A Chorus of Detectives Page 24

  Scotti turned back to his mirror, where one made-up eye and one natural one stared out at him. He sat thinking a moment about what Ziegler had just told him.

  The other eye could wait. He got up and hurried down the stairs to the stage level. One of the stagehands pointed him toward where Setti stood talking to two of the choristers, their three bodyguards only a few feet away. Scotti motioned him aside.

  “Yes, Mr. Scotti? Is something wrong?” the chorus master asked.

  “Mr. Ziegler, he tells me of chorister who shows up drunk.”

  “Eh, sad business. He is no longer with us.”

  “But why does Mr. Ziegler fire him and not you?”

  Setti shrugged. “We have trouble with this man before. I tell Mr. Ziegler, give him one more chance. If he comes in drunk again, you can fire him. Why you ask? He is friend of yours?”

  Scotti grinned sheepishly. “I do not even know his name.”

  “Mr. Scotti, do you know you are wearing only one eye?”

  “My eye!” Scotti slapped his hand over the wrong one and hurried away.

  Setti was wondering what that was all about when he caught sight of Emmy Destinn peeking around a stage curtain. “Do you hear?” he asked her.

  “I do not eavesdrop,” she replied indignantly.

  “Of course not,” he said, “but I wonder why Mr. Scotti takes such interest in our departed chorister.”

  “He said he didn’t even know his name.”

  “Yet he wants to know why he is fired.”

  That’s not what he asked you, Emmy thought. “I suppose we’re all concerned about anything that involves choristers these days,” she said. “I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Mr. Setti.” She drifted away casually.

  As soon as Setti turned back to the choristers, Emmy made a beeline for Gatti-Casazza. When she’d gotten his attention by poking a finger between his shoulder blades, he muttered, “We are not to talk together, do you not remember?”

  “Do you know anything about the chorister who was just replaced?” she asked, ignoring his objection.

  Quickly he grabbed her elbow and steered her five feet away, although no one was within hearing distance. “He is not really dismissed, but Setti and Ziegler do not know that. The chorister, he only pretends to be drunk.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I ask him. It is Captain O’Halloran’s idea. The chorister who replaces the ‘drunk’ one, he looks very much like Captain O’Halloran’s man—the one who is ‘bait’? The captain says substitution will be easier, with this other chorister.”

  “Ah! I see.” Then she scowled. “Why did O’Halloran tell you and not the rest of us?”

  Gatti made a what-can-I-say gesture. “Perhaps he thinks the fewer who know, the better? I do not know. Eh, it is almost time for curtain.” He looked around; Gigli was in place. “Where is Gerry?”

  “Here she is.”

  Gerry was just then coming down the stairs. She shot a dark look toward Gatti and Emmy when she saw them huddling together; they got the message and edged away from each other. Satisfied, Gerry moved to her place by the upstage entrance, passing Quaglia and his bodyguard on the way.

  They were having an argument. “I’ve got to be in the orchestra pit,” the bodyguard stated flatly. “How can I protect you from back here?”

  “No, no—impossibile. You stay backstage.”

  “I don’t like it, the way you’ll be exposed out there—your back to the audience and all. Any one of ’em could take a shot at you!”

  “It is not audience I worry about, imbecille!”

  Gerry tuned them out; she tuned out everything except the opera that was about to start. The men did most of the work in the first act, which was fairly evenly divided between them. The tenor’s idealism would gradually yield to the baritone’s villainy, with the soprano acting as the bridge between them. But Act II—ah, Act II was hers.

  The opera started. Before long Gigli launched into his aria, about half a beat ahead of the orchestra. But they got together after only a few more phrases and finished in fine style. Gigli sang a short scene with one of the supporting soloists and then her cue came. Faster, Gerry reminded herself and made her entrance—only to find that Quaglia was conducting at exactly the same tempo they’d rehearsed. Blast the man.

  She’d been on stage only a few minutes when she looked into the orchestra pit and saw the back of somebody’s head, not what one usually saw when looking down from the stage. A man was sitting in a chair pushed right up against the front of the stage, facing out toward the audience. He was not wearing evening attire nor was he holding a musical instrument. Gerry stared at the man’s bald spot and realized Quaglia’s bodyguard had gotten his own way.

  She finished her duet with Gigli and left the stage. Scotti was standing there, waiting to make his entrance. She blew him a kiss and hurried over to where her maid was holding make-up and mirror; Gerry had to go back on again shortly. The choristers were gathering in place, with Setti fussing over them. Everything was normal.

  And it stayed normal. They finished the act to thunderous applause and the three principals hurried back upstairs to change their costumes. Quaglia came up and stuck his head in Gerry’s dressing room long enough to ask if she didn’t think the faster tempo made the entrance work better; she screeched at him to get out. Scotti changed quickly and hurried back down to find the stage manager and complain that the closing curtain had been slow. Gigli came down and snarled at Ziegler that the tenor didn’t have enough to do in the second act, as if it were the assistant manager’s fault. Everything was still normal.

  The second act never lasted long enough to suit Gerry. She sang her big aria, killed Scotti (after whispering an apology first), and performed the pantomime action that ended the act. Backstage, there was more elbow room now; most of the choristers had left. Setti was riding herd on the few who would be needed in the last act.

  Amato was waiting in Scotti’s dressing room. “I do not see Captain O’Halloran anywhere, Toto! Mr. Gatti says he is here—but where?”

  “He conceals himself deliberately, perhaps?” Scotti suggested. “Eh, my chest hurts.” He rubbed the spot. “Gerry stabs hard tonight.”

  “The plan, it will not work,” Amato worried. “It cannot work!”

  “Perchè non? We think of everything, no?”

  “The bodyguards! We do not think of Ziegler’s and Setti’s bodyguards when we make our plan! Quaglia’s either. How can the killer walk into trap with someone watching his every move? How does he get rid of bodyguard?”

  Scotti didn’t know. He changed into street clothes and the two baritones went downstairs to listen to the final act. They stopped short when they spotted both their suspects and O’Halloran’s as well with their heads together. What did the three of them have to say to one another? Amato and Scotti eased as close to the group as they could.

  They were complaining about their bodyguards, who were all hovering nearby. “When we agree to this, I do not understand how bad it is,” Quaglia was saying, mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief. “Mine is like leech.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ziegler commiserated. “Mine keeps stepping on my heels.”

  “I try to tell you,” Setti said placidly, “but you do not listen.” The other two men glared at him.

  “Are we not free of suspicion now?” Quaglia asked. “Our bodyguards are witnesses we do nothing to Butterfly bridge.”

  “Not precisely,” Ziegler said. “I understand the police are saying the bridge could have been sabotaged long before the day of the performance.”

  Setti snorted. “They say that to excuse themselves, because they do not watch carefully enough.”

  “You could be right.” Ziegler glanced over at his bodyguard. “They are there all the time, aren’t they? I don’t see how the choristers stand it.”

  “I think the choristers like them,” Quaglia sighed. “Bodyguards make them feel important.”

 
; “Eh, do you have enough of this … protection?” Setti asked.

  Ziegler and Quaglia exchanged a look. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,” the former said. The conductor nodded.

  “I am willing to discharge my bodyguard,” Setti offered, “but only if you two do the same. At the same time?”

  “Let’s do it right now,” Ziegler said through clenched teeth and strode purposefully toward the guards. The other two followed.

  “That is how killer gets rid of bodyguard,” Scotti said to Amato.

  Amato watched the three suspects giving the bodyguards their walking papers. “One of those men,” he said, “one of those three, he kills five people and injures others. It is hard to believe.”

  “Sì. Who would think Mr. Setti could do such terrible things?”

  “No,” Amato said. “Not Setti.”

  “Not Ziegler.”

  “Not now,” hissed Emmy Destinn, coming up behind them. “Keep your voices down.”

  Act III of Tosca was under way. Scotti made his way around to the back of the set and sat down on the mattress where Gerry would land when she leaped off the parapet to end the opera. He sat there half listening to the music and half thinking about Caruso. He was worried about his old friend and wished he could be there right then. That very night they were going to catch a killer, and Caruso would miss it. It didn’t seem right.

  At least he thought they were going to catch a killer. If all three suspects divested themselves of their bodyguards, what could go wrong? A lot of things, he thought glumly.

  He looked up to see Gatti-Casazza picking his way through the backstage obstacle course. Gatti reached the mattress and bent over to say in a low voice, “Captain O’Halloran, he wishes us to stay in vicinity of stage once the plan is in operation. All five of us.”

  “Why?”

  “For safety. Out in open, well-lighted place, you understand.”

  Scotti nodded. “Where is he? No one sees the captain but you.”

  Gatti waited until Gerry finished a high note she was holding. “He spends first two acts in my office. He says killer is more likely to take chances if he thinks head policeman is not here. But now the captain is in place. All is ready.”

  “Bene.”

  Gatti continued on to the left side of the stage, where Emmy stood watching and listening to Gerry’s performance with an intensity that made him wary. Tosca had once been one of Emmy’s best roles, but in later years Geraldine Farrar had pretty much made it her private property. Gerry’s Tosca sold out the house; Emmy’s did not. Gatti still scheduled Emmy in the role once in a while, just to keep her happy. But Tosca was Gerry’s opera. “Emmy?”

  She started, not having seen him come up. “Oh. I was caught up in the duet.”

  “It goes well tonight, do you not think?”

  “I was just then thinking of what Maria Jeritza would do with the role when she gets here.” Then Emmy gave him a smile of pure pleasure.

  Gatti backed off. His decision that Geraldine Farrar would share the role with the new soprano from Vienna had not been without repercussions; even Antonio Scotti had bawled him out for it. But here was Emmy Destinn openly gloating …

  The opera eventually drew to a close. Gerry leaped off the parapet, to be greeted with a congratulatory hug from Scotti. She ran around to the side of the stage and waited while Gigli milked his first curtain call, then went out and milked hers even longer. The gerryflappers in the audience were doing their part; even backstage the chant of Ger-ee, Ger-ee came through clearly. More curtain calls, with Gerry and Gigli clasping hands and beaming artificially at each other. Then it was over.

  Gerry dashed upstairs and changed clothes faster than she’d ever changed before in her life. The auditorium was still emptying when the stage crew started striking the set. The scenery flats were stacked by the Seventh Avenue double doors, ready to be carted off to the warehouse the next morning. Quaglia was making a congratulatory round of the singers. The orchestra musicians had already left; they were always the first ones out.

  Edward Ziegler wanted to go home himself, but Gatti-Casazza kept him there talking about one inconsequential detail after another. Can’t we take care of this tomorrow? the assistant manager thought. But on Gatti talked—until he broke off in midsentence at the sight of a man still in the costume of a prison guard walking bent-over across the stage.

  “Tony?” Gatti called. “Do you hurt your back?”

  The man straightened up; and although he’d known what to expect, Gatti felt his stomach do a flip-flop when he looked into the face of the police detective who was replacing the chorister. “Oh, hello, Mr. Gatti,” the false Tony said. “I lost my ring here tonight. I can’t find it anywhere.”

  Gatti had met O’Halloran’s man earlier in the day, and he’d been impressed by his resemblance to one of the choristers, a tenor named Tony Spinelli. With the addition of costume, bushy eyebrows, and drooping mustache, the police detective could fool almost anyone except Setti. The real chorister had been whisked out of the opera house the minute the performance had ended. “Your ring?” Gatti said. “Ask the stage manager if he finds it.”

  “I already did. That was my father’s ring, Mr. Gatti,” the man said worriedly.

  “Perhaps the greenroom?”

  “That was the first place I looked. But maybe I’d better look again.” He smiled unhappily and moved away.

  One more thing. “Where is your bodyguard?” Gatti called.

  The false Tony looked around vaguely. “Oh, he’s back there somewhere.” He left the stage.

  Ziegler was looking at Gatti curiously. “Do you know all the choristers by name?”

  Gatti said no. “I try to remember as many as I can, but there are so many.”

  “Aren’t there just,” Ziegler remarked dryly.

  Gatti asked Ziegler to find Tony’s bodyguard before he left. Ziegler said he would.

  Emmy Destinn was holding Giulio Setti in conversation, almost by force. She’d just about run out of things to say and was afraid she was going to lose him when a bodyguard started running across the stage toward them, his big feet hitting the floor noisily.

  He skidded to a stop, breathing heavily. “Tony Spinelli,” he gasped. “Have you seen him?”

  “Not since end of performance,” Setti said.

  “Who?” Emmy asked innocently.

  “One of the choristers,” Setti explained. “Do you—”

  “What about you, miss?” the bodyguard interrupted. “Bushy eyebrows, droopy mustache. Have you seen him?”

  “I don’t think so. Oh—you are supposed to be guarding him?” Emmy asked anxiously. “You haven’t lost him, have you?” The bodyguard dashed away without answering. Good performance, Emmy thought. “Mr. Setti, you don’t suppose—”

  “Now, now, Miss Destinn, do not be alarmed,” Setti said reassuringly. “It is probably nothing.”

  “Something is wrong?” Antonio Scotti asked, strolling up right on cue. “You look upset, Emmy.”

  “One of the bodyguards can’t find the chorister he’s assigned to protect!”

  “Cielo! Who is missing?”

  “Tony somebody,” Emmy said.

  “Spinelli,” Setti added. “Tony Spinelli.”

  “Eh, Tony—that is all right, then,” Scotti smiled. “I just see him go into greenroom. Nothing is wrong.”

  “Thank heavens,” Emmy sighed.

  “Grazie a Dio,” Setti nodded.

  Scotti pulled out a pocket watch. “I wonder what takes Gerry so long. Come, Emmy—we go make her hurry. Good night, Mr. Setti.”

  “Buona notte,” the chorus master smiled.

  I should never have taken the time to change, Geraldine Farrar thought as she locked the dressing-room door and told her maid to go home. She hurried down the stairs just in time to see Alessandro Quaglia, wearing his hat and coat, on his way out. “Maestro!” she called. “Have you seen Scotti?”

  “I think he is on other side of stage,�
�� Quaglia said, strolling toward her. “Let me congratulate you again on an exquisite performance. Sometimes I think you are perfect Tosca!”

  Only sometimes? “Thank you, Maestro. I think it went well tonight.” She stood chatting easily about the evening’s performance, keeping one eye on the stage. Before long she saw what she was waiting for. “Look—one of the choristers is still in costume.”

  Quaglia turned just in time to see the false Tony leaving the stage. “The wardrobe mistress will not like that.”

  “Yes—everybody else seems to have gone home. Maestro, there’s something I’d like to try in the second act.” She started explaining a complicated bit of stage business that would require a slower tempo from the orchestra if she was to work it all in. Quaglia was dubious, as she’d hoped. They argued amiably about the new business, Gerry all the time thinking: Where is Amato?

  There he was, hurrying toward them now. “Gerry, Maestro—do you hear? One of the choristers is missing!”

  “Missing!” Gerry exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

  “His bodyguard cannot find him. That means he is missing, no?”

  “Oh dear! You don’t think …”

  “Something happens to him?” Quaglia finished for her.

  “No one knows. He—wait, here is bodyguard now.” The guard came running toward them, looking a question at Amato. “Not here,” the baritone said.

  “Did you try the chorus dressing room?” Gerry asked.

  Fourth floor. The bodyguard dashed up the stairs.

  “Which chorister is it?” Quaglia asked.

  “Tony Spinelli,” Amato said.

  “Tony Spinelli,” Gerry repeated. “I don’t believe I know which one he is.” Then she ‘remembered’. “Maestro! That chorister still in costume we just saw—could that have been Tony Spinelli?”

  Quaglia spread his hands. “I do not see his face.”

  “What did he look like?” Amato asked.

  “Long droopy mustache,” Gerry said. “Eyebrows that stick out a mile.”

  “That is Tony!” Amato cried jubilantly. “Where is he?”

  “Why, when we saw him he was headed in the direction of the greenroom, wouldn’t you say, Maestro?”