by Barbara Paul
“I did,” I replied. “And I should have done it long ago.”
“That must be an interesting story,” Belasco murmured. “You must tell it to me sometime.”
“I’m sorry you had to see this, David,” I said. “I’m not sorry it happened—but I’m sorry you had to see it.”
Morris grinned at me. “You really did that?”
“I came back to tell you how impressed I was by your performance in the first act,” Belasco said, “but I can see this is not the time. Perhaps after the opera? A late supper?”
Before I could answer, Amato came over and made a show of feeling the muscle in my upper right arm. “I am glad we are friends, cara mia,” he whispered.
And then—just what we all needed—Toscanini stormed out onto the stage and demanded to know what was holding up the performance. When someone told him what had happened, he started screaming at me—but suddenly broke off in mid-scream. In fact, he looked as if he was trying not to laugh. “With the castanets?” he asked.
“With the castanets,” I nodded.
“Highly unprofessional behavior,” he snickered and moved away without another word. I was glad he left; I was starting to feel crowded. David Belasco and Morris Gest had tactfully interposed their bodies between me and the mob of people backstage, but it was beginning to seem that almost everyone in the world that I knew was there.
Everyone except Scotti. Where was Scotti?
Places, please!—at last! Carmen is on stage when the curtain opens on Act II, so I moved down to my place. The last thing I heard before the curtain opened was a baritone voice rumbling, “And she didn’t even apologize!”
And she wasn’t going to, either. The second act began, and I didn’t waste any time getting into it. I was still angry and keyed up and fed up and my nerves were on edge and I couldn’t stand still and this and that and the other—and I whipped through the Gypsy Song at a speed that had Toscanini’s eyebrows climbing his forehead. For once he had to labor to keep up.
Gypsy girls danced, gypsy men banged away at their tambourines, I sang a few lines with one of the officers, and then it was time for Escamillo’s entrance. I’d made up my mind to keep my back turned to Duchon during his entire aria, so I sat down at the table and stared determinedly offstage—at Caruso, who was standing there insouciantly wearing a chamber pot on his head.
I kept my mouth covered with my hand until I was sure the laugh was under control, and then gazed blankly out at the audience. On the other side of the stage, the chorus was singing Vivat! vivat le Torero! But when Duchon’s cue came—nothing. Something ran through the other singers on the stage—a gasp, a quick intake of breath—and I swiveled in my chair to see what was the matter.
There stood Duchon, his eyes big as saucers and his face horribly contorted, one hand grasping his throat. The other arm he held straight out in front of him, one finger pointing at me. He staggered to center stage; one of the chorus men tried to help him, but Duchon shrugged him off.
No sound came out of his mouth, but his lips kept forming the word You!—over and over again. I wanted to stand up, but my legs were paralyzed. Duchon staggered across the stage toward me, still mouthing You, you!—and then collapsed across my lap. The chair gave way under the sudden extra weight, spilling both of us to the floor.
His huge body lay over me, twitching, twitching—until somebody thought to yell, “Curtain! Close the curtain!”
Twitching.
9
It was the throat spray, of course. Someone had put something in the spray that turned Philippe Duchon’s throat into a raging furnace.
Dr. Curtis had rummaged through Emmy’s saddlebag and provided what immediate relief he could before hustling Duchon off to a hospital. The rest of us watched them go in a state of shock. What a vicious, ugly thing to do—there was no imaginable way it could have been an accident. Attacking a singer’s throat … unthinkable, simply unthinkable!
But somebody had thought of it. Somebody right there.
Duchon had been all right when we started the second act; I’d heard him say And she didn’t even apologize right before the curtains opened. That meant that sometime during the Gypsy Song or right before he made his entrance he’d used the spray—and set his throat on fire. That was bad enough, but also it was clear Duchon thought I was the one who had tampered with the spray. The way he came straight at me across the stage, the accusing finger, his mouthing You! at me—no doubt about it, Duchon was blaming me.
Gatti-Casazza had acted with an alacrity that surprised everyone. He’d recovered from his shock first and announced in a voice that brooked no disagreement that the performance would continue. He told an ashen-faced Jimmy Freeman to get ready. He decided that picking up where we’d left off would simply emphasize Duchon’s scary collapse and so we would start the second act over, meaning I’d have to sing the Gypsy Song again. Toscanini gave him no argument; he was quite willing to let Gatti shoulder this one alone.
“The spray bottle?” Caruso asked weakly.
“Dr. Curtis took it with him to have the contents analyzed,” Gatti said. “Do not use your own spray, Enrico—it too may have been tampered with, no? And take that ridiculous object off your head!” He came over to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You are not hurt, Gerry? Duchon is a heavy man, I know.”
It seemed to me he should have inquired about that before he started announcing what we were going to do, but nobody was thinking straight yet. I was feeling a little dizzy and I couldn’t seem to stop trembling, but I wasn’t hurt. I told him I could go on, feeling only slightly like a martyr.
“Try this,” said Emmy Destinn, holding an open ammonia bottle under my nose. I made a noise and pushed the bad smell away, but it did help. The dizziness left. And then Scotti was there, back from wherever he’d disappeared to, wrapping both arms around me and willing my trembling to stop.
Gatti went out in front of the curtain and made the necessary announcement. He downplayed Duchon’s collapse, saying only that he was indisposed. Then he enthusiastically informed the audience that they were in for a special treat, that they were going to witness the début performance in a major role of that rising young baritone, Mr. James Freeman. He was trying to generate some curiosity about Duchon’s replacement, but from behind the curtain I couldn’t tell whether he was succeeding or not.
We started again. This time I sang the Gypsy Song at a much slower tempo and Toscanini, God bless him, followed me. Not that it mattered much; everyone was only half-listening anyway, including me. I was worried about Jimmy. In fact, I was willing to wager that everyone on the stage was thinking of that untried baritone who was about to step into Philippe Duchon’s shoes.
And step he did! These weren’t the most auspicious of circumstances for a young singer’s début, but Jimmy didn’t even hesitate; he sang his aria like the professional he was. He looked good and he sounded good; I was proud of him. It was a pity he had to sing his first major role in a performance that had such a cloud over it, but the audience greeted his performance warmly and Jimmy enjoyed his first taste of real success.
That gave us all a lift. Toscanini picked up the tempo and we went through the rest of the act with something like our previous élan. (I’d have to tell Jimmy he’d saved the performance.) I did my vamping dance with the castanets, and Caruso did nothing at all to distract me. No more pranks tonight.
I came off the stage feeling flushed and excited, the way a good performance always leaves me; nothing like the healing power of music. I was surprised to find David Belasco and Morris Gest waiting in the wings. “Didn’t you watch from out front?”
“We did,” Belasco said dryly, “until we were ordered to come back here.”
“Ordered? By whom?”
“By that man.” Belasco gestured majestically toward a tall, lanky stranger with a derby perched on the back of his head. “That is none other than Lieutenant Michael O’Halloran of the New York Detective Bureau. We have met b
efore.”
“I never met him before,” Morris said. “And I’d just as soon skip it this time. But since we were backstage during the time somebody diddled with that throat spray, he says we gotta hang around.”
“But who called the police?” I asked.
“Mr. Gatti. That’s a surprise, isn’t it? The lieutenant brought some of his buddies with him. Look there,” Morris pointed, “and there. And over there.”
I looked at the three other policemen, asking questions of anyone they could buttonhole. I felt a chill run down my back and said, “I must go—I have to change.” I ran up the stairs to my dressing room.
Gatti had called the police! I approved, wholeheartedly; I had no desire to go on working with someone capable of such a vicious act as the one we witnessed tonight, whoever he might be. But I was surprised at the speed with which Gatti had acted, and even that he’d called the police at all. I’d have thought his first reaction would have been to keep things quiet, to avoid scandal. Impressive, the way he’d stepped in and taken charge.
What had been in the spray? Was the damage permanent, would Duchon be able to sing again? I was especially anxious for the villain to be found since Duchon had accused me, and he’d done so in front of a packed house! Three thousand people had watched him accuse me. How could he think I’d do such a thing? Just because I’d thrown those silly castanets at him, that didn’t mean—oh, it was absurd.
The last two acts of Carmen went well enough. The brief tussle between Jimmy and Caruso in the third act was not convincing—they’d never rehearsed it together, after all. But that was a minor matter; the important thing was that Jimmy Freeman had clearly established his right to a place on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. After the performance was over I gave him a big kiss and told him he was wonderful. Everyone was happy for Jimmy, but the shadow of what had happened to Duchon still hung over all the congratulations. Not a début to be remembered with undiluted joy.
The police lieutenant, O’Halloran, had been busy during the last two acts. Scotti told me O’Halloran and his men had been questioning stagehands and maids and valets and chorus singers as to their whereabouts up to the time Duchon made his entrance in Act II. According to the baritone’s valet, Duchon had sprayed his throat once upon arriving at the opera house but had not asked for the bottle again until immediately before his entrance.
“This means,” Scotti mused somberly, “that the spray is safe when he brings it here, no? Someone backstage is responsible.” He was sitting in his usual chair by my dressing table while I creamed the make-up off my face. “Everyone who is backstage before the first act, during the first act, and during the first-act intermission—any one of them can do it.”
“Which is just about everybody,” I pointed out. “Even Dr. Curtis could have done it.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You suspect Dr. Curtis?”
“Certainly not! I just named him as the most unlikely person I could think of. But even he was back here, Toto.”
Someone knocked and quickly opened the dressing room door; it was one of the policemen I’d seen downstairs. “Miss Farrar? Lieutenant O’Halloran would like you to come down to the stage as soon as you’ve changed.”
Oh, wonderful. “Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid it can’t.” He looked at Scotti. “You are …?”
“Antonio Scotti,” Toto announced regally.
“Ah, Mr. Scotti, yes. The lieutenant wants you to come down too, please. Now if you’ll tell me where I can find Mr. Caruso, I’ll be on my way.”
“On the men’s side,” I said, and sent the maid with him to show him the way. “I hope it doesn’t take long—I really do want to get out of here.”
“I also. Are you almost ready?”
“Heavens, no. And I am not going to hurry.”
But I did. I wanted to get the interview over with so I could go home and crawl into bed and not get up for seventeen days.
It turned out to be a sort of mass interview. The fourth-act set had been struck and chairs placed in a semicircle on the stage. We made quite an assembly: me, Scotti, Caruso, Emmy Destinn, Pasquale Amato, Jimmy Freeman, Osgood Springer, David Belasco, Morris Gest, Gatti-Casazza, and Toscanini. Everyone looked as resentful of being there as I felt.
Lieutenant O’Halloran was standing with his back to the auditorium, facing our semicircle. The other three policemen moved around behind us here and there, making everyone nervous. The lieutenant cleared his throat. “I know you are all wondering about Philippe Duchon’s condition. One of my men just got back from the hospital, and the news isn’t good. Dr. Curtis says the vocal cords are destroyed—Duchon won’t be singing any more. In fact, he won’t even be able to talk. The damage is irreversible.”
We sat in stunned silence for a long time; I couldn’t even hear myself breathing. I had wondered whether Duchon would be able to sing again, but not really; I mean, I kept thinking he would recover or Dr. Curtis could operate or something. I’d been denying the possibility that the voice might be gone forever. But the lieutenant had just scotched that.
Finally Scotti stirred. “So easily,” he murmured.
I knew what he was thinking. Every singer on the stage was thinking the same thing. If a lifetime of singing can be ended that easily—then how safe am I?
Lieutenant O’Halloran went on: “The substance added to the throat spray was ordinary ammonia, in sufficient quantity and of sufficient strength to burn the lining of his throat and trickle down to the vocal cords. Since the ammonia was in a bottle with an atomizer spray screwed on tightly, it evidently didn’t give off enough odor to warn Duchon.”
Ammonia. Emmy Destinn had held a bottle of ammonia under my nose when I felt faint.
“I’ve asked you folks to stay,” Lieutenant O’Halloran said, “because most of you have some sort of grudge against Philippe Duchon. You—”
“I have no grudge against Duchon!” Caruso cried.
“I said most of you, Mr. Caruso. Maybe even all of you—now wait a minute, wait a minute!”
Several people had started to protest at once, but it was David Belasco who won the floor. “Lieutenant, I have never even met Philippe Duchon!” he objected. “Why would I possibly want to harm him?”
“You’re here because you’re a witness who was backstage during the crucial time, Mr. Belasco. You are all witnesses, to some degree or other. As to motive, all I’ve had time to find out is that there was a lot of bad feeling between Moan-sewer Duchon and just about everybody else here. I don’t know all the details yet, and I sure don’t know which are the important ones. But you were all backstage sometime during the period the ammonia was added to the spray bottle. Now I want you all to think back. When was the last time you saw the bottle?”
Caruso shrugged. “How can we tell? They both look alike.”
“Both? What both?”
“My spray bottle and Duchon’s. Uncle Hummy took mine by mistake and gave it to Duchon. I had to send Mario back to the Knickerbocker for more.”
O’Halloran stared at him. “Uncle … Hummy, did you say? Who’s he?”
Caruso explained, and told about the confusion of the two bottles. The lieutenant thought that over and said, “Mr. Caruso, do you realize what that means? That means the bottle with the ammonia in it may have been meant for you.”
“No,” we all said emphatically.
The lieutenant looked surprised. “Why are you so sure?”
Emmy Destinn spoke up. “Because Caruso does not make enemies, Lieutenant. Not that kind, at any rate. Oh, we have all wanted to strangle him at one time or another—”
“Emmy!”
“—but not seriously and not for long. Duchon, on the other hand, made an enemy every time he opened his mouth. That ammonia was meant for him, no question.”
“She is right, Lieutenant,” Gatti-Casazza said as a murmur of agreement ran across the stage. “No one wishes Caruso harm. Ducho
n was the, ah, intended victim.”
“Mm, maybe. So where’s this Uncle Hummy now?” It turned out no one had seen him since the opening of the second act, and the lieutenant was suddenly very interested in the old man. “What’s his real name?” No one knew. “Well, then, where does he live?” No one knew that either. “Then how about a description?” he asked in exasperation. Gatti provided a description, and O’Halloran sent one of his men to start the search.
“Surely you do not suspect Uncle Hummy,” Scotti protested. “He is a harmless old man!”
“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t, but he did handle Moan-sewer Duchon’s spray bottle. Where’s your own spray bottle, Mr. Caruso?”
“In the dressing room.”
Lieutenant O’Halloran sent another of his men up to fetch it. “We have three bottles, right?” he asked. “Mr. Caruso’s original bottle, Mr. Duchon’s original bottle,” (he’d given up on Moan-sewer) “and Mr. Caruso’s second bottle, the replacement for the one Uncle Hummy supposedly picked up by mistake. Dr. Curtis gave us the bottle with the ammonia in it, and if Mr. Caruso’s bottle is in his dressing room—there should be one more bottle around here somewhere. Anybody know where it is?”
Nobody did, of course, so the lieutenant put his third man to work looking for it. The second man came back with Caruso’s bottle. Bottles, bottles, bottles! What would finding the third bottle tell him? I wished he would get on with it.
He did. He walked over to where I was sitting, planted himself squarely in front of me, and said, “Miss Farrar, I have to tell you—right now you are my prime suspect.” The first words he ever spoke to me.
“That’s ridiculous!” Jimmy Freeman shouted.
“Stupido,” Pasquale Amato muttered.
I agreed with both of them. I was also pleased to see that everyone else on the stage was looking disgusted.
Lieutenant O’Halloran counted off on his fingers. “Number one, Mr. Duchon accused you of being a German sympathizer.” Well, well—the lieutenant had been busy. “Number two, you threw your castanets at him hard enough to draw blood.”