Kaleidoscope (3 page)

Closing the door she sighed, for this was when it became difficult, being clairvoyant. It was one thing to have told Pruden a year ago that his destiny lay with a woman with very pale blond hair; it was another to foresee cruelty, and possibly violence, for people she met only casually.

After a few minutes of thought she picked up Betsy Oliver's sketch, locked the door behind her and mounted the stairs to see her young artist landlord. “Kristan?” she called at his door.

“Open,” he said, and she walked in, wincing a little at the painting mounted on his easel. His clothes, as usual, were daubed with paint, even his beard had flecks of green, but although she disliked his work—as he knew by now—he had studied in Paris as well as New York, and his work had begun to sell.

“
More
snakes,” she said with a sigh, looking at the painting on his easel.

“My dear Madame Karitska,” he said, “snakes and serpents have been the most hated, most worshiped of creatures on this planet. In history they've been symbols of good, evil, immortality, healing, fertility. Snakes are the
signature
of my work. And,” he added with a boyish smile, “they have begun to sell, and for good prices. What can I do for you?”

“If the young woman who sketched this comes back,” she said, showing him Betsy Oliver's sketch, “what can I suggest to her?”

He leaned close to look at it, not touching it with his paint-stained fingers. He said flatly, “I hate her—at
once
I hate her; she draws better than I ever could.”

Madame Karitska smiled. “Yes, but if she returns, Kristan? She has no confidence, no money. . . .”

He sighed, and then with a shrug, “Then you'd better send her up to me. I have connections; I will even do my best to conceal my envy—my outrage—at such spontaneity.”

Madame Karitska leaned over and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, and left.

2

Pruden, reaching Number Twelve Arch Street, where the parents of the hit-and-run victim lived, found a police car already parked in front of the modest house. He was halfway up the stairs when the door opened and Sergeant O'Hare from the Fourth Precinct walked out.

“You?”
he said in surprise.

Pruden nodded. “What's up, O'Hare?”

The Sergeant closed the door behind him and joined Pruden on the steps. “Burglary attempt here this morning.” He turned and looked back at the house. “A bit hellish for them; they lost their daughter some days ago, hit-and-run accident over in the Ardsley section. That why you're here?”

“Roughly speaking, yes.”

O'Hare shook his head. “Last house
I'd
choose if I were a burglar.”

“You did say ‘attempt'?” asked Pruden.

O'Hare nodded. “Very amateur, if you ask me. Broke in the back door by smashing the glass . . . Closet doors open, lock broken on a trunk in the hall, nothing taken. Must have heard the Cahns returning; they said they weren't gone long. Just to Mass at the church around the corner.”

Frowning, Pruden said, “They insist nothing taken?”

O'Hare shrugged. “You can ask them for yourself,” and with a “See ya,” he returned to his squad car.

Pruden moved up the steps and rang the doorbell, and was not surprised when the man who opened the door said blankly, “
Another
policeman?”

Pruden said gently, “Not about your burglary, Mr. Cahn. I'm Detective Lieutenant Pruden. We're investigating your daughter's tragic accident and I've a few questions to add to the information we have.”

The man looked beaten down, his eyes red-rimmed. He nodded and led Pruden into the living room, where his wife sat staring blankly at a television screen on which figures moved, but without sound. Pruden thought he had seen a good many living rooms such as the one the Cahns lived in: the matching sofa and two armchairs, shabby now; the rows of photographs on the mantel and on the upright piano in the corner; the oatmeal-colored wallpaper.

“He wants to ask about Darlene,” he told his wife.

At once she rose, almost eagerly. “Have you found the driver yet? The man who—”

“No,” he told her, “but we've found the car.”

“But not the man?”

“It was a stolen car. I'm sorry, nothing more as yet.”

The woman's numbness was suddenly replaced by anger. Thrusting a framed photograph at Pruden, Mrs. Cahn said, “Look at her, our only child, and now—”

It was a strong face, not a pretty one, but with fine bone structure: long dark hair, intelligent dark eyes. He felt his usual stab of pity at a young life so carelessly snuffed out.

“Such a good girl, and so talented,” she told him angrily. “Sang in the church choir and sometimes played her violin with a little group here in Trafton. Chamber music.” For a moment she looked bewildered. “She was so happy; she was studying at the university, giving violin lessons, and only two weeks ago became engaged to be married.” She added almost proudly, “To a professor of music at the university, Professor Robert Blake. He was with her, you know, when it happened.”

Pruden frowned. “Something about a dog?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “The professor told us she suddenly said, ‘Oh Robert, that dog's hurt!' and she darted across the street and that's when . . . when . . .” She stopped to wipe her eyes. “Darlene always had such a tender heart.”

“You still call him the professor,” pointed out Pruden. “You didn't know him well?”

“They stopped in briefly about ten days ago,” explained Mr. Cahn. “Darlene wanted us to meet him but they couldn't stay long; Darlene was playing in a concert at the university. And then of course we met again at the funeral.”

“A tragedy for him, too,” said Pruden. “You liked him?”

“Pleasant chap when we met him. And a musician.” Mr. Cahn shrugged. “I suppose we'd hoped for some nice
young
man—he was older than we'd realized— but they certainly had music in common.”

“And he was so kind at the funeral,” added Mrs. Cahn. “Told us he'd come back, bringing with him all her personal belongings.”

“And he did?” inquired Pruden.

“Never had the chance,” said Mrs. Cahn. “It was her roommate, Ginny Voorhees, packed everything into a trunk and shipped it to us. A little too quickly,” she added bitterly. “Probably to make space for a
new
roommate.” Her voice turned despairing. “If only Darlene hadn't run out into the street like that. Professor Blake said that he shouted at her to come back, but then this car shot out of nowhere—”

“I'm sorry. Very sorry,” Pruden said. “But you did say that you've been sent her personal effects?”

Mr. Cahn looked anxiously at his wife and handed her a handkerchief. “Steady there, Jean,” and to Pruden, “Yes, all her clothes and—”

“—and her collection,” broke in Mrs. Cahn. “She loved flea markets. Her collection of china birds— miniatures, you know—and her graduation certificate and her music books, and the original piece of music she was working on—for the violin—to play at her next concert.”

Pruden nodded, and with a glance at the ornate clock on the mantel said, “But I mustn't keep you any longer. We particularly wanted you to know that we've not been idle; we've found the car, and we'll certainly keep you posted on what progress we make in finding the driver.”

Mr. Cahn, seeing him to the door, said sadly, “At the moment, you know, it scarcely matters who was driving that stolen car. So many crazy, wild kids—it can't bring back Darlene.”

“No,” admitted Pruden, “but it could keep one wild and crazy kid, as you put it, from killing someone else.”

He left them to their mourning. Most of what he'd heard from the Cahns, Pruden had already known from the reports given him by the police in Trafton's suburb of Ardsley. There were no oddities except that it had not been a busy street the girl had crossed— was that what had nagged at him?—and the car had seemed to have “shot out of nowhere,” as Mr. Cahn had described it, and according to two witnesses. Robert Blake's credentials were sound, except for a somewhat nomadic history: three years' study at Juilliard, two years teaching in California, three in Illinois, and three years at Ardsley University. Police were always suspicious, he reminded himself, but there seemed nothing untoward about this tragedy, except . . . He sighed, and wondered if Madame Karitska had as yet had time to examine Darlene's gold cross.

On impulse he turned down Eighth Street and stopped at the brownstone with the yellow door. She was just coming downstairs from Kristan's apartment, and was about to unlock her door when she saw Pruden.

“Oh, do come in,” she told him. “I've not had time yet for your gold cross, but perhaps if you can tell me . . .” She glanced at her watch. “I've forty minutes before my next client.”

“Good,” he said, and once inside he proceded to tell her all the details he'd acquired: the girl's death on a quiet residential street; a description of the Cahns, and of a girl who had loved flea markets and collected china birds, who taught violin, and of the trunk with her belongings sent to them—too hastily, according to Mrs. Cahn—by her roommate; and the morning's clumsy burglary that could only add to the Cahns' misery.

Madame Karitska listened carefully and then she picked up the gold cross she'd placed on the table and held it in her hands. Seeing her close her eyes and concentrate Pruden felt awkward and embarrassed as to what he was asking of her . . . a simple hit-and-run accident, he reminded himself, and waited.

Madame Karitska was silent a long time. She said at last, opening her eyes, “I'm getting nothing about the girl Darlene. Are you quite sure this cross belonged to her?”

“Why?” asked a startled Pruden.

“I find only shadows. I wonder if she'd worn it for any length of time.”

A chagrined Pruden said, “I didn't think of that. Are you getting someone else's impressions? Someone who owned it before?”

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “You said she was a violinist?”

When he nodded she frowned. “Then it has to be hers, but . . . what I'm receiving—it's very strange— is simply a picture. Quite vivid.” She frowned. “She must have loved it very much. A violin.”

“That's not very helpful,” pointed out Pruden.

“Where is it now?” she asked. “Was it sent to her parents?”

Confused, he said, “They didn't mention it, but they have a phone; I can ask. Is it important?”

“I think it important, yes.”

It was fortunate that Madame Karitska could now afford a telephone. Glancing at his notes Pruden dialed the Cahns' number, and Mr. Cahn answered.

“Her violin?” he said in a puzzled voice. “No, in the trunk there was only what we told you. Why do you—”

But Pruden had already hung up. “All right, what
is
this about a violin?”

Madame Karitska said thoughtfully, “She was a violinist, but where is her violin? I feel that it is important. You say she had a roommate who packed and shipped her trunk?”

“Yes, a Ginny Voorhees, I believe.”

“The violin must therefore still be at the girl's apartment. Available.”

“Look,” he said, “what
is
it?”

Madame Karitska was still holding the cross. “I don't know, but it is very unusual to receive only a picture, and one so vivid. The impression I'm getting now is that it matters, yes, and is of some value.”

“You can't mean financially,” protested Pruden. “She was at school on a scholarship, and her parents aren't rich.”

“Nevertheless, the violin is important, and there is value here. You said she loved flea markets; is it possible that she found it there?”

He whistled through his teeth. “Would Darlene Cahn know a violin of value if she saw one?”

She said dryly, “If she didn't, then it is possible that someone else might. I'm sorry, but it is the only impression I receive.”

Trying to absorb this Pruden said, “She could never have afforded— But she
was
a violinist. When you say ‘of value' what exactly do you mean?”

She said dryly, “I can only tell you that when I lived in Antwerp I know of a Guarnerius violin, made in 1742, that was auctioned at half a million. And that was years ago.”

“Half a million!” Pruden was stunned, and then, “My God, that burglary! Do you think . . . Is it possible, then, that someone was after her
violin
when they broke into the Cahns' house a few hours ago?”

She smiled. “You're the detective, not I.”

“One of her students—or her roommate,” mused Pruden, “Or . . .” But he felt he already knew, and at once he was at the telephone, saying, “Margolies, is Swope there? . . . Swope, pick me up at Madame Karitska's house in a plain car, and turn on the siren, we may not have much time. On the double. We're going to Ardsley.”

He put down the phone, kissed Madame Karitska on the cheek and said, “I'll let you know. . . .”

The apartment was on the top floor of a shabby building that housed students, young artists and welfare people. Pruden took the stairs two at a time, with Swope stopping to catch his breath but not far behind. After he'd knocked on the door of 410 it was opened by a young girl with a mass of curly blond hair and a small round face.

“Miss Voorhees? Ginny Voorhees?”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled as she looked from Pruden to Swope.

“Police,” he told her, bringing out and showing her his badge.

“Police!”

“Yes, with one question to ask of you. Do you have Darlene Cahn's violin here?”

Frowning, she said, “Yes, of course. It didn't fit into the trunk. I've just been writing a note to her parents to explain, and—”

Pruden lifted her roughly out of the doorway and thrust her inside while Swope closed the door behind them. She gasped, “How dare you! You can't be the police, who are you?”

“You're sure her violin is here? It's important, and yes, we're the police and if it's not you, then we're in time; we believe someone wants that violin.”

“I don't understand,” she protested.

“Trust us. Where is it?”

“Over there,” she told him, pointing to a shabby violin case, its exterior scuffed and worn, and added, “And it's
hers
. Darlene's dead and you have no right. I insist on verifying who you are.”

“No time,” Pruden said. “The Cahns had a burglary this morning and we have a strong suspicion that next their burglar will be coming here, and whoever is going to knock on your door will be after that violin.”