Prima Donna at Large Read online

  “Possible, but not very probable.” I thought about it a minute. “Jimmy lied, and I can think of only one reason why he’d lie. To hide the fact that he knew ahead of time that something dreadful was going to happen to Duchon. But I can’t believe it. He has to have some other reason for lying.”

  “Or perhaps we are both mistaken, Gerry. Backstage before a performance—chaos, always! Perhaps we confuse the time we see him. Ask Emmy, she was there with me. And Dr. Curtis—Dr. Curtis was there! Ask him.”

  “I’ve already asked him. He doesn’t remember.”

  “So, what do you do now? Confront Jimmy?”

  “I think I’ll talk to Emmy first,” I hedged. “I don’t want to accuse Jimmy.”

  “But eventually you accuse someone, do you not? That is your goal, no? Cara Gerry, is there no way I can dissuade you? Caruso was lucky, the time he ‘investigated’—but he knows nothing of detective work. Do not let him influence you. Leave it to the police.”

  “The police suspect me, Pasquale—how can I leave it to them? I’ve got to find out everything I can.”

  “But Gerry, how do you hope to find out what happened when the police—”

  “Pasquale, don’t argue with me, please. I’ve made up my mind.”

  He threw up his hands. “Cielo! Why do I bother! You are even more stubborn than Rico! Go, then! Ask your questions! Make trouble!”

  It was the only time I’d ever seen him angry with me. I hated to leave him in that mood, but I had a lot of things to do that day. I left the Hotel Astor and crossed Times Square; on the corner of Forty-second Street and Broadway I hesitated. Across the street was the Hotel Knickerbocker, and I would dearly have loved to go in and talk to Scotti. But Caruso lived in the apartment directly above Scotti’s, and I didn’t want to risk running into him just yet. Besides, I was due at the Metropolitan in forty-five minutes and I wanted to allow time to see Gatti-Casazza first.

  So I hurried down Broadway to the opera house, and I found Gatti upstairs in his office. He was arguing with someone on the telephone when I went in, so I sat in a chair and stared at him until he hung up.

  “Is it important, Gerry?” he asked waspishly. “I have many things to attend to.”

  “It’s very important,” I assured him. “Did you see Jimmy Freeman backstage any time before Friday’s performance of Carmen started?”

  He blinked. “That is important?”

  “Extremely. Did you see him?”

  “I did.”

  “Was he in costume?”

  Gatti went through the same eye-squinting process as Amato. “No, I do not think he was.”

  I almost jumped out of the chair with excitement. “When did you first see him that night?”

  “Eh, it cannot have been too early. Early in the evening, most of you were upstairs getting ready. I did not go up to the dressing-room level that night.”

  “So it must have been right before the curtain opened?”

  “I do not remember. It could have been any time after he came down from the dressing rooms. I did not go upstairs at all.”

  That was twice he’d made a point of saying he’d not been near the dressing rooms that night. Because of something Caruso had said when Lieutenant O’Halloran was questioning us? What was it … ah. Yes. Caruso had said he thought he’d seen Gatti going into Duchon’s dressing room. I had not seen Gatti upstairs that night. Nevertheless, Gatti was making a point of denying something I hadn’t even asked him about.

  I did ask him if he’d seen Morris Gest backstage before the opera began, or if he’d seen Scotti between Acts I and II. He hadn’t. He muttered something about not having time to gossip so I left.

  Downstairs in the main auditorium, the others were there and waiting for me with expressions of martyred patience on their faces even though I wasn’t late. Toscanini had called a rehearsal of Madame Sans-Gêne. It wasn’t to be a full rehearsal; we were going to sing only those scenes in which Jimmy Freeman would appear. Osgood Springer was seated beside the piano accompanist, ready to turn the pages of the score once we started.

  Jimmy was in the wings, eager to make his first entrance. “The Maestro called this rehearsal just for me!” he exulted. “I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.”

  “Rather hope that you do,” I cautioned. “Rehearsal is the place to make your mistakes.” I did a few warm-up exercises and told Toscanini I was ready.

  It was a rather uninspired rehearsal, as rehearsals always are when a newcomer is being taught what everybody else already knows. Jimmy plugged away at it, doing everything Toscanini told him to do and not even minding the few times the Maestro yelled at him. He was being treated like a star! Osgood Springer looked as though he wanted to speak up and make suggestions once or twice but he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing. Everyone knew how little Toscanini welcomed suggestions.

  When we’d finished, Springer made a beeline toward me. “What do you think?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I think he sounds good,” I answered truthfully.

  “I don’t know,” he said worriedly. “Something is missing. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “What’s missing is an audience. Don’t worry, Mr. Springer, Jimmy will do just fine.” And he would, once he had a full house to sing to and a full orchestra to accompany him.

  Just then Toscanini came up and made a big show of kissing my hand. Springer raised one eyebrow and faded discreetly away. “Ah, cara mia!” Toscanini purred. “You are in good voice today!”

  “Am I? But you didn’t yell at me once,” I teased. “My feelings were hurt.”

  “I promise to yell next time. But for now—you join me for lunch, yes?”

  “I wish I could, but I must go see Emmy Destinn.”

  “Last night she sings, remember.”

  “I know, but it’s almost one o’clock. It’ll be all right.” Emmy always slept until noon the day after a performance.

  Lunch would have been a good opportunity to ask Toscanini some questions, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a single one to ask. He hadn’t been backstage at all until I’d already beaned Duchon with my castanets right before Act II. And then he’d come back only to see what the delay was and had left immediately, after only a minute or two—not long enough to see anything or do anything.

  I’d told my chauffeur to meet me at the Thirty-ninth Street entrance. Emmy Destinn next.

  “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Emmy grumbled. “I have my own dressmaker.”

  I said something about a change being nice once in a while and steered her away from the lavender silk she was looking at. My own dressmaker had taken one look at Emmy and knew she had her work cut out for her. Together we’d managed to talk Emmy out of the design she’d initially favored—puff sleeves, gathers on the hips—and settled on something a little more flattering to her ample figure. Now all we needed was the material.

  “Don’t you have any bright colors?” Emmy complained.

  “These are troubled times, Madame,” the dressmaker murmured discreetly. “Muted colors are preferred. Or blacks and whites. Now here is a lovely pearl gray that would suit Madame perfectly.”

  “It does not suit Madame at all. What about that dusty rose over there?”

  We finally convinced her that a green so dark it was almost black would best complement her complexion and hair color. Once that was settled, the dressmaker started the discouraging business of taking Emmy’s measurements; for that she called an assistant.

  While Emmy was being measured, I casually brought up the subject of Duchon’s note. I asked her if she remembered it.

  “The one asking you not to sit down during the Toreador Song? Yes, I remember it. Why?”

  “Do you remember what you did with it when you finished reading it?”

  She shrugged, a gesture that involved her whole body. “I thought I gave it back to you.”

  “If Madame could stand still …?” the dressmaker’s assistant wh
ispered.

  “Oh, sorry. Is the note missing, Gerry? Why is it important?”

  “It’s not exactly missing. A certain police lieutenant has it.”

  “O’Halloran? Well, I didn’t give it to him, if that’s what you are hinting at.”

  “If Madame could hold out her arm …?”

  “In Prague I never have to go through this,” Emmy grumbled. “I tell my dressmaker what I want and she just makes it. I don’t even have to bother with fittings.”

  I believed that. Finally the measuring was finished and we left. It was, for February, a nice day. The wind was taking a rest, the sun was valiantly trying to shine, it was dry underfoot. “Let’s walk,” I said on impulse.

  “Walk?” Emmy looked at me as if I’d just suggested we burn down the Metropolitan Opera House.

  “I could do with a little exercise. Come on.” We strolled up Fifth Avenue, my limousine trailing us. The street traffic was solid with hansom cabs, carriages, bicycles, and most of all motor cars—which were more and more taking the place of horses. In addition to my limousine there were sedans, touring cars, open-top busses packed with people now that the weather had cleared a little; and I saw one electric brougham. I wondered if the latter was easier to drive than a gasoline-powered motor car; with no big engine in front of him, the driver could look almost straight down at the street.

  We passed B. Altman’s, where a gaggle of girls flocked around us asking for autographs. A few asked Emmy too.

  “Where do they come from?” she asked when we eventually got away. “Your gerryflappers. They are everywhere.”

  I told her I didn’t remember ever seeing those particular girls before. We walked on toward the Knabe Piano Building. “How old do you think they are?” I said. “Those girls that stopped us?”

  “Mm.” Not particularly interested.

  “Do you think they’re as old as Jimmy Freeman?”

  “No.”

  “Speaking of Jimmy, did you happen to see him in costume before the first act of Carmen Friday night?”

  She stopped stock still and put both fists on her hips. “Gerry. How did we get from gerryflappers to Jimmy Freeman’s costume?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I answered in what I hoped was a disarming manner. “Just a natural leap, I suppose.”

  “Well, if you can make that kind of leap, so can I. Thinking of Jimmy Freeman reminds me that my feet hurt.”

  I didn’t see any connection, but then I wasn’t meant to. I signaled my chauffeur. When we were in the limousine, I tried again. “You did see him before the opera started, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I saw him. And he was already in costume. So?”

  My heart sank. I’d wanted her to say the same thing Gatti-Casazza had said, that Jimmy was not in costume, that Amato and I were mistaken. But now it looked as if Gatti-Casazza were the one who was mistaken. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Why?”

  “Amato said the same thing. He said Jimmy was ready before the opera started.”

  “Well, that should settle it then. Jimmy Freeman was in costume and make-up before the curtains opened. I am glad we have solved this earth-shaking problem.”

  “But don’t you remember, Emmy? Jimmy told Lieutenant O’Halloran he didn’t put on his costume until after the first act had started.”

  “Oh.” She was silent a moment. “I must have missed that. Everyone was talking at once and I didn’t hear everything. That is serious. Have you spoken to Jimmy about it?”

  “Not yet.” I dreaded the thought of it.

  Emmy was nodding to herself. “It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”

  “It explains nothing!” I flared. “You know Jimmy wouldn’t do such a dreadful thing.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” she retorted. “Gerry, I understand Jimmy is a pet of yours, but I have never thought he was the innocent young man he appears to be. There is no such thing as an innocent young man any more. Jimmy is smart enough to know that a lot of women find that boyish manner appealing—it appeals to you, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t take him at face value if I were you.”

  I glared at her. “How would you like to walk the rest of the way home?”

  “I should loathe it. But face facts, Gerry. Nobody else benefited from Duchon’s ‘accident’ as much as Jimmy. He was the first one I thought of when I heard what had happened.”

  I didn’t answer right away. My fondness for Jimmy had blinded me to some dark side of his nature that I simply did not wish to see? What nonsense; I felt foolish even thinking it. Yet … “Do you really think he could have done it?”

  “I really do,” Emmy said quietly.

  We rode in silence for a couple of blocks, and then Emmy asked me to take her to an uptown gallery where she was meeting Caruso. The gallery was auctioning off some eighteenth-century Flanders lace the tenor wanted to bid on. That was good news. If his mind was on precious lace, then he wouldn’t be pestering me for a while. We delivered Emmy to the gallery door on upper Madison.

  My next—and last—stop was the Belasco Theatre, on West Forty-fourth Street. There was no place to park, so I told the chauffeur to keep going around the block until he saw me come out. I went into the small lobby and hesitated; I thought David Belasco would probably be upstairs in his private rooms, but I heard voices coming from the auditorium. I pushed through the swinging doors to the back of the seating area.

  The Belasco is quite a theatre; it impresses me all over again every time I go there. At the back of the auditorium stands a handsome screen of carved wood and crystal glass to protect the audience from drafts. The auditorium chairs are made of heavy wood and upholstered in a rich, dark leather; the back of each chair is embossed with an emblematic design of some sort, a different design for each chair. Over the proscenium opening hangs a large painting, and along the sides are murals and occasional tapestries. The paintings are all of symbolic figures—Tranquility, Grief, Music, Blind Love, and the like. Overhead the ceiling is made up of a number of rich stained-glass panels lighted from above; the panels feature the coats-of-arms of Shakespeare, Goethe, Racine, other writers. The Belasco Theatre is grand enough to be an opera house, although the seating capacity is a little small for opera—only about a thousand, I think.

  A rehearsal was in progress. David Belasco was sitting in the seventh or eighth row, putting his actors through their paces. I sat down behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  He turned, his face showing an annoyance that quickly turned into a welcoming smile when he saw who it was. (Nice.) “Gerry!” he said softly. “You have come to tell me you are going to act in one of my plays!”

  “Not this time, I’m afraid,” I said with mock regret. “But I would like a few moments of your time. I can see you are busy, but—”

  “Say no more.” He turned the rehearsal over to an assistant and invited me up to his rooms for tea. But I didn’t want to keep him away from his rehearsal that long, so I suggested we talk where we were. We moved to the back of the auditorium, where our voices wouldn’t disturb the actors, and Belasco remarked astutely, “Something is troubling you. The smile is as bright as ever, but today it hides something not very happy. Tell me.”

  “It’s what happened at Carmen” I sighed. “You know the police think I put the ammonia in Duchon’s throat spray. Either I or Jimmy Freeman—Lieutenant O’Halloran has made that quite clear. I am a suspect, David!”

  He took off the glasses he’d started wearing lately and tucked them away in a pocket. “I know Lieutenant O’Halloran, Gerry, and the man is no fool. He won’t arrest you for something you didn’t do. Do you know what I think? I think he’s fishing, just tossing out a line to see if he can get a nibble or two.”

  “Well, I wish he’d stop tossing it in my direction.” I brooded for a moment. “What’s bothering me is all those contradictory stories we told. I can’t get it straight, all those different movements.”

  “I was backstage only ten minutes or s
o,” Belasco said apologetically. “How can I help?”

  “You were there during the intermission between Acts I and II, right after I threw my castanets at Duchon—correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “You told Lieutenant O’Halloran you saw Scotti backstage then, didn’t you?”

  Belasco rubbed his temple with one finger. “I’ve been thinking about that. Scotti said he wasn’t backstage then, didn’t he? I could have been mistaken—perhaps I saw him out front. But I thought it was backstage where I caught a glimpse of him, and since I went backstage only after the first act, it would have had to be then. But now I’m not so sure.”

  “What was he doing when you saw him?”

  He waved a hand gracefully. “Nothing in particular that I remember. It was just a glimpse.”

  “What about Morris? Pasquale Amato said he saw him backstage before the first act.”

  “Amato is mistaken. Morris was with me, remember. I would have known if he’d gone backstage then.”

  “He was with you all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t leave you at all? Not even for a minute?”

  “Not even for a minute. Unless you want to count the time he went into the gentlemen’s restroom.”

  I stared at him. “How long was he gone?”

  He looked surprised, thought a minute, and then looked even more surprised. “Rather longer than he should have been, come to think of it.”

  “Long enough to slip backstage?”

  “Possibly. Yes,” he mused, “he would have had time.”

  “Before you ask,” I said, “I do not think Morris Gest doctored the throat spray. I don’t think that at all.”

  “Morris was very angry at Duchon,” Belasco said. “Angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He felt Duchon had made a fool of him.”

  Belatedly I remembered David Belasco and his son-in-law were not exactly the best of friends. “Nevertheless,” I said firmly, “if Morris did go backstage before the opera, it had to be for some reason other than putting ammonia in the spray bottle. That’s just not his style, David. He’d be more likely to get even by arranging a public humiliation of some sort—he’d want people to know about it.”