A Chorus of Detectives Page 21

  She looked at him strangely. “But it did happen, Pasquale. Everyone knew about it.”

  He stared at her. “I do not know about it!”

  “Oh, it was just a stupid fight, but Quaglia did get his hands around the other man’s neck. Later Quaglia was mortified by the whole thing and apologized to the chorister. Don’t you remember all that?”

  “No!”

  “I am not there,” Caruso said apologetically.

  Emmy was thinking. “Pasquale, could that have been the time you were gone for three or four days? Didn’t you substitute for someone at the Paris Opéra at the last minute?”

  Amato’s mouth dropped open. “Cielo! I forget! Sì, I do go to Opéra then!”

  “So you missed it,” she nodded.

  “Quaglia, he apologizes?” Caruso asked with interest.

  “The only time I’ve ever heard him apologize,” Emmy said. “That was even more startling than the fight.”

  “So Setti is not lying after all,” Amato mused. “And Quaglia does fight with chorister. So perhaps he …?”

  “No, it is not Quaglia,” Caruso said as if explaining things to a slow child. “It is Edward Ziegler. He hides things about himself … I think he hides a dark nature behind proper outside. He lies about alibi. He loses control for one little moment and wishes choristers dead. What happens when he loses control for longer period of time? He makes the wish come true. Ziegler is the killer.”

  Amato didn’t say anything. Emmy leaned forward and touched him on the knee. “It makes sense, Pasquale. You must agree it makes sense.”

  The baritone sighed heavily. “Io sono contento. I agree. It is Ziegler.” He and Emmy exchanged a wry look while Caruso crowed a little. “Now what? The other team says Setti. So what do we do?”

  “So we convince them they are wrong,” Caruso said reasonably. “And then when we are all agreed, we go see Captain O’Halloran.”

  “And say what?” Emmy asked. “Do we say we have decided Edward Ziegler is guilty and will you go out and arrest him, please? Do you think he’ll do it?”

  “But he must!” Caruso exclaimed.

  “On our command? Without evidence? He’ll throw us out of the police station!”

  “But, but, but—” Caruso sputtered.

  “She is right, Rico,” Amato said. “Do you say we do not go to the captain, Emmy?”

  “No, we have to go to the police. But with more than we have now.” She grunted. “If we haven’t found any evidence by now, it’s not likely we’re ever going to. We need something else.”

  “Non capisco.”

  “We need a plan.”

  They all fell silent. Only Amato’s chauffeur was enjoying the wintry beauty of Central Park as the three singers in the back concentrated hard on thinking up a foolproof plan to catch a killer.

  11

  The name on the hotel register was Giovanni Fabbro—John Smith—and the hotel was the St. Regis. A room on the fourteenth floor had been rented for the afternoon; that was the only way three worried-looking men could be sure they’d not be interrupted by ringing telephones, threatening police, or snooping singers. They needed privacy.

  The three of them shrugged out of their winter coats and looked for a place to sit down. There were only two chairs, so Giulio Setti sat on the side of the bed; the other two pulled the chairs around to face him.

  “Are you sure no one followed you here?” Edward Ziegler asked. The other two said they didn’t think so. “I know I was followed when I left the opera house, but I think I was able to lose him.”

  “I take roundabout route,” Setti said. “I see no one when I enter hotel.”

  Alessandro Quaglia grunted agreement. “We are being watched, it is true. The police captain, he expects one of us to give himself away. This is why he tells three of us we are, ‘prime’ suspect! Cielo! He knows nothing, that captain. He guesses.”

  The corners of Ziegler’s mouth turned down. “He also seems to be laboring under the assumption that we’d all stop talking to one another once he’d pasted the label of ‘suspect’ on us. The first thing I did was tell Mr. Gatti.”

  Setti was shaking. “Is shameful! Shameful! Never in my life do I break the laws … and this captain says I kill my choristers!”

  “He knows nothing, he guesses,” Quaglia repeated impatiently. “He thinks he must do something, but he does not know what. So he picks three to bully—one, two, three, we three.”

  “You mean like drawing names out of a hat?” Ziegler asked. “I don’t think he’d go that far, Maestro—I’m sure he thinks he has some reason to suspect us.”

  “He grasps at the straws. He even confronts me with foolish fight I have years ago. That is his reason? Pah!”

  “Well, whether he has a reason or not, the point is what are we going to do about it?”

  “Is there something to do?” Quaglia asked.

  Setti smiled wryly. “Perhaps Mr. Ziegler means we should find real killer ourselves? Already enough detectives try, I think.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Ziegler said. “I meant we should fine some way to protect ourselves. Frankly, I’m more worried about myself right now than I am about the choristers.”

  “I also,” Setti agreed. “I do not wish to die in prison.”

  “How does one prove innocence?” Quaglia mused. “It is difficult, no? Perhaps impossible. I think about this ever since Captain O’Halloran points finger of accusation at me.”

  Ziegler nodded. “The only solution I could think of was that each of us should provide an alibi for one of the others—but it’s too late for that now. We’ve already made our statements to the police, and nobody is going to believe it if all three of us suddenly remember we were with the others during the times the murders were committed.”

  “Yes, that only makes them more suspicious,” Setti said. “Perhaps it is too late to protect ourselves against what is already done. But it is not too late to protect ourselves against what may still happen, non é vero?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think we see more killings. The man who fires the gun backstage, he does not stop because he misses the last time. He tries again, do you not agree? And when he tries, if we have alibi for that time—then the captain must decide we are innocent men.”

  Quaglia raised two eyebrows at the chorus master. “Eh, Mr. Setti, I think you may have something there!”

  Ziegler was staring at the other two in distaste. “What a morbid suggestion! We … sit back and wait for someone to die! Then within minutes after the killer strikes again, we three rush together and agree upon an alibi before we talk to the police? Bah!”

  Quaglia looked annoyed. “We are in no position to be so particular, Mr. Ziegler. Or do you have other reason for objecting?”

  “What are you implying?” Ziegler asked coldly.

  “You say no too quickly. You do not even think about it.”

  “I don’t have to think about it to know the suggestion is distasteful to me! And you were pretty quick with your insinuation, Maestro!”

  “You make useless suggestion and then object when good one is—”

  “Cessiate!” Setti commanded so sharply that the other two obeyed out of surprise. “Now is not time to quarrel! If we start the accusations among ourselves, we perhaps do exactly what the captain of police wants us to do, yes? Each must believe in innocence of other two! Without question!”

  “He’s right,” Ziegler muttered. “My apologies, Maestro. I went too far.”

  “I too,” Quaglia replied, pulling out a handkerchief and patting his forehead. “Mi displace—forgive me, I speak in haste.”

  “If Mr. Ziegler objects to arrangement of alibi after, uh, next killing,” Setti suggested, “perhaps is other way. We do not make up alibi. We have true one!”

  “Ever the diplomat, Mr. Setti,” Ziegler murmured. “But how do we manage an alibi before the fact? We don’t know when the next killing will take place.”

&
nbsp; Setti held his hands out, palms up. “We stay together from now on. Each is alibi for other two.”

  Quaglia snorted. “You both accompany me to podium when I conduct? Impossibile.”

  “That is exception,” Setti said. “You have entire orchestra for alibi then. And audience!”

  But Ziegler was shaking his head. “Too many problems, Mr. Setti. We all have our jobs to do. You can’t cancel your various rehearsals to sit in my office to watch me, and I can’t let my work go to attend all your rehearsals. It’s a good idea, but it’s just not practical.”

  Setti sighed. “Then we lie?”

  The other two were silent a moment. Then Ziegler said, “Very well, I consent. We lie.”

  “Momento.” Quaglia was tapping a finger on the armrest of the chair to help him think better. “Why do we not hire bodyguards for ourselves?”

  Setti frowned. “You think we are in danger?”

  Ziegler said, “I suppose we could always see something that might make us a threat to the killer.” Then his face lit up. “Ah! I see. The bodyguard would provide the alibi!”

  “Precisamente,” Quaglia nodded. “It is expense worth undertaking.”

  Setti looked dubious. “The bodyguard, he must be with us all the time?”

  “I know, I don’t much cherish the idea of a stranger looking over my shoulder twenty-four hours a day,” Ziegler said. “But if it will get us out from under this cloud of suspicion, I don’t see that there’s any choice. Unless you have a better suggestion?”

  “Perhaps a bodyguard for only the times we are in opera house?”

  “No,” Quaglia said. “It must be all the time or it will mean nothing. Alibi for only part of time is no alibi at all.”

  Setti shifted his weight on the bed. “I do not like it.”

  “Nobody likes it, Mr. Setti,” Ziegler said with a touch of asperity. “You may do as you wish. I intend to hire a bodyguard as soon as we leave this hotel.”

  Quaglia agreed. “The sooner we tend to this business, the better.”

  Setti threw up his hands. “Eh, I too, then. I cannot be only one without alibi! But we must wait two days, no? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve!”

  “Bodyguards work on holidays too,” Ziegler said. “There’s no need to wait. It won’t be forever, Mr. Setti. As morbid as it sounds, all we have to do is prove ourselves innocent of one killing—and Captain O’Halloran will no longer be able to tell us we are his ‘prime’ suspects.”

  “I know nothing of this,” Setti complained. “Where does one go to hire the bodyguard?”

  “Pinkerton’s, I suppose. That’s where Mr. Gatti got the choristers’ guards.”

  “Shall we go?” Quaglia asked. “I think it is better we leave separately.”

  “Yes,” Ziegler agreed. “We still have to be careful.”

  Setti was the first to go. When the chorus master had wrapped up against the winter cold and departed, Quaglia said, “He does not want bodyguard with him.”

  “I noticed,” Ziegler answered shortly. “I’ll go next.”

  Quaglia waited ten minutes and then took the elevator down to the St. Regis lobby. He did not notice, as the other two had not noticed before him, when a police detective rose noiselessly from his chair in the lobby and followed him out.

  Christmas Eve.

  A working day for the Metropolitan Opera Company. The matinee performance was Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, starring Geraldine Farrar and Antonio Scotti, conducted by Alessandro Quaglia. Scheduled for the evening was Halévy’s La Juive, starring Enrico Caruso and conducted by Artur Bodanzky. More fun than waiting up for Santa.

  But little of the Christmas spirit was in evidence backstage. Singers and crews alike had but one thought in mind: He’ll try again today. Captain O’Halloran thought so too. He checked and rechecked the placement of his men, and noted with approval the way the private guards were never more than an arm’s length away from the choristers they were protecting. Satisfied at last, O’Halloran went up to Geraldine Farrar’s dressing room.

  He barely recognized her. She’d immersed herself so completely in the costume, make-up, and physical mannerisms of the character she was singing that it would be easy to mistake her for a real Oriental woman. Already she was walking with Butterfly’s mincing little steps, thinking herself into the proper frame of mind. “You look beautiful!” O’Halloran blurted out.

  Gerry wasn’t so far sunk into Butterfly’s character that she couldn’t acknowledge a compliment. “Thank you, Captain. Do you suppose you could ask your men and the guards to leave a path open by the stage exits? It’s sometimes so crowded we can’t get through!”

  “I’ve already told them—Mr. Gatti explained the problem. I came up to tell you not to linger downstairs, Miss Farrar. Once you’re off the stage, come straight back up here.”

  “Gladly.” She shuddered. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be glad to get away from the opera stage, but …”

  O’Halloran smiled sadly. “I know.”

  Just then Emmy Destinn stuck her head through the dressing-room doorway. “Captain O’Halloran? Is everything all right?”

  “So far,” he answered.

  “Hello, Emmy,” Gerry said resignedly. “Couldn’t stay away?”

  Emmy held up a handful of letters. “I came to pick up my mail, so I thought I’d stop back to wish you and Toto luck. It certainly is tense downstairs.”

  “Everyone’s thinking the killer will try again today.”

  “Or tomorrow,” Emmy said, sitting down and opening one of her letters, “when I sing.” A double bill was scheduled for Christmas Day as well, Mefistofele in the afternoon and Aïda at night. “You might as well move into the opera house, Captain.”

  “I practically have,” he groaned. “My wife’s threatening to divorce me. Did you happen to see Mr. Gatti anywhere, Miss Destinnova?”

  “I am here,” said the general manager’s voice behind him. “You wish to speak with me, Captain?”

  “Ah, there you are. I just wanted to tell you I’ve repositioned some of my men and I think you should know where they are.”

  “The greenroom might be a good place to talk,” Gerry said pointedly.

  Gatti smiled. “We leave our Butterfly to prepare, yes? Come.”

  Emmy looked up from the letter she was reading. “Bad news, Gerry. Your frog died.”

  Gerry ignored her.

  Out in the hallway, O’Halloran said, “Did I hear her correctly? Miss Farrar’s frog died?”

  Gatti sighed. “In her house in Prague, Emmy has big aquarium filled with frogs, all croaking in different keys. She names each one after different prima donna.”

  O’Halloran chuckled. “Must win her a lot of friends.” He went on to explain the changes he’d made in the placement of his men. “I can’t think of any place I’ve overlooked, can you?”

  “No, you are very thorough, Captain. I can think of nothing more to be done,” Gatti said gloomily.

  “I shouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Gatti,” O’Halloran said cautiously. “If he tries anything today, we’re bound to get him.”

  Gatti wanted to stop on the men’s side a moment to calm any pre-performance jitters that might be in evidence, and then he and O’Halloran went back down to the stage level. Setti and Quaglia were there, with their newly hired bodyguards in tow.

  “Is Mr. Ziegler here?” O’Halloran asked. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “He is here somewhere,” Gatti said. “I look for him too.” He plodded off in search of his assistant.

  “Do you think today is day you catch our killer, Captain?” a familiar baritone voice asked.

  “May be, Mr. Amato.” O’Halloran looked at the other man’s street clothes. “Aren’t you going to be late? You’re not in costume.”

  “Today I do not sing—not until Monday. Today I try to stay home and not think of what happens here, but …” He spread his hands apologetically.

  O’Halloran grunted. “Emmy Dest
inn’s here for the same reason. Only she pretended to come in for her mail. You folks just don’t listen, do you?”

  “Too much is at stake, Captain,” Amato replied soberly. “We cannot wait passively for someone to die.”

  O’Halloran could understand that. Amato went with him as he made one final round of the police. Upstage left was crowded, where the women’s chorus gathered to make its entrance, all the singers made up to look like fragile porcelain dolls. A cordon of guards surrounded them.

  “Toto, do stop telling me not to be nervous,” Geraldine Farrar’s voice floated nervously over the backstage hubbub. “Believe me, it doesn’t help!”

  “I say not one word more, carissima,” Scotti said soothingly. “Now I must go.” He blew her a kiss and made his way back to the other side of the stage.

  Gerry took her place at the head of the women’s chorus. “Remember, do not rush,” she said to the choristers. “I want our first Butterfly to be right. Some of you got too close during rehearsal—if you step on my train, I’ll fall! Stay back.”

  One of the women near the front said it was hard to stay back when the people behind you were pushing as hard as they could.

  “Oh, I can’t believe this!” Gerry cried. “Please, all of you—cooperate! Don’t push—you’ll all get on the stage. Go slowly.”

  “She is nervous, isn’t she?” O’Halloran remarked to Amato.

  “It is the entrance,” Amato explained. “It makes all the women nervous, every time. They must glide on, you understand, with steps so small the audience is not supposed to see the feet move. And they have to enter over that bridge.” He pointed to the narrow structure that began just offstage and arched to the center of the stage. “There is no room for mistake. If one woman slips, all the others are thrown off and the procession is ruined.”

  “Does that ever happen?”

  “About half the time,” Amato nodded.

  Ziegler came up to them, followed by his bodyguard. “Have you seen Mr. Gatti?”

  “I think he’s off somewhere looking for you,” O’Halloran said. Ziegler made a tsking sound and hurried away.

  “Captain O’Halloran,” Amato said, “that man who follows Mr. Ziegler—he is one of your policemen?”