A Chorus of Detectives (21 page)

“At the most.” She pointed to the bicycle. “Is that …?”

“Belongs to one of the tenants. A singer, she says.” He led Emmy down to a large basement room that seemed to be a combination living room–bedroom–kitchen–workshop–office. The man let her find her own seat and then said, “First of all, I gotta know who I'm talking to.”

“Ema Destinnova,” she said, and waited.

No flicker of recognition. “What can I do for you, Mrs.?”

“Tell me your name?”

“Bridges.” Nothing else.

“Mr. Bridges, can you hear when people come in and go out of this building?”

He pointed to the ceiling. “Steps run up right over there.”

“Can you tell from the sound who's climbing them? Or coming down?”

Mr. Bridges allowed the ghost of a smile to appear. “You're kinda new at this, ain't you, Mrs.? Who you wanta know about?”

“Rosa Ponselle,” Emmy sighed.

“
Her
I can always tell,” he snorted. “She never walks. She runs up the stairs, she runs down the stairs. Never walks.”

“That sounds like Rosa,” Emmy muttered.

“You know her, huh?”

“We work at the same place.” Emmy tried asking whether Rosa had gone out or not on certain dates, but the man just laughed and said he didn't keep records of the tenants' comings and goings. Emmy had expected no less. “Has she ever said anything to you about, well, about some people who were bothering her?”

He started to shake his head but then stopped. “Wait a minute—once she was madder'n a hornet about something. She wasn't talking to me, she was talking to her sister—I was in the kitchen fixing a leaky faucet. She kept saying
they
did this and
they
did that, and the sister seemed to know what she was talking about. Is that what you mean?”

“It may be. Can you remember anything specific she said?”

He thought back. “Well, she said somebody jarred her elbow when she was about to pick something up. And she complained about some guy who planted himself right in front of her and wouldn't move. Buncha things … oh yeah, I remember she told her sister she thought somebody was putting them up to it or egging them on or something.”

“Somebody? Did she say who?”

“Yeah, but I don't remember the name.”

“Quaglia? Setti? Ziegler?”

“What was the second one?”

“Setti? Giulio Setti?”

Mr. Bridges scrunched up his face. “Could be. I know it wasn't Ziegler, and I don't think it was the other one.”

“Alessandro Quaglia.”

“Nope. It was Setti. I'm pretty sure.”

Emmy spent a dollar's worth of time thinking about that. Rosa was impetuous and could just be hitting out at any available target. Or she could actually know of something that had convinced her Setti was behind all the badgering. Emmy wondered if Rosa would tell her if she just asked her straight out. Or … “Mr. Bridges, did Rosa say why she suspected Setti of being behind it?”

“Naw, not really. She just said something about him building sympathy.”

“Building sympathy for himself?” Using the chorus's all-round bad behavior to excuse his doing a less-than-perfect job with them? It was possible. “Did Rosa mention what she planned to do about it?”

“I don't remember nothing more, Mrs.”

Meaning her time was up. “Well, thank you, Mr. Bridges, you've been an enormous help. Now I wonder if I might use your telephone before I leave?”

He shook his head. “Didn't get none put in.”

Emmy forced herself to smile and said goodbye. Out on the street, she paused a moment. She'd chosen a time to snoop around Rosa's apartment building when she knew the younger woman would be at the opera house. She'd wanted to call to make sure Rosa hadn't left yet; Emmy thought a good heart-to-heart was next on the agenda. Well, if she missed her at the opera house she'd just have to try another time.

The bad weather had eased up a bit. The snow had stopped and the wind had died, for which Emmy rendered silent thanks; she was almost as uncomfortable in the New York winters as the Italian singers were. She walked to Riverside Drive and started the business of hailing a taxicab. When after nearly ten minutes of continuous arm-waving and no cab had stopped, Emmy no longer had to worry about getting cold; she was warmer than she liked inside her fur-lined coat.

She should have brought the limousine. If she couldn't get a taxicab to stop for her, what was she to do? It was too far to walk to the opera house—nearly sixty blocks. She hated the subway; she was convinced it wasn't safe. There were streetcars, but the only one Emmy knew about ran down Third Avenue—a
long
trudge across town. She couldn't go back to the apartment building and use the phone to call a teammate to come get her, because Mr. Bridges ‘didn't get none put in.' So how was she to get back downtown?

The answer came immediately. Rosa's bicycle.

It had been nearly thirty years since Emmy Destinn had been on a bicycle, and she hadn't particularly enjoyed it even then. But if she must, she must. She made her way back to the apartment house and tried the door instead of ringing for Mr. Bridges. The faulty latch gave way, and thirty seconds later Emmy was walking Rosa's bicycle east on Ninety-seventh Street.

She wasn't even going to try Riverside Drive; too much traffic. She waited until she got to Broadway to try riding the flimsy-looking machine. The first few attempts consisted mostly of pushing along on one foot and then overbalancing the other way and pushing along on the other foot. But at last she got both feet on the pedals at the same time and went wobbling down Broadway—on the sidewalk. She prayed fervently that no one she knew would see her.

Emmy had forgotten how uncomfortable bicycle seats could be. But thank God hemlines were shorter now; she would never have been able to manage in the voluminous skirts she wore before the war. Emmy's legs tired quickly, but much of Broadway was a gentle downhill slope in the direction she was going and she could coast now and then. Almost-frozen slush lined both sides of the sidewalk, so she had to concentrate on steering right down the middle. Whenever a pedestrian yelled at her to get off the sidewalk, she'd just pedal faster—in case a policeman was in the vicinity.

Once she'd settled into a sort of rhythm, she started thinking about Giulio Setti. Emmy had known Setti almost as long as she'd known Gatti and Caruso and the others. She couldn't say she knew him well, but still he would not have been her nominee for the role of killer. Not that she thought him incapable of killing; the war had taught her that anyone was capable of anything. But Setti's normal way of dealing with conflict was to negotiate, to compromise, to work things out. That, however, was back when choruses behaved themselves and worked hard at their art. Now Setti could do nothing but watch helplessly as his whole life was being changed, his future jeopardized by conditions he couldn't seem to control. Maybe something had just snapped.

Emmy pedaled past the Colonial Club and Christ Church. Past hotels and apartment buildings—the Ansonia, the St. Andrew, the Sherman Square, the Doulton. At the intersection of Broadway and Amsterdam, a boy threw a snowball at her. Emmy snickered at him when he missed.

Even if Rosa Ponselle did have proof that Setti was encouraging the chorus to behave badly, it didn't automatically follow that the chorus master was also the killer. But such uncharacteristic behavior must mean
something
… if Rosa did indeed know what she was talking about. Funny thing, Emmy thought, Rosa seemed to have changed from being a suspect to being a source of information. Well, if her ‘information' turned out to be useless, she could go right back to being a suspect again.

Crossing Columbus Circle, Emmy ran out of luck—she took a spill; the front wheel of the bicycle hit a patch of ice and down she went. The only thing injured was her dignity, but she did have the wind knocked out of her. A passing automobile stopped and the driver got out; two men left the sidewalk and hurried out into the street where she sat. Any other time Emmy would have welcomed such solicitousness, but now she just wanted everyone to pretend they hadn't seen her. Two of the men got her back to her feet and the third picked up the bicycle. Embarrassed, Emmy muttered her thanks and pedaled away as fast as she could.

By the time she reached Fiftieth Street, every muscle in Emmy's ample body was screaming for mercy. Her buttocks were cramped, her back ached, the calves of her legs felt as if they had hot needles stuck into them. All she needed to make her misery complete was for it to start snowing. Hastily she glanced at the sky, as if afraid her errant thought had been overheard. But the weather ignored its cue, and the snow held back.

Doggedly she pedaled on, hoping she wasn't too late to catch Rosa. Ten more short blocks and at last she was at the Fortieth Street entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House. She struggled through the door, and the machine that had seemed so flimsy when she started out now weighed a ton as she dragged it up the few steps to the stage level. Breathing heavily, Emmy swore a sacred oath never, ever to get on a bicycle again, not even to escape earthquake, tidal wave, or the coming of Armageddon.

“That's
my
bicycle!” a young voice shrieked. “What are you doing with my bicycle?”

Emmy groaned. “How can you tell? They all look alike.”

“That's my bicycle,” Rose insisted. “And you stole it!”

“Rosa, I am on the verge of dying from pain and exhaustion. If you—”

“You
stole
my
bicycle
!
”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Emmy snapped, impatient with the girl's nonsense. “It's right here, isn't it? I just borrowed it because I didn't have any other transportation. I didn't hurt it.”

Rosa placed her hands on her hips and squinted one eye. “I left it at home. What were you doing at my apartment building?”

A small crowd of interested observers was beginning to gather. Emmy sighed. “Could we go upstairs and talk?”

“We can talk right here and we can talk about why you stole my bicycle. Mr. Bridges didn't let you take it, did he?”

Emmy was tempted, but she resisted, “No, Mr. Bridges doesn't know anything about it. He wasn't even in the foyer when I—”

“
Aha!
” Rosa pounced. “So you know who Mr. Bridges is! What were you doing snooping around my home? Explain yourself!”

At that point Emmy simply gave up. She was in no condition to lock horns with this belligerent young woman; her epic two-wheeled voyage down Broadway had been for nothing. She'd just call Gerry Farrar and let her question Rosa, let
her
find out if the young singer knew something important about Giulio Setti. Setti was her suspect, after all. Let Gerry do it.

She turned her back on Rosa and walked out.

Enrico Caruso peered through a side window of the back seat of his limousine, watching a crowd of pedestrians who all seemed to be carrying packages. Christmas was only a week away, but Dorothy was doing most of his shopping for him this year. Caruso pressed a hand against his side; the pain had come back.

The limousine turned into Christopher Street, and Caruso shifted his attention from the people to the buildings. He was not good at remembering addresses, but he was sure he'd recognize the building when he saw it. He was looking for the home of an old friend, a bass-baritone who'd been singing at the Metropolitan since before Caruso had first come to New York. Tommaso had been then and still was now singing in the chorus. He was the only chorister Caruso had ever met who sincerely had no desire to advance to solo parts.

Tommaso liked singing in the chorus. He had neither a solo voice nor ambition; he was comfortable being part of a crowd. A Neapolitan by birth, Tommaso had made a point of welcoming the new tenor from Naples when Caruso had come to the Metropolitan back in 1903. He'd helped the newcomer learn his way around, invited him home to dinner with his family, and helped him find a tailor. Within a month Caruso was feeling completely at home in New York, but he never forgot the kindness the chorister had extended to a stranger.

“Here!” Caruso commanded. “Stop here!”

The chauffeur pulled over to an empty place by the curb and waited, engine idling. Caruso opened the back door for a better view of the brick building. Star-shaped tie-rods about halfway up the side. A third-story window with one corner rounded instead of angled. Yes, it was Tommaso's place. “You wait,” Caruso instructed the chauffeur.

Unfortunately, the chorister lived on the third floor, so Caruso was panting by the time he rapped on the door with his gold-headed cane. Tommaso answered the door with a napkin tucked into his shirt collar. “Rico! You come at good time! We eat, yes?”

Caruso went through the motions of declining but did allow himself to be persuaded to accept a small plate of spaghetti. Tommaso's wife's idea of ‘small' was the same as Caruso's, and the tenor ended up consuming a full pound of the pasta. Tommaso's two boys weren't at all shy with their famous visitor, and Caruso enjoyed the company even more than his little snack. His side had stopped hurting; he'd have to tell his doctor of his discovery that spaghetti flavored with good fellowship could cure pain.

When they'd all finished eating, Tommaso led his unexpected guest into the front parlor where they could talk without fear of interruption. “Eh, my old friend, I know you come to wish us happy Christmas,” Tommaso said, “but I think there is something else too, yes?”

“You are right, Tommaso,” Caruso said, sinking into a large armchair. “I wish to ask you about Mr. Ziegler. I hear what he says to you, to the chorus.” He explained about being behind one of the stage curtains when the assistant manager had blurted out the wish that more of the choristers were dead.

Tommaso shook his head sadly. “That is ugly moment, that. I always think he hates us. Now I know he does.”