A Chorus of Detectives (19 page)

“Where are you going to put it?”

“The same place as last time. Even the rich Americans will find it hard 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'.”

“Emmy? I know Gerry once did something like that—”

“Her too. And Caruso. They fancy themselves detectives, you see. You wouldn't be doing any of that, would you?”

“Any of what? Investigating, you mean?” Rosa looked astounded at the suggestion.

“That's what I mean. Are you?”

“Are you crazy? Why would I pretend to be a detective? I wouldn't
dream
of going around asking questions and sticking my neck out! Not on your life!”

“Bless you, my child,” O'Halloran sighed, and left.

8

“
Idiota!
” Antonio Scotti grabbed his hair with both hands. “Why do I not think of it? I forget, I forget!”

“Then it is true?” Gatti-Casazza asked.

“
Sì, sì
—he is here all night!”

The Geraldine Farrar team of detectives was meeting in Scotti's apartment in the Knickerbocker Hotel to compare notes. “Are you sure of the date, Toto?” Gerry asked. “That's important.”

“It is night trap door falls open in
Pagliacci
,” Scotti said. “I remember thinking when I hear, this terrible thing happens while I am busy relieving Gigli of his last singing fee. It is same night.”

“And he is here playing cards all the time?” Gatti persisted. “He does not go out for a while?”

“Only to visit the amenities. He comes right back, to this very room.”

“Eh, then,” Gatti smiled, pleased with his work. “Now we remove one name from list of suspects, no?”

“Gigli is not good card player,” Scotti offered by way of general information.

Gerry made an apologetic sound. “That was smart detective work, Gatti—but I'm afraid we can't take Gigli's name off the suspects list just yet.”

“
Perchè non?
He is here playing cards all night with Scotti! Other men are here too, they are also witnesses. How can he wreak havoc at the opera house and be here playing cards at same time? No, Gerry—Gigli has good alibi.”

“But he didn't have to be at the opera house
that night
. He could have sabotaged the trap door earlier. Whoever the killer is, he didn't have to wait for the actual performance.”

“
È vero
,” Scotti nodded. “She is right, Gatti.”

Gerry said, “Here's something to consider. What was the last opera performed before
Pagliacci
?”

“
Mefistofele
,” Gatti answered. Gigli's opera. “But that does not mean he is guilty!”

“No, of course it doesn't. But it does mean he had a good opportunity to fix the trap door so it would give way the next time a lot of weight was put on it.”

“You mean he can fix it right after
Mefistofele
performance ends.”

“Or the next day,” Gerry said. “He'd have had plenty of time.”

Gatti slumped in his chair. “I do not think Gigli is guilty.”

“Neither do I,” Gerry admitted promptly. “But if we're looking for evidence to eliminate suspects, we just don't have any for Gigli yet.”

The general manager groaned. “
Cielo!
And I think I do such good detective work!”

“But you do!” Scotti said, trying to cheer him up. “That was smart, going to Gigli's valet.”

“But not very nice,” Gatti said despondently. “And it is for nothing!”

“Well, murder isn't very nice either,” Gerry said. “Don't worry, Gatti—you're going about your investigation the right way.”