As she did so, her toe struck an object on the floor that was half hidden behind an ornate screen. It was a violin case, scuffed, battered, and gray with age. There seemed to be something vaguely familiar about it; then, suddenly, she remembered the case that Mr. Tytell had carried so lovingly on the plane.
She looked at it more closely. Yes, the leather had worn away on the handle to expose the metal clasp, in the same way the old man’s case had been worn when she sat beside him in the plane. She bent down and lifted the lid gently. Inside was a fiddle that appeared to be as old and time-worn as the case. She looked for initials or some identifying mark on the inside of the lid, but there were none.
Oh, well, Vicki thought, there must be a thousand old violins in a place as music-minded as Ybor City. She went on into the room.
On the shelves of a long built-in cabinet that lined one wall were dozens of the little metal ships and swords and pirate figurines that were being hawked by peddlers all over the city. Or were these real works of art and Mr. Eaton-Smith a collector? She picked up one of the ships to look at it more closely. No, it was just like the one she had bought a few moments ago for Ginny—just a cheap little gold-colored metal figure. Odd, though, that Mr. Eaton-Smith should have so many of them. Maybe he gave them to prospective customers to advertise the Pirate Festival.
Strolling casually around the room, admiring the paintings and the antique Spanish furniture, she came presently to a door that opened into a dimly lighted room not much larger than a storage closet. Three men stood inside, talking in low half-whispers. Facing her was Mr. F. R. Eaton-Smith, looking as dignified as usual in the polished rimless glasses that gave his eyes such a shiny look. His face was slightly averted as he talked earnestly with a tall, dark-haired man who was dressed in a bullfighter’s costume. A third man, stocky and heavy-set, stood with his back to the door. He was wrapped in a heavy black cloak and wore a big pirate’s hat. Vicki could see that he was wearing a black mask over his eyes.
This was no time to interrupt, even to say “Thank you,” and she was about to leave when the bullfighter turned his head. When Vicki saw Raymond Duke’s long, deeply tanned face with its thin black mustache, she involuntary gasped. At the sound Mr. Eaton-Smith looked up, a look of surprise on his face.
“Who’s there?” he said sharply, and stepped toward the door.
“The airline stewardess!” he exclaimed. “Miss Barr!”
“Hello, Mr. Eaton-Smith,” Vicki said, hoping that her voice didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. “I—I was just looking for you to pay my respects.”
“So I see,” the travel agent said coldly, staring at her intently through his shiny spectacles.