Free Capriccio by Joan Smith Page A

back, his lower face was bruised.
    “Now there is one lonesome lady!” he exclaimed and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. As the handkerchief was red with white polka dots, I couldn’t see the lipstick on it, but I knew it would be there.
    I swallowed down my revulsion and said, “Did you find out anything?”
    “Oh yeah. Victor’s hawking some jewelry for her. She gave him a diamond ring and a bracelet, and she hasn’t seen hide or hair of him since. Just three days ago, she handed them over. What do you make of it?”
    “Harry Walton,” I said, and explained. “He’s a friend of Victor’s who handles second hand jewelry. I’m sure my uncle wasn’t planning to steal them.”
    “Why don’t you give Harry a call and be sure?”
    “I will.”
    I called Harry, and heard with a rush of relief that Victor had taken the ring and bracelet to him. He didn’t have a buyer yet, but a woman was interested in the ring. Harry asked about Victor’s disappearance; I said we hadn’t found out much yet and hung up.
    “It’s funny Victor was selling Betty’s jewelry. I thought he wasn’t seeing her these days,” I said.
    “He goes over to her place when you’re out. You’re too young to scandalize with the affair. What I was wondering is whether she has a key. She said he goes there. I didn’t like to ask her right out.”
    “I thought from your dislocated jaw you might be intimate enough to enquire.”
    “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” he smiled softly. “Betty thinks bald men are sexy.”
    “Betty thinks all men are sexy. Betty is probably a nymphomaniac.”
    He smiled blissfully. “And I was afraid a Canadian holiday might be dull. Just goes to show you.”
     

CHAPTER 6
     
    “Do you think you could handle a drink, with those sore lips?” I asked.
    Sean oozed a leery smile at me. “A cold beer would hit the spot,” he agreed. “They could do with some cooling down.”
    It did hit the spot, and I was glad I had a little alcohol in me when the phone rang. I only jumped one foot, instead of going through the ceiling.
    “This is Mr. Bartlett from the Bank of Montreal speaking,” the disembodied voice announced—a flat, banker’s voice. “I’ve been reading of Mr. Mazzini’s disappearance in the papers. Have you had any word from him?”
    Already a nervous upheaval was building under my ribs. Banks weren’t chummy enough to be making a purely social call. I explained who I was, and told him no, we hadn’t had any word.
    “I’m a little worried about his loan,” he said, in a voice that was more than just a little worried.
    “Loan?” The nervous upheaval escalated to a quake. “The loan he arranged last week. It’s insured against his death, of course, but in the case of a disappearance, I—well quite frankly, Miss Newton, I don’t know what to do. I’m the Loan Manager. I personally approved the loan and now to have him disappear . . .” His tone implied it was pretty shabby behavior on Victor’s part.
    I gulped and said, “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. How much is the loan for?”
    “I can’t divulge that information over the phone.”
    Bankers understand money as surely as Betty Friske understands sex, so I tried a little guile on him. “I see. I thought perhaps you wanted me to meet the payments in his absence.”
    There was interest in his reply, but doubt was paramount. How did he know by my voice I was penniless? “It was a rather large loan.”
    “How large?”
    “As I said, I can’t divulge that over the phone.”
    Sean, listening at my shoulder, covered the receiver with his hand and said, “We can go down in person.” I relayed this to Mr. Bartlett, and a meeting was arranged for as soon as we could get there. His eagerness gave rise to shattering worries about the size of Victor’s loan.
    Since my uncle used the closest bank, it was hardly more than an elevator ride away.
    “He won’t tell me anything if you’re along,” I pointed out to