Poor Butterfly tp-15

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “All true,” said Lundeen with a sigh, standing up to straighten his shirt front. “The Maestro is a storyteller and a mass of contradictions. He values his privacy but enjoys adulation. He changes his biography. His accent is a fraud, a mixture of precise English and playful European pronunciations. He is an accomplished organist, a virtuoso. There is no reason for him to claim the violin. Yet he does so. His exploits with women are legendary in the business. Your Reverend …”

  “… Souvaine,” I said.

  “… will get a few lines in the paper, but there is nothing the community does not know about the Maestro,” Lundeen concluded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change my shirt, shave, and try to look presentable. The Maestro doesn’t like slovenliness. You might want to get your people down to the lobby before he arrives.”

  Lundeen moved toward a door in the right wall, opened it, and disappeared.

  “I am able to confirm what Mr. Lundeen has said about Leopold Stokowski,” said Gunther. “The discrepancies have been evident for a long time.”

  Gwen sat up suddenly and found herself looking at Shelly.

  She stifled a scream, her eyes searching for help. She saw Gunther and then Jeremy. Her mouth opened and her eyes found me.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Bad dream,” she whispered hoarsely, trying to sit up.

  Gunther moved to help her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Lundeen …?”

  “Shaving,” I said.

  “He told you what we found? Or failed to find?”

  “Perhaps you would not mind summarizing your information for me,” said Gunther.

  Gwen touched her hair and sat up.

  “Okay, Gunther, you stay here and work on the statements,” I said. “If we have anything to add, we’ll bring it to you. You keep an eye on Gwen.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Jeremy, Shelly, and I left the room.

  We made it to the lobby just in time. Members of the orchestra were coming in, carrying instruments, talking, pointing out grotesque designs and rococo corners. Behind them, a light coat over his shoulders, came Stokowski, with Lorna and Miguelito at his side. Under his coat Stokowski wore a gray suit with a black shirt and white tie. He looked like a king going to a costume ball dressed like a movie gangster. He looked up at me as he entered.

  “Ah, my detective,” he said. “What have you discovered?”

  “Everyone has an alibi for everything,” I said.

  “As is always true in detective fiction,” he said.

  I introduced Shelly and Jeremy. Stokowski shook their hands.

  “I am an admirer of your work,” Jeremy said.

  Stokowski nodded, having heard it before, the polite response of someone who meets a celebrity.

  “Exclusively of my work?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “No,” said Jeremy. “Not exclusively. I enjoy the New York Philharmonic, though I find them a bit too formal under Bruno Walter, except when they are doing Beethoven. The London Philharmonic under Sir Thomas Beecham is suited for Debussy, although not for the more intense composers, and while Felix Weingartner and the London Symphony have a remarkable range, they have, in my opinion, no singular identity or strength. Admittedly, my familiarity with these orchestras is through recordings, the quality of which varies greatly. Your recordings, however, are consistently of the highest quality. In addition, I find your dedication to modern composers and your willingness to deal with the most difficult classics admirable. In my opinion, only your friend Artur Rodzinski, with the Cleveland Orchestra, approaches your virtuosity.”

  Stokowski had stopped and was regarding the large bear-like bald man in front of him.

  “You are a musician?” he asked.

  “A poet,” Jeremy said.

  “Used to wrestle,” said Shelly. “Pro. Broke Tiger Daniels’ arm in Pittsburgh in 1930.”

  Stokowski looked at Jeremy and smiled. “I look forward to talking with you further.”

  He pulled the coat around his shoulders and hurried into the building.

  “Are you all right?” I asked Lorna. She wore a scarf around her neck. I had a flash image of her red neck from my dream.

  “No,” she said, looking around at the workmen and up the stairway. “And Miguelito couldn’t sleep. He was traumatized.”

  “Shelly, will you accompany Miss Bartholomew while she is in the building?” I said.

  “Sure,” said Shelly, taking Lorna’s arm. Miguelito took a snap in his direction and Shelly let go.

  We heard his voice as he led her away: “Little fellow has a nice smile there, but there’s just a slight underbite, and his teeth need cleaning.”

  “Stay with Stokowski,” I told Jeremy.

  Jeremy nodded and moved silently toward the auditorium.

  Vera came in about two minutes later, but she wasn’t alone. A tall blond man was laughing at her side. She was smiling. The man wasn’t just tall. He was also muscular and handsome. Then Vera spotted me and the smile, disappeared.

  The two of them moved toward me.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “Lorna’s much better.”

  “I saw her,” I said. “Inside. Let’s try for those carrot sandwiches tonight.”

  “Who is this?” asked the man with Vera.

  “I’m sorry,” Vera said, clearly flustered. “This is Mr. Peters, the detective Maestro Stokowski has hired. Toby, this is Martin Passacaglia.”

  I put out my hand. Passacaglia took it and gave it his best. He was about fifteen years younger than me and in good shape, but it was body-building shape, not scar tissue shape. I let him squeeze.

  “Good to meet you, Peters,” he said. His voice sang-I liked that voice, reminded me of Robert Preston. “Let’s get inside, Vera. Stoki will be waiting,” he added.

  “Go ahead, Martin,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Nice dress,” I said, trying my best smile. The dress was nice-yellow, plenty of room on top to breathe, with just enough flesh showing in the V-cut of the neck.

  “Peters,” said Passacaglia sweetly, trying to lead Vera away. “We have work to do, and so have you.”

  I reached over and put my hand on the hand holding Vera’s arm.

  “Go inside, Mr. Passacaglia,” I said with a smile. “I’ve played scenes like this more than you have, and they never come out with a song. They come out with bloody noses and cracked teeth.”

  “You are coming dangerously close to insolence and the loss of this employment,” said Passacaglia.

  “What are you two fighting about?” asked Vera.

  “You,” I explained.

  She blushed. I thought it was cute.

  “I’m giving you a warning, Peters,” Passacaglia hissed through perfect white teeth.

  “Mr. Peters,” came a voice behind us. I turned to face Lundeen. “You have been hired to protect, not attack, the company. If you inflict bodily harm to Mr. Passacaglia, you will have to collect your fee from the Phantom.”

  Passacaglia took this moment to sneer and make his exit. Vera followed him, giving me a quick, small wave of her hand.

  “The man can’t act,” said Lundeen with a sigh. “Best we could get, however. And he can sing. He is obnoxious, I grant you, but we do need him for this opera.”

  “He didn’t seem to be afraid of the Phantom,” I said.

  “Martin is far too stupid to be afraid,” said Lundeen, looking into the theater lobby hallway into which Vera and Martin had disappeared. “He has been killed in so many operas that he thinks he is immortal. A strange malady peculiar to tenors and fools.”

  A pair of women in work clothes, carrying paint buckets, moved quickly past us. Some paint sloshed out of one of their cans and Lundeen jumped back.

  “What happened to professional pride?” he asked, loud enough for the two women to hear. They kept walking. He turned to me. He had something to say. We stood looking at each other.
/>   “Think I should take in Mt. Lassen while I’m in town?” I asked.

  “I am not impressed by your colleagues, Mr. Peters,” he said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

  “I thought we were Toby and John, drinking buddies.”

  “Your colleagues are …”

  “… cleverly disguised,” I said. “Gunther is trained in the use of Swiss weaponry and explosives. He’s taller than he looks. And Shelly is a hand-to-hand combat expert who lulls his opponents into complacency with his pretense of being a buffoon. Jeremy, I must admit, is along for the ride. Smart man, but can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Amusing,” said Lundeen.

  “I’ll make a deal with you, John,” I said. “I don’t think much of Passacaglia. You send him home and I’ll let you pick out one of my men to send home.”

  Lundeen sighed deeply. “I’ve told you I need Martin.”

  “And I need my team.”

  “I give up,” he said dramatically, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, tears moistening his eyes. “Keep your clowns. You are the Maestro’s choice. It will be his responsibility. I wash my hands of it all. My life is total misery. I leave myself in the hands of the gods.”

  “Very convincing, John,” I said. “That from an opera?”

  The look of despair suddenly left Lundeen’s face. “I think so,” he said, “but I’ll be damned if I can remember which one. Toby, can I be honest?”

  “Try,” I said.

  “Leave Vera alone and please concentrate on the job. I need you. We need you.”

  I was going to argue, but he was right. I nodded. He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “I was really convincing, eh?” he said, guiding me toward the auditorium.

  “Beautiful performance,” I said.

  “Acting, that’s a talent you never lose,” he said. “Martin is safe. He’s never had the talent. I’m invigorated. A few hours’ sleep and I’ll be ready to go out to lunches and sell tickets to the tone deaf and ancient who think of opera as a deadly responsibility. There are but a few, a precious few, in this country who really appreciate the art. I remember …”

  There was a sudden noise, as if a bomb had exploded through the ceiling. Lundeen looked at me for an opinion. I didn’t have one. I left him and ran down the hall toward the auditorium. I could hear him panting after me.

  As I ran through the rear door toward the stage, the entire orchestra, Stokowski, Vera, and Martin Passacaglia were looking up the aisle toward me. Shelly was turned in his seat in the front row, and Jeremy was running up the aisle in my direction. A man-sized grasshopper shape lay just in front of me. I reached it at the same time as Jeremy. Lundeen came up behind me and stopped suddenly.

  “It fell from there,” Jeremy said, pointing upward.

  There was nothing up there but a darkened balcony. I considered running like hell up to the balcony, but there was no hurry. I turned instead to the twisted mass that had crushed an aisle seat and lay in front of me.

  “What is it?” called Stokowski from the stage.

  “A projector,” Lundeen called back. “A rusty old movie projector.”

  “Lorna!” Vera cried.

  There was a movement to my right and Lorna Bartholomew sat up between the seats, her eyes open wide, blood on her forehead.

  “… tried again,” she whimpered, looking at Lundeen.

  Lundeen moved to help her.

  “Don’t you touch me! Why is he trying to kill me?” she wailed. “Where is Miguelito?”

  Vera was hurrying down the aisle, followed by Passacaglia. Shelly waddled behind them, Miguelito yapping in his arms.

  “Lorna!” Vera cried again.

  “Is she hurt?” Stokowski called as he strode toward us.

  “No,” said Lundeen. “Just frightened.”

  “I quit,” screamed Lorna. “I’m not dying for an opera.”

  She put out her arms for the dog, and Shelly let the animal leap to her. The impact almost knocked her over.

  “A good symphony, perhaps,” said Stokowski, “but I agree with you: not for an opera.”

  Lorna looked at him as if he were mad and saw a small mischievous smile on the Maestro’s face.

  Stokowski touched the shoulder of a woman with glasses who had moved up the aisle carrying a flute. She handed the flute to Lundeen and put her arm around Lorna.

  “Let’s take her up to my office,” Lundeen said.

  “No,” Lorna said, suddenly calm, suddenly sober. “I wish to leave this building. I wish never to return to this building. I wish to live. Some may think I have little to live for, but that is not my view. The person responsible for this will regret it.”

  The woman who had handed Lundeen her flute helped Vera guide Lorna and her dog into the aisle and past the twisted mass of the projector.

  “Am I being calm, Maestro?” Lorna asked, a trickle of blood winding down her nose and around her mouth.

  “Perfectly,” Stokowski assured her.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s all I want to know.”

  And she was ushered out the door and into the lobby.

  “Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I’m going to call a short break and then have the orchestra continue to rehearse with the cast. Do you think you and your fellows can keep death at bay long enough to let us get through the first act?”

  Passacaglia grinned over Stokowski’s shoulder.

  “Jeremy, Shelly, get every light in this place on and sit on the stage with your eyes open,” I said.

  Jeremy nodded.

  “She said she had to go to the toilet, Toby,” Shelly whimpered. He turned to Stokowski. “She gave me the dog. I couldn’t follow her into the toilet could I?”

  “You could,” Stokowski said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “See,” said Shelly. “Even Toscanini says I couldn’t help it.”

  The place went dead. Eyes turned to the Maestro. He shook his head, turned his back, and moved back toward the stage.

  “Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly.

  “What did I say?” whined Shelly, sensing blunder, a sensation familiar to him. “I said something?”

  “Jeremy will explain,” I said. “I’m going to find Raymond.”

  “Raymond?” asked Shelly. “Who the hell is Raymond?”

  “The man who knows where everything is around here,” I said, moving toward the exit. “Might know something about projectors.”

  8

  Finding Raymond left me tired, dirty, and a little confused. I got lost in dusty corridors and dead ends. Then I borrowed a flashlight from a reluctant painter. Raymond had said something about living in the tower. There were five towers in the Opera. All of them were up wooden stairways.

  The first stairway I tried was at the end of a narrow corridor. The walls were decorated with blue and white plaster drapes that wouldn’t have fooled Shelly with his glasses off, even if there weren’t chunks gouged out of the plaster. Between the plaster drapes were paintings of overstuffed horses and guys dressed in red uniforms, little hats, and boots. Shelly would have liked the horses. They all had big teeth and looked as if they were familiar with bad breath. The corridor looked like the lobby of the Chinese Theater in L.A. in the middle of a renovation.

  The stairway was rotten, but I made it to the top and found a padlocked room. The lock was rusty. I pulled at it and it came off. It took two kicks to get the door open wide enough for me to get in.

  Enough light got through the dirty windows to show me that someone back in the bad old days had used the place to entertain himself and whatever ladies he could lure to his red velvet lair. There were mirrors as high as a basketball net at angles surrounding a big square bed. The mirrors were smoked and dirty but showed the image of the bed behind their cloud cover. There were indentations in the ancient mattress, the memory of bodies, proving that sex wasn’t invented in the Roaring Twenties. The couch and two chairs were covered in red vel
vet, and on the wall hung the portrait of a man with his hands on his hips, his long hair combed back, his head cocked to one side. He was a little on the heavy side, but he made up for it in confidence. His smile was all teeth and phony.

  The second tower had fewer ghosts and no portraits. It took me a while to get there, but I finally found a hallway with statues of old men draped in stone robes. I half-expected to run into Billy Batson. The steps to this tower were in no better shape than the first one I’d tried, but the room at the top wasn’t locked. It was filled with magazines-piles of magazines, magazines toppled over, magazines scattered. All covered with a layer of gray dust.

  I picked up a Popular Mechanics from 1913 and discovered that submarines would be the most important weapon of the twentieth century and that someone was planning a cruise ship with more space inside it than Yankee Stadium. A 1905 Police Gazette with the cover missing had a story about how much it would cost to keep the Chinese out of the U.S.A., and suggested that it would be worth every penny. I tried one more magazine. It was Casket and Sunnyside, the undertakers’ journal. I threw it in a corner, hoping the tower I was looking for wouldn’t be the fifth one.

  It wasn’t.

  The third tower was Raymond’s. I could tell because the stairs were not as covered with dust, and the door at the top was locked.

  Music was coming from behind the door, a violin. I knocked and the music stopped. I knocked again. No answer.

  “Raymond,” I called. “I know you’re in there.”

  “No you don’t,” he said.

  “I heard you playing,” I said. “And besides, you just answered me.”

  “You’re smart. I’ll give you that,” he said.

  “I appreciate your praise,” I said. “Let me in. Someone tried to kill Lorna Bartholomew again.”

  I heard his steps move toward the door, and a bolt pulled.

  “Why do you keep the door bolted if you’ve been the only one in the building for years?” I asked, stepping into the room and looking around.