A Chorus of Detectives Page 20

  She still had one more season in her. And she’d make it one to remember! She’d make every single performance stand as a reminder of the glory days that were slipping away from them all. The world had changed so much—there was no center now, no focus. And there seemed to be so many more people now than there were before. Where did they all come from? Where were they going? And what would they do when they got there? The world had changed, and it was going to change even more. The handwriting was on the wall: adapt or die.

  One more season—and then what? What kind of life was there for her when she no longer had an opera stage to perform upon? She’d been a star too long to content herself with sitting in a rocking chair and twiddling her thumbs. She liked being a star. She didn’t want to give up being a star. Did she have to stop being a star altogether just because her voice was going?

  For the past decade David Belasco had been importuning her to star in one of his plays.

  “Bella!” she called to the maid. “Get my blue coat and have Albert bring the limousine around front. I’m going out.”

  On the way to Belasco’s theatre it occurred to Gerry that this might not be the best of times to descend upon the producer. David Belasco was having problems of his own; the high priest of the American theatre was under attack by a raucous gang of postwar theatre people for what they called the ‘ornate hokum’ he produced. Belasco had given over forty years of his life to staging plays better than anyone else in the country, and now the theatre he loved so deeply was turning against him. It angered Gerry and scared her at the same time. It could happen to anyone in the public eye.

  The Belasco Theatre on West Forty-fourth Street was the same beehive of activity it had always been. A harried-looking young man told her ‘the Governor’ was upstairs in his private rooms. Gerry took the stairs to the top floor, where an equally harried-looking middle-aged man ushered her in to The Presence.

  And there he sat, enthroned behind the desk mounted on a Ming dais, waiting to receive the reverence due him. “Gerry—what a pleasant surprise!” He rose to greet her. “Here, let me take your coat. Please sit down, my dear, and tell me why I am blessed by a visit from the world’s leading soprano—who could be the world’s leading actress if she would only place herself in my hands.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, David. Is now a good time to talk?”

  “Anytime you wish to talk, dear lady, is a good time.” As courtly as ever. “Allow me to wind up this call and then my time is yours.” Only then did she realize he’d been talking on the telephone.

  Gerry welcomed a few moments’ grace to reorient herself while Belasco talked about a casting problem with whoever was on the other end of the line. It had been six or seven months since she’d last seen her old friend, and she was surprised at how much stouter he’d grown in that time. The hair was all white now, but he still wore a black suit and the reversed collar that gave him the air of priestly authority he so carefully cultivated. The air was heavy with the scent of burning joss sticks and the lighting was dim; the effect was one of a temple where one came to worship. Some things never changed.

  “What about the Cornell girl?” Belasco was saying. “She’s contracted for one more play.”

  Gerry looked around. David Belasco’s private rooms were legendary, with their labyrinths of shelves and glass cases and alcoves stuffed with art treasures and stage props, everything from suits of armor to antique velours to trinkets worn by the Borgias. But the total effect wasn’t quite as colorful as Gerry remembered it, somehow. Many of Belasco’s treasures had the slightly coated look things get when they’re left in the same place too long. From where she sat, Gerry could see dust on the tops of two of the display cases.

  “He may be well-known in England,” Belasco said, “but no one’s heard of him here. Explain to him what life in New York can be like without money. A long-term contract will protect him from that.”

  The beginning of a headache was making itself felt. Gerry hoped the producer wouldn’t expect her to sign up for life.

  Belasco hung up the phone and made a sound of mild annoyance. “Sometimes I think I’ll never understand this new generation of actors. Here’s a man fresh from the London stage, and he wants to act for the Theatre Guild for a pittance when he can earn ten times the salary elsewhere! And why? Because the Guild calls itself an ‘art’ theatre company! What am I—a vegetable dealer?”

  “Young people don’t always know what they want,” Gerry murmured.

  “He’s not that young—he’s thirty. Have you seen the kinds of plays the Guild has been putting on? They take themselves so seriously—all this heavy soul-searching, this exploration of an ‘inner life’, whatever that is! They have no sense of what theatre is about. People want to be entertained when they come to a playhouse. They want spectacle, melodrama, farce! They don’t want to be—what is the term?—psychoanalyzed.”

  “That’s certainly been true for as long as I can remember,” Gerry sighed, “but these are new times, David. Maybe audiences want something different now.”

  “Oh, we all have to keep up with the times,” he said airily, “but the basic appeal of the theatre never changes. It must supply something that is missing in our dreary everyday lives. All this dark pessimism the new playwrights keep giving us … I must say I find it unwholesome.”

  “Have you thought about producing any of the new playwrights? Perhaps you could provide whatever’s missing.”

  “Impossible, Gerry. I must have something to work with! Have you heard of a fellow called O’Neill? Well, he is being praised as the new ‘voice’ of American theatre. But, my dear, the man can’t write! Such wooden dialogue I have never before encountered in all my years in the theatre! And such gloomy subject matter! No, the fad for that kind of play is just that—a fad. Mr. O’Neill won’t be around long. You must understand that all this new drama is merely temporary … it will pass, it will pass. And when it does, then the theatre can go back to being what it has always been.”

  Gerry’s headache blossomed. “What are you planning now?”

  “I’m thinking of a French play that should adapt well to the American stage, a contemporary piece called Tiger Cats. Two marvelous acting roles—and no preaching! There’s no place in the theatre for a pulpit, something the Theatre Guild would do well to remember.” He blinked at her. “But my dear, you must forgive me! Here I am rambling on about these upstarts in the theatre when you have a far more serious problem in the opera house. Do the police have any idea of who’s responsible for the killings?”

  “I don’t think so. But there are enough policemen and guards backstage that we’re probably as safe as it’s possible to be—with a madman in the house. The guards were able to prevent a murder, you know—the last time he tried.”

  “So I’ve been given to understand. And the attacks have all been confined to members of the chorus?”

  She nodded. “Someone has a terrific grudge against choruses. He’s mad, of course.”

  Belasco leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I seem to remember a certain soprano who took it on herself to uncover a killer not too many years ago. And succeeded! Are you by any chance planning a repeat performance, Gerry?”

  She smiled wearily. “I’ve tried, but it’s not the same this time. This time it’s ugly and vicious—and sometimes I’m afraid. I hate being made to feel afraid!” She was silent a moment and then muttered, “Damn him to hell and back!”

  He laughed. “That sounds more like the old Gerry.”

  “The problem is,” she went on, “I’m pretty sure I know who the killer is. But I have no evidence! And I can’t think of any way to find some.”

  Belasco sat up straight. “My dear, you must be careful. Whoever this man is, you must not give him the slightest hint that you have any suspicion he is guilty!”

  “Oh, I’m being careful—you can be sure of that! We’ve had more than our share of bad luck this year. Gatti was able to keep it out of the newspape
rs, but someone tried to blow up the Met stage last week.”

  “Gerry!” He was stunned into momentary silence. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, the bomb turned out to be a dud. And Scotti caught her before she was able to set it anyway.”

  “She?! Her?!”

  “Some political fanatic who’d gotten a job at the Met as a scrubwoman. It’s a good thing Scotti caught her. Her next bomb might have worked.”

  Belasco was visibly shaken, and Gerry immediately wished she hadn’t said anything about it. “But this is dreadful!” he cried. “What is happening in the world? How can you bring yourself to go into that place when there is so much danger?”

  “Tell me a safe place in the world and I’ll go there,” she said dryly. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned that the near-bombing took place during a performance of Zazà; that was the opera in which Belasco had directed her and he still had a proprietary interest in it. “Actually, I think I’m pretty safe at the Met,” she went on. “The killer doesn’t seem interested in anyone except choristers. It’s the standing by and watching it happen without being able to do anything that’s getting me down. As to the bombing—well, a bomb can be planted anywhere, can’t it? The woman responsible is locked up. She won’t be trying again.”

  He shook his head. “Gerry, I think you should get out of that opera house. Let me find a play for you. You’ll be safe in my theatre.”

  She forced a smile. “Something like Tiger Cats?”

  He dismissed Tiger Cats with a wave of his hand. “No, I see you in a period piece. Elegant costumes with long trailing skirts, in a pre-war setting. That is your style.”

  I hope not, she thought. Her headache banged away.

  “I can promise you you’ll never have to appear in one of these heavy-footed new plays,” Belasco was saying. “Graceless, clumsy things—where is the magic? Who wants to spend an evening listening to uninteresting, disputatious characters indulging in class hatred or whatever disagreeable topic happens to be the subject of debate that evening? No, we’ll leave that sort of thing to the Theatre Guild—they do love it so. Hatred and lust and treachery and insanity, they can all find a home at the Guild. Not to mention the polemics of that infernally talkative Irishman who has an opinion on everything in the world worth having an opinion about and even a few that aren’t! This is not theatre, this is animated political tracts …” He was off again.

  Gerry concentrated on holding her throbbing head upright and looking as if she were listening. Adapt or die. David Belasco would never adapt. She’d misunderstood the nature of the schism in the theatre; she’d thought Belasco had just been the target of some envious newcomers. But clearly that wasn’t the case at all. Belasco was nearly seventy; it would be unrealistic to expect him to reject the work of a lifetime in order to embrace the changes brought about by a world still reeling from the effects of the biggest war it had ever fought. There would be no life-after-opera with David Belasco for her. Not now.

  It was too late.

  The telephone rang, interrupting Belasco’s diatribe. “Ah, Morris—we have a problem,” he said into the mouthpiece. “We may have to make some casting changes.”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Gerry picked up her coat from the chair where Belasco had put it and blew him a goodbye kiss. He smiled and waved a still-graceful hand.

  When she left, he was deep into virtually the same telephone conversation he’d been having when she arrived.

  Pasquale Amato helped Emmy Destinn into the back seat of his limousine and climbed in after her. The chauffeur closed the door and went around to get into the driver’s seat. “The Vanderbilt next, Mr. Amato?”

  “Sì, the Vanderbilt.” Amato cranked up the glass partition that separated the front seat from the back.

  “Are we going somewhere after we pick up Rico?” Emmy asked. “Why don’t we just stay at his place?”

  “Rico says Dorothy gets upset when we talk about the murders.”

  “She would,” Emmy muttered. “Well, it will probably do him good to get out for a while.”

  “I hope so,” Amato said worriedly. “He is ill, Emmy.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean he is truly ill, more than he admits. Do you not notice how he is changed?”

  “In what way?”

  “Think back. When is last time Rico plays a trick on you? When does he last nail one of your props to a table … or put flour in pockets of your costume?”

  She stared at him. “You’re right. It’s been so long I can’t even remember.”

  “He is changed.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Then Emmy said, “He is the one who called this team meeting, isn’t he?”

  “He says he now is sure Edward Ziegler is the killer.”

  “And you are just as sure Quaglia is.”

  Amato sighed. “I am less sure than ever. But Ziegler … eh, Emmy, I have to fight a temptation. I am tempted to dismiss Ziegler as suspect simply because he is Rico’s suspect. I love Rico, but we both know what kind of detective he is.”

  She laughed shortly. “Unfortunately.”

  “Twice before he suspects wrong person. That is not good record. So when he says Ziegler is guilty, I think that means Ziegler is not guilty. But this is wrong! We must not think this way.”

  Emmy nodded. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if this time he turns out to be right and all the rest of us are wrong?”

  “Then you do not think Ziegler is guilty?”

  “I don’t know, Pasquale. I’m just here to listen to what the two of you have to say.”

  Caruso had been waiting in the lobby of the Vanderbilt and came bustling out when the limousine pulled up to the curb. His eyes were bright and his cheeks had two red spots; he looked either feverish or excited or both. He told Amato’s chauffeur to take them for a drive through Central Park and climbed into the back seat. The seat became uncomfortably crowded, since two of the three passengers were on the corpulent side.

  Amato moved over to the jump seat and said, “Rico? Do you not feel well?”

  “I feel molto well!” the tenor boomed. “Never do I feel better!”

  Emmy laid a hand against his forehead. “No fever,” she confirmed.

  Caruso flapped both hands at them. “Do not fuss so! We have important decision to make! I think I now convince you Ziegler is the one who does these terrible things to chorus. But first, there is one little matter to be cleared up. Pasquale, I ask you to find out something. Ziegler, he tells me that at very time someone stabs Teresa Leone, he is talking to Quaglia about substitute musicians in orchestra. Right before Carmen begins. Eh, what does Quaglia say? Does it happen the way Ziegler says?”

  “Yes and no,” Amato replied. “Quaglia says it does happen—but it happens before Forza, not Carmen. He remembers because the orchestra substitutes have trouble playing the Forza ‘fate’ theme.”

  “Doesn’t it also mean Quaglia has no alibi?” Emmy asked.

  “È vero, but there is a difference,” Amato said reluctantly. “If Ziegler is innocent, he makes simple mistake about which opera. But if Quaglia is guilty, would he not take advantage of Ziegler’s mistake to provide himself with alibi? Would he not say yes, he and Ziegler are indeed talking together while poor Teresa Leone is being stabbed?”

  “Not if he suspected a trap.”

  “No trap,” Caruso said.

  “He does not even stop to think, Emmy,” Amato said. “He says, ‘Eh, that is Forza—Ziegler mixes them up.”

  “He could have been afraid Ziegler would later remember it was Forza and not Carmen,” Emmy said stubbornly, “if indeed it was. Then where would he be—backing up a false story?”

  Amato shook his head. “Then he could say he too mixes up the operas. No, Emmy, Quaglia is telling the truth. I know because I go into Ziegler’s office when he is not there and check payroll records. It was Forza that has substitute orchestra members, not Carmen.”

  Caruso laughed delightedly. �
�Eh, what I tell you, Pasquale? You make good detective!” Then he shivered. “Your windows, Pasquale—are they not rolled all the way up?”

  Amato checked. “All limousine windows, they leak a little,” he apologized.

  Caruso snuggled up closer to Emmy. “Now I have something to tell you.” He paused dramatically. “Edward Ziegler is once singer in chorus himself!” He went on to tell his astonished fellow detectives the story he’d heard from his old chorister friend Tommaso. “Eh? What you say now?”

  “I say there is more to Edward Ziegler than meets the eye,” Emmy remarked. “None of us really knows that man. I wonder what other secrets he’s been keeping to himself?”

  “It is still not evidence, Rico,” Amato complained. “We cannot call a man guilty because he once sang in chorus at another opera house!”

  Caruso’s eyes were sparkling. “But there is more! Attend. I talk to two choristers who sing with him at Manhattan Opera. They say he pretends not to remember them! One of the choristers, he knows Ziegler well. He says when they are at Manhattan, they eat together, they drink together—it is not possible that Ziegler forgets. Do you not see? Per dio, he is ashamed he is once chorister!”

  Amato was having trouble accepting it. “To tell you true, I begin to think Gerry is right. I think it is maybe Setti.”

  “Gerry is not on our team!” Caruso cried, indignant that Amato would turn to an outside suspect. “Brr! I am cold. Do you not have rug for the lap, Pasquale?”

  “Emmy is sitting on it.” Amato held out a hand to steady her as she stood in the moving car to let Caruso pull the lap rug out from under her. While the tenor was wrapping himself up in the rug, Emmy asked Amato what had made him suspicious of Setti.

  He shrugged. “He tries to make Quaglia look guilty. Setti tells me a lie. Remember the trouble Quaglia has with chorus at Covent Garden? Setti says Quaglia tries to strangle chorister. I am there at time of trouble and I know it does not happen—you are there too, Emmy, remember?”