A Chorus of Detectives (27 page)

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?”

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?”