Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [51]
“I’m at my uncle’s house. You must come right away
“Whoa, slow down. You sound upset. What’s going on there?”
“Please, Detective, it’s very important
Ms. James met him at the door. Her face mirrored the distress in her voice. They went to the main room that had served as Musinski’s study and office. Ms. James handed Pawkins an opened envelope. The address indicated that it had been sent to her home, and was marked REGISTERED, RETURN RECEIPT REQUESTED.
“What’s this?” Pawkins asked.
“Read it. It’s been at the post office. I have a box there. I didn’t have the energy to pick up my mail before today
The return address was Aaron Musinski’s. Pawkins opened the envelope and read the one-page letter it contained.
“Wow!” he said, handing it back to her.
“It’s not here,” she said flatly, indicating the room with a sweep of her hand.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve looked everywhere. I picked up Uncle Aaron at the airport when he returned from London. He’d gone there to meet with a friend, another Mozart expert. My uncle and this friend had worked together for years searching for missing Mozart scores. Uncle Aaron was an expert on all of Mozart’s works—operas, symphonies, string quartets, even the one ballet he wrote. But his special interest was in a series of string quartets supposedly written by Mozart with his idol, Franz Joseph Haydn. Those scores have never been seen by anyone, at least as far as the world knew. But as you can see by the letter, Uncle Aaron and his colleague in London found them.” She leaped up from her chair and exclaimed, “They actually found them! Do you know how monumentally important that is?”
“I can imagine,” Pawkins said. “You said whatever he found isn’t here. How do you know?”
“Because I’ve searched everywhere.” She went to the corner where the briefcases were stacked and held one up. It was a battered, supple leather case. Judging from the way it hung from her fingers, it was empty.
“Uncle Aaron had this with him when he returned from London. It was bulging when he came through Customs. I even asked him what was in it; he said it was just a lot of junk. That’s what he called it, ‘junk’! Now it’s empty. Don’t you see? He had the Mozart-Haydn scores in it, and now they’re gone. Whoever killed him knew about those scores and murdered my uncle in order to have them
“That could be,” said Pawkins. “Any idea who might have known what your uncle found and would kill to get it?”
“Some of his jealous detractors,” she answered. “I can give you a list
“That will be helpful. I’ll follow up on it
The murder was never solved, nor were the Mozart-Haydn scores ever recovered.
• • •
Annabel read a final line from one of the websites devoted to the Aaron Musinski murder and the disappearance of the scores.
When asked about the possible whereabouts of the scores that allegedly were behind the murder of Aaron Musinski, the lead detective, Raymond Pawkins, said, “Lord knows. There’s a large, black hole out there into which priceless works of art disappear, with wealthy men in it who’ll pay anything, and even kill, to possess them. I doubt if we’ll ever know.”
EIGHTEEN
The white Chevrolet Suburban had been sitting at the Al-Karama-Trebil border checkpoint between Iraq and Jordan for the better part of an hour. Finally, the driver, an Iraqi dressed in a flowing white dishdasha, was allowed to pull up to where Jordanian troops checked the steady flow of vehicles heading for Amman on the heavily traveled Baghdad-Amman highway, the infamous and dangerous Route 10. The driver rolled down his window and handed the security guard the necessary papers. The guard frowned as he examined them, handed the papers back, and poked his head through the window to see the passenger in the rear seat.
“Hello,” the passenger said with a wan smile. He extended a hand that held his British passport. The guard went to where another uniformed soldier leaned against the gate smoking a cigarette. They both looked at the document. One said something that made the other laugh. The passport was returned,