A Chorus of Detectives Page 14

  “You always say it, yes.”

  “And I mean it, Toto. I’ll be forty in, let’s see, fourteen months. Only fourteen more months! Oh dear.”

  “You do not retire,” he said firmly. “Not for many, many years. No. You do not.”

  “One more season, that’s all. One more, and then it will be time to stop.”

  “No! You do not talk this way! Gerry, you must not say you go! How can I sing when you are not here? Do not even think of leaving! Ne la prego!”

  She saw she was distressing him and let the subject drop.

  Gatti-Casazza hated what he was doing.

  Across the table from him, a stick-thin young man was shoveling in food as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. Doesn’t Gigli feed him? Gatti wondered. The young man’s name was Roberto; when Gatti had invited him to share a noonday meal, he’d told his guest to choose any restaurant he liked. Roberto had chosen the one in the world’s largest hotel, the Pennsylvania, at the corner of Seventh Avenue and West Thirty-second Street. Neither man had been in the capacious new hotel before, and both were impressed by so much open floor space in one of the highest-priced areas of real estate in the world.

  Roberto was Beniamino Gigli’s valet, and Gatti had set for himself the unpleasant task of prying information out of him. Roberto had hinted that he could use fifty dollars for a new winter coat, and Gatti had agreed to the amount. He, Giulio Gatti-Casazza, general manager of the Metropolitan Opera Company, was going to bribe the valet of one of his star singers to give away secrets about his employer! Vergognoso! Shameful, shameful. Even worse, the fifty dollars would have to come out of his own pocket.

  The way Roberto was eating, the meal could well cost another fifty. Gatti decided the valet was just a pig. A skinny pig. “How do you enjoy your meal?” he asked.

  “Needs wine,” Roberto answered around a mouthful of lobster.

  “Sì, a good meal, it is not complete without wine. I wonder why the Americans do not understand that.”

  Roberto belched delicately and patted his mouth with a napkin.

  It wasn’t until dessert that Gatti could force himself to start the questioning. According to the valet, his employer went almost nowhere without Roberto in attendance. Gatti took that with a grain of salt but started asking anyway as to the tenor’s whereabouts on the nights the murders took place. Gigli was in the opera house on the Mefistofele night, when the chorister had been hanged with his own suspenders. Of the other times, Roberto said Gigli was home every time except once, when he went out to play cards.

  Gatti wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. He did not think Roberto was lying to protect Gigli, but he could be lying to protect himself; if he admitted he didn’t know anything, he might not get his fifty dollars. Gatti seized on the one specific thing the valet had said. “How do you know he is out playing cards?”

  “Because he takes me with him!”

  “No, no—I mean how are you so sure of which night this is?”

  “Eh, that is easy. The card-playing, it goes on until four o’clock in the morning! And I, I must be up at six to take the dog out to do his business! It does not matter if I get no sleep—every day I must go out with the dog and come back with the newspapers. And the day after the card-playing, I am so sleepy I can barely make out what the headlines say. But when I can, I see that a man falls through the stage at Metropolitan Opera and dies!”

  “Pagliacci,” Gatti murmured.

  “Sì, during Pagliacci. I rush home and wake Mr. Gigli—I remember he is very angry. Then I show him newspaper … and he turns white like ghost! I remember he says, ‘Misericordia! In the opera house, they are dying—and I worry because Scotti takes my money!’”

  “Scotti?” Gatti asked, startled. “Antonio Scotti?”

  “Sì, Mr. Antonio Scotti. He is big winner in the card-playing.”

  Gatti let the smile he was feeling spread slowly over his face. Now if Toto could just remember which night it was he cleaned out Beniamino Gigli …

  The waiter arrived with the check—not quite fifty dollars. Roberto cleared his throat. “I tell you what you want to know?”

  “Yes, Roberto, I think perhaps you do.”

  Roberto cleared his throat again.

  Gatti nodded and took out his wallet. Slowly, because it hurt, he counted out five ten-dollar bills. “There you are, Roberto. Fifty dollars, as we agree.”

  “And another fifty not to tell Mr. Gigli.” The valet smiled at him innocently. “Do you want Mr. Gigli to know you ask questions about him behind his back?”

  Gatti ground his teeth and opened his wallet again.

  Mrs. Bukaitis emerged on to the south side of Delancey Street and paused to get her bearings. She didn’t like Delancey; too many people, too much traffic, too much noise. The street had been widened on the south side when it was made the approach to the Williamsburg Bridge; now anyone crossing the street had to watch out for a continual string of streetcars as well as the automobiles that showed so little respect for those on foot. The newer buildings on the south side sported dentists’ signs in almost every other doorway; all the remaining doors opened into offices of one sort or another as well. Nobody lived there.

  But it was the older, north side of the street that was Mrs. Bukaitis’s destination. Uptown, the policemen who’d directed traffic had long since been replaced by electric traffic lights, but Delancey Street had neither. Mrs. Bukaitis chose her moment and darted through a gap in the traffic. She sheltered briefly in the second of the two streetcar stations that trisected the street; she stood shivering and staring out at the bridge to Brooklyn that she’d never crossed. The bridge’s pedestrian walkway was empty; the wind blowing off the East River was cruel in December.

  Pulling her coat collar close, Mrs. Bukaitis crossed the remaining lane of traffic and stepped to the safety of the sidewalk in front of Wildman’s Men’s Shop. The north side of Delancey was all old tenement buildings, with stores on the ground floor and barely livable rooms above. Mrs. Bukaitis headed west until she came to a dingy café and went in. If the place had a name, nobody knew it. The grease on the windows reflected a yellow tint over the cheerless brown interior; a Christmas wreath had been nailed to one wall in a halfhearted attempt to add a little color to the place.

  Mrs. Bukaitis looked around quickly; Antanas was not there yet. Opening the big black bag she’d brought with her, Mrs. Bukaitis pulled out the pocket watch she’d ‘found’ in the chorus dressing room at the Metropolitan. It was still early; Antanas would be there before long.

  The café’s cook-owner always kept a large kettle of soup simmering on the stove. Into the kettle went any leftover bits of vegetable or grain or fat or fish or fowl that came to hand; the regular customers called it surprise soup. Mrs. Bukaitis asked for a bowl.

  The wind outside made the window glass rattle in its frame. Mrs. Bukaitis sat at a battered table where she could keep an eye on the door and warmed her hands over the steaming soup bowl. There were perhaps half a dozen other customers in the small café, all of them talking and eating at the same time. Mrs. Bukaitis ate her soup in silence. She’d just finished when Antanas came in. He was carrying the box under one arm.

  He slid into the chair opposite her and kept the box on his lap. In a low voice he told her, “He says this one is all right. He says the only reason it might not go off is if the dynamite’s no good.”

  “Isn’t there any way to tell?” she asked.

  “Not without testing other sticks from the same batch. I don’t want to do that—it might give us away. We’ll let this one be the test. If it doesn’t go off this time, I’ll have to get some different dynamite.”

  Mrs. Bukaitis nodded. “I’ll set it on Monday.”

  “Why not today?”

  “Because on Monday Geraldine Farrar is singing. Every seat in the house will be taken.”

  “Where are you going to put it?”

  “The same place as last time. Even the rich Americans will find it h
ard to ignore a gaping hole in the stage floor.”

  Antanas ran his tongue over his lips. “You mustn’t let yourself get caught, you know.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s not the point. There aren’t enough of us yet that we can afford to lose even one member of the cell.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  At that moment a uniformed policeman came into the café. He stood just inside the door, hands on hips, exuding authority. All conversation ceased. Mrs. Bukaitis felt something pressing against her legs and realized Antanas was trying to pass her the box under the table. She took it and slipped it into her large black bag.

  The policeman was looking for someone. He walked among the tables, inspecting each face carefully. Then he walked over to the cook-owner and asked him something; the man shook his head. The policeman gave them all the once-over again and finally departed, leaving the café door standing open. Everyone in the place let out a big breath. The café’s owner closed the door and returned to his soup kettle.

  “At least you won’t be bothered by police at the opera house,” Antanas muttered.

  Mrs. Bukaitis said nothing.

  “Mr. Setti’s called a rehearsal in five minutes, Captain. I should be—”

  “That’s all right,” O’Halloran assured her. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Setti and he knows I’ll be talking to several of you. You are …?”

  “Contralto.”

  “No, I mean your name?”

  “Oh. Irene Matera.”

  “Have a seat, Miss Matera. Here on the bench.” They were in one of the Met’s smaller rehearsal rooms—a piano, a piano bench, and six uncomfortable-looking straight chairs lined up along one wall. No window. It was Sunday, but not a day of rest. O’Halloran leaned against the piano and tried to assess the fortyish woman sitting on the piano bench. He’d sought her out because she was American of Italian extraction; the Italian-born choristers pretended not to understand what he was saying, and the Germans barely condescended to speak to him at all.

  A few minutes of questions and answers convinced him Irene Matera was going to be no help in establishing the presence or absence of anyone; she stated flatly that everyone was there every time there was an attack on the chorus. Everybody was a suspect, as far as Irene Matera was concerned.

  Toss out a few names. “What about Mr. Setti? Surely you’d notice if he, uh, disappeared for a while during a performance?”

  “Oh, Setti’s all over the place. Nobody can keep track of him.”

  “What about Mr. Quaglia?”

  She made a humph sound. “What about him?”

  “Does he come backstage before a performance?”

  “Before, during, and after. Just try to keep him away.”

  “During a performance?”

  “During the intermissions, I mean. He likes to pester the soloists with last-minute instructions. It makes him feel as if he’s in charge.”

  “And he isn’t?”

  She shrugged but didn’t answer.

  “What about Beniamino Gigli?”

  “We promised Mr. Caruso we wouldn’t bother him anymore,” she said defensively.

  “That’s not what I mean. Was he backstage during any of the performances he wasn’t in?”

  “Probably. There are always a lot of people around who shouldn’t be there.”

  “Do you positively remember seeing him on one of the nights he wasn’t singing?” O’Halloran insisted. The contralto reluctantly admitted she didn’t. “How about Rosa Ponselle?”

  A change came over Irene Matera. From a normal, pleasant-looking woman she metamorphosed into something suggesting an avenging fury. “Rosa Ponselle,” she said acidly, “is a bitch. She wouldn’t be singing here at all if she weren’t sleeping with Caruso.”

  O’Halloran was taken aback, but he managed to say mildly, “I understood Rosa Ponselle was a genuine singer, a good one.”

  “She is a good singer,” the woman admitted, “but so am I. And I’m still in the chorus. I’ve been studying opera since I was thirteen years old—but Caruso brings in his vaudeville tootsie and overnight she’s made a star! Now I ask you, Captain, is that fair?”

  The naked envy emanating from the woman made O’Halloran take a step back. “And so you’ve been sabotaging her performances?”

  “We’ve stopped. We promised.”

  “I don’t understand. You obviously resent Caruso for what you see as a wrong done to yourself, but you also undermine Gigli … out of loyalty to Caruso?”

  “That was the men,” she said sullenly. “Their god Caruso can do no wrong.”

  Ah, now it made sense. The male choristers resented Gigli and the women resented Rosa Ponselle—and they probably helped each other in badgering the two stars. It had become a vicious game, in which the prize lay in seeing how much they could get away with. Not the most wholesome of atmospheres. “And I suppose you suspect one or both of them of killing choristers to get even,” O’Halloran said dryly.

  Irene Matera unexpectedly laughed. “Not Ponselle. She doesn’t have the nerve. Do you know she hides from us? She’s hiding right now, in the star dressing room.”

  “Now?”

  The woman nodded. “She won’t wait offstage during rehearsal. She hides in the dressing room until it’s her turn, and then somebody has to go up and get her.” The chorus woman laughed again. “She’s afraid of us.”

  And isn’t that something to be proud of, O’Halloran thought sourly, already on Rosa Ponselle’s side even though he’d never met the young lady. He abruptly told Irene Matera she could go, without adding his usual thanks-for-your-help.

  Because years had passed since he’d last prowled the offstage areas of the Metropolitan Opera House, it took O’Halloran a while to find his way to the women’s dressing rooms on the Fortieth Street side of the house. Placards in four languages lined the corridor walls: Visitors are requested to delay until after final act, dogs are not permitted backstage. He knocked on the star dressing room door.

  “Who is it?” a young voice asked suspiciously.

  O’Halloran identified himself and was told to come in. He opened the door to see a pretty young brunette curled up in a padded wicker armchair, an open book lying on her lap. The captain shivered; the room was cold. “Don’t you have any heat in this room?”

  “I turned it off. I sing better in low temperatures.”

  O’Halloran started to ask why but then decided he didn’t really want to know. Instead he asked if she could account for her whereabouts on the five murder nights.

  She gasped. “Am I a suspect?”

  “Everybody’s a suspect, and nobody is. Help me cross your name off the list.”

  Rosa told him she’d been in the opera house during the Carmen and Forza murders, but as well as she could remember she’d been at home the other three times.

  “Anyone with you?”

  “I live with my sister. She’s better at remembering dates than I am.”

  O’Halloran nodded and asked, “You were singing in both Carmen and Forza?”

  “Just Forza. Carmen is Gerry Farrar’s opera. I came to watch and listen.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  She grinned impishly. “I intend to sing Carmen someday. If Gerry ever lets me.”

  O’Halloran grinned back. “Don’t hold your breath.” He let the grin fade. “Now I have to bring up an unpleasant subject. The way the chorus has been treating you—”

  “Oh, those wretched people!” she exclaimed. “Look, Captain …?”

  “O’Halloran.”

  “Captain O’Halloran, I’m sorry as I can be about what’s been happening to them. Nobody should have to live in fear of their lives like that, and when you catch the guy who’s doing it I hope you boil him in oil. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the choristers just aren’t very nice people. They want me out of here, and they’ve been doing everything they can think of to make me look bad!”

  “I
understood they’d promised Caruso to stop bothering you.”

  “Well, yes, the last time I sang they didn’t make any trouble. But I don’t trust them!”

  Recalling Irene Matera’s bellicose jealousy, O’Halloran thought she was wise not to. “One of them told me you’re having an affair with Caruso.”

  Rosa threw her book at his head.

  He ducked just in time. “Hey!”

  “I am so sick of that story! Sick, sick, sick of it!” she screamed. “That’s just one of the ways the chorus tries to make me look bad—spreading rumors that I slept my way into the Met! Well, I didn’t! There’s not a word of truth to it!” She was out of her chair, pacing angrily.

  O’Halloran picked up the book. This Side of Paradise. “You mean Caruso just heard you singing in a vaudeville house and—”

  “No, it wasn’t like that. I don’t even know if he’s ever been in a vaudeville house! I was taking a voice lesson and someone who works for Caruso was there and heard me and he told Caruso and Caruso came to hear me at my next voice lesson and he told Mr. Gatti and Mr. Gatti called me in for an audition and that’s how I got into the Met!” She stopped for breath. “Caruso was just being kind and helpful. There’s nothing illicit between us—he treats me like a daughter or a niece. And now we’re both being smeared by this ugly rumor … just because he was kind!”

  O’Halloran put the book on the dressing table. “Well, the rumors will stop eventually.”

  Rosa had calmed down a little. “Caruso isn’t even remotely interested in me that way—thank goodness!” She paused, thinking. “No, Geraldine Farrar is more Caruso’s idea of what a woman should be.” Her face took on a wry look. “Indescribably beautiful, the epitome of high fashion—everybody’s dream girl!”

  The captain smiled at her. “Jealous?”

  “Of course I am!” she admitted cheerfully. “We all are. Except Emmy Destinn. Emmy lives in her own world. She doesn’t have much to do with the rest of us.”

  O’Halloran remembered the lady in question coming out of Setti’s house just as he himself arrived there. “You might be surprised. I know she’s been asking questions about these murders—she probably calls it ‘investigating’.”