balcony. She scanned the area in front of them: the balcony was vast – three tiers deep and with something like 2,000 seats – and from here, right at the back of the auditorium, even the Shrine's stage looked diminished. Everything about the auditorium was on a massive scale, and looking up, Laura saw the circular, red and yellow, patterned ceiling – which soared a hundred feet or more above the floor of the theater – decorated with ropes and tassels, and looking a little like a huge, upside-down Bedouin tent, with an enormous chandelier suspended from its center.
"An impressive sight, isn't it?" Remington said, standing beside her.
"Uh-huh, it certainly is," Laura agreed.
They began to stroll along the rear of the balcony; Remington and Laura both thought best when they were pacing. Their earlier argument had blown itself out after their personal interlude, but Steele still broached the topic of their previous discussion cautiously. "Erm, Laura…regarding what were discussing – before your delightful display of spousal affection – I think we both agree someone inside this building took the Stradivarius. Correct?"
"As I said, it seems most probable that the thief is an amateur – either connected with the Shrine Auditorium, or with the orchestra itself."
"And, purely logically, if we were to consider Cleo Taplinger as a suspect, we'd still be left with a fundamental objection: this building is sealed tight, and if she – or another one of the people connected with the Shrine – stole the violin, they'd have to have been exceedingly stupid to have done so when there were so few others in the building, and when access into and out of the theater was so controlled – which they knew was the case. It would put them right in the frame."
Laura nodded. "Which implies that whoever stole the violin either didn't think as far ahead as how to get it out of the theater at all, or didn't expect to have trouble doing so."
"Therefore, it seems to me that the most probable culprit was one of the Chileans – who were not familiar with the Shrine's procedures, and wouldn't have anticipated a lockdown."
"And that means we're left, finally, with two alternative theories of the crime: either Rojas or one of his cronies – perhaps even Rebanada – stole the violin; or, some other member of the orchestra stole it."
"Motive?"
"Well, if half of what I was told about Rojas is true, then he might well have done it for the money. That Stradivarius is an immensely valuable artifact, even if sold at a discount on the black market, isn't it?"
"Oh, undoubtedly," Steele confirmed, nodding. "There are only 600 or so Stradivarius violins in the whole world. It depends on the particular instrument, of course, but they regularly sell for several hundred thousand dollars. To my recollection, the record price was for an instrument known as the 'Alard', which went for $1.2 million in 1981 in a private sale by the London dealers, William Hill & Sons."
Laura stared at Remington, stunned into silence; he could be a font of knowledge on the most obscure subjects when she least expected it. After such a long time together, he still managed to surprise her so often. She knew it was one of the things that had attracted her to him from when they had first met. As much as Laura always told him that she wanted him to be open and honest with her, in private when she examined her own feelings, she knew that that air of mystery surrounding Remington had been very enticing to her – it was a duality in herself she was aware of, but couldn't quite explain. Laura always loved the challenge of finding things out – it was one of the reasons she had become a detective – and having to solve the mystery of 'her' Remington Steele had, she was aware, been one of the main reasons she had been drawn to him. If Remington had been a conventional man, relatively easy to know and understand, relatively pliable, she wondered if she would ever have been interested in him – despite how handsome he was.
They had walked the entire length of the rear of the balcony, and now, for a change of scene, descended the steps to the middle tier of seating, before strolling back along the gangway, in the direction that they had come from.
Steele said, "The violin is no doubt worth a small fortune, but we come back to the same objection: why would someone as worldly as Rojas, or Rebanada – who we're led to believe is secret police – steal the violin today, here? It would be far easier to steal it in a busy location, like the orchestra's hotel, or in transit at the airport, where the theft could be put down as a simple street robbery."
"Yes...we always keep coming back to that question, don't we? This case, in a way, is like a locked room puzzle – it's just that the Shrine Auditorium is itself one giant, locked room."
"There's also the fact that Rojas's power base supposedly comes from the Pinochets. Fascist dictators don't take any prisoners, Laura, if one of their people fail them. That violin is owned by General Pinochet's sister, and if it's stolen on Rojas's watch, he'll be for the high jump! He'd have to be insane – or have some serious stones – to steal a Stradivarius belonging to the Pinochet family."
"Good point!"
"Actually, we can't even assume that Rojas and Rebanada are in cahoots; if Rebanada is in the Chilean secret police, he may well be keeping Rojas under scrutiny as much as he's watching the musicians. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that if the regime ever wanted rid of Rojas in future, it was Rebanada who plunged the knife!"
"All of which implies..." Laura said slowly, as she turned her thoughts over in her head, "that the most likely suspect for this theft is one of the actual musicians."
"Given all the information you discovered about the orchestra's behind-the-scenes intrigue, I'd posit that the Strad wasn't stolen for money, but as a gesture – a way of making a point to someone or about something."
"To, or about, Rojas. Our working hypothesis, then, is that either the fired Orchestra Council, or 'A.N. Other' member of the anti-Rojas faction, 'stole' it as a political gesture."
Steele knew his wife so well, he could tell from the merest hint of a change of tone in her voice that she was unhappy. "Problem?" he queried.
Laura sighed. "Sometimes this job can give one a sore heart. I really liked them – the orchestra's musicians…the Orchestra Council. They seemed passionate about their art and committed to exposing Rojas's shenanigans, and to rescuing the orchestra from his clutches. It's not a pleasant thought that they are most probably behind this theft."
"Sometimes people do bad things for good reasons, Laura."
"I know...And I know it's our job to find the thief – whoever it is, and whatever their motive might have been."
Steele took Laura's hand in his and held it. He didn't say anything, nor look at her directly; however, he could feel her staring at him. After a while, he felt a slight pressure as she squeezed his hand. All the earlier tension between them – the silly argument and petty jealousy over Cleo – had completely vanished. Laura, Remington knew, was cool and dispassionate most of the time, but also felt things deeply inside, especially disappointments. It was ironic – she always claimed he didn't show his feelings enough and she wished he would talk more openly about them – but from his perspective, he knew Laura was also one of those private people who often buried their hurts and resentments instead of letting them show to others. In their different ways, they were both rather reticent people; it had taken them both a long time to begin to trust each other and to share their feelings with each other. Remington had learned to do that from Laura – painfully and slowly – and it was something he might occasionally be able to teach her in return.
As they strolled along the middle-tier gangway in silence, something caught Steele's attention. He looked around, but the balcony was empty except for the two of them. He let go of Laura's hand, and descended the nearest set of stairs down to the first row of the balcony, at the very front; there, he picked up a black leather briefcase, before turning and waving up to Laura, summoning her to join him.
Laura trotted down to join Steele. "What are you doing?" she asked.
Remington was grinning like the cat that had gotten the cream. "Rojas's briefcase, Laura!"
"Are you sure?"
"Who else's could it be, there on a seat in the first row of the balcony? Don't you remember? – he said that he was watching the rehearsal from the balcony when the news of the theft broke."
"Of course! Oh, Mr Steele!" Laura said, with a huge grin on her face – she always delighted in Remington's chutzpah – "I love your flair and chance taking!"
"Let's see if we can learn anything pertinent, eh?" said her husband, grinning himself at how wild and daring he could be. He ushered Laura into a seat in the front row, then sat down next to her, and placed the briefcase, which was of the top-opening type with an old fashioned strap and locking mechanism, on the floor between his feet, so that it couldn't be seen from the stage.
Taking a lock pick stashed behind his tuxedo lapel, Steele bent over the briefcase and picked its lock, then started retrieving papers from inside, passing some to Laura and inspecting the rest himself. He gave a running commentary as he did so. "Rojas's passport. A check book. Blank letter paper. A notebook – some jottings on airline schedules and hotel reservations. Brochures for tourist attractions – apparently, Rojas wants to visit the Hollywood Sign and Mann's Chinese Theatre while he's here. Résumés of musicians – it looks as if Rojas is interested in hiring some new personnel. By Jove!..."
"Why 'By Jove'?" asked Laura.
Remington had opened what looked like a slim, small, gray notebook. "This is very interesting. It's a passbook for a bank account...from somewhere called the 'Commerz Direkt Aktiengesellschaft' in Zurich. Our Mr Rojas has over $90,000 deposited there."
"A secret Swiss bank account! Now, why would the administrator of an orchestra – admittedly a senior position – have that much money squirreled away, hmm?"
"Why, indeed, Mrs Steele? Those accusations of embezzlement against Rojas suddenly look a lot more credible, don't they?"
"That slimeball!"
"What have you got?"
Laura looked through the papers in her lap. "Correspondence, mostly. Some letters from Cleo Taplinger and others at the California Artistic Association, arranging the tour. A couple of letters from potential sponsors of the orchestra – artistic trusts here in the US." Suddenly, Laura's tone changed and she whispered, "Well, well, well, Mr Steele..."
"What?"
"A handwritten note, unsigned, and addressed to Rojas," Laura answered. She read out: "Rojas, we know what you've done. Cooking the books. Fraud. You are a thief. Resign. Leave your position quietly, or we will expose you. We have the evidence. You know what will happen then."
"Extortion, eh?"
"Not quite – more like blackmail. Whoever sent this wants Rojas out. Either he leaves quietly, or they denounce him to...whomever. The press? The police? Perhaps even the Chilean Army and the regime?"
"Someone in the orchestra sent it? The anti-Rojas faction?"
"Almost certainly."
"Theory, Mrs Steele?"
"How's this?" asked Laura, setting the letter down on her lap and steepling her fingers, as was her habit when deep in thought. "Rojas is crooked. He's embezzling orchestra funds and heaven knows what else – it's quite a large organization, and with its government budget, and sponsorships, plus appearance fees, there would be a lot of money flowing about. He stashes his ill gotten gains in his Swiss bank account. Someone in the orchestra suspects. They send him this note telling him to depart quietly, or to find himself exposed and in very hot water. They claim to have evidence against him – but they don't."
"An empty threat?"
"Precisely. Rojas sticks rather than twists, and doesn't resign. The orchestra arrives in Los Angeles for its tour. And so, with the blackmail note having had no effect, Rojas's adversaries try another tactic: steal the Stradivarius – in the US – thus exposing Rojas to the glare of foreign publicity. He'd be embarrassed. The Pinochet regime would be embarrassed. I doubt they take too well to that kind of incompetence. And, hey presto – Rojas is out."
"Sleuth!" Remington exclaimed excitedly.
Laura rolled her eyes. "Citation?" she said to her husband.
"Laurence Olivier, Michael Caine, Twentieth Century Fox, 1972. Caine creates clues to a crime that never really occurred, and plants evidence implicating Olivier – all in order to get the better of Olivier in a psychological battle of wills."
"Hmm...this case is something like that, for sure."
"Whoever stole the violin didn't really want it," Remington said, squinting with concentration. "All they had to do was ensure that the gala concert was sabotaged, and – hopefully – get as much embarrassing publicity about the theft as possible. As long as the violin stays missing until the performance tomorrow night, they've accomplished their objective. They don't actually need to get it out of this building."
"You know, it would be very satisfying to see Rojas hung out to dry, and for the violin to stay missing until tomorrow night's gala performance, with half the city's media there," said Laura. "That's what would happen if we didn't find the instrument, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh..." Steele nodded agreement. "On the other hand, what about that code of professional ethics you're always telling me about, Laura? We've been paid – a large sum – to find that violin."
"I know, dammit!" Laura said. Remington chuckled at her frustration.
He bent over to replace the papers in his hand in the briefcase, when something that had been stuck in the pages of the notebook drifted into his lap. He looked at it. "Hello..." he said slowly. Laura glanced at him; he was holding a square, Polaroid photo in his hand. "This just dropped out of Rojas's notebook," Steele said, inspecting it closely. "It's very odd. As far as I can tell, it's a photograph of a musical manuscript – you can see, it's open at a double page, and the musical characters are quite clear."
"What's on the back of it?"
Remington flipped the photograph over. "Nothing very obvious," he answered. Hand written on the reverse side, in black ink, was a number: '2135557353'.
"A phone number," said Laura. "It is odd – but I can't see that it has any immediate bearing on the case in hand."
"Er, I suppose not," agreed Remington. He collected the letters Laura was holding and stuffed them back in Rojas's briefcase, together with the notebook and other things; but on a hunch, he kept back the bank passbook, the threatening letter and the photograph, slipping them into his inside jacket pocket.
A figure dressed in electric blue appeared on the stage, and looking up, called out to the balcony in a loud voice, "Remington!" It was Cleo Taplinger. "I was looking for you. Mike Lindstrom needs to see you immediately."
Remington and Laura edged out of their seats and, leaning over the parapet of the balcony, Remington called down, "What is it, Cleo?"
"We've got trouble! The press are here. There are five or six journalists and a couple of TV crews outside right now, and they're demanding to be let in!"
