by Barbara Paul
“Not yet,” he admitted. “Everyone at the Metropolitan knows who he is but nobody knows where he lives.”
“Well, I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. Uncle Hummy can’t stay away from opera very long. He’ll show up soon. And Lieutenant, you’re wrong about Jimmy Freeman. He didn’t put the ammonia in the spray. I’m as sure of his innocence as I am of my own.”
He scratched his cheek with a long bony finger. “But I’m not sure of either, you see. No matter how many other motives I’m able to dig up, we still can’t get away from the fact that it was you Duchon accused.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I stormed. “He was just guessing! If he knew I’d tampered with the spray, would he have gone ahead and used it?”
“But he must have had some reason for suspecting you—”
“He was angry with me! I’d just thrown my castanets at him!”
“True, but there might be something more. I’m going to ask him about it as soon as he’s able to write out his answers. Dr. Curtis says a couple more days. Well, I think that’s all for now. I’ll be going. My coat and hat?”
I called the maid, and just like that he was gone. No thank you for your help or I’m sorry I took up so much of your time, no attempt to reassure me or promise to keep me informed. I didn’t think I liked this Lieutenant O’Halloran very much. But whether I liked him or not, I was going to cooperate in every way he asked me to. A person capable of destroying a singer’s voice was capable of anything. What if that person ever got mad at me?
But who was it? I couldn’t imagine any of the people I knew doing a thing like that. Guns, poison, knives, nooses, heavy clubs for banging people over the head—I could imagine certain people I knew using those; heavens, I’d thought of using them myself on occasion. But going for the voice—that was simply unimaginable. Yet someone had done it. I sat down at my writing table and took out a piece of paper and wrote the word Suspects at the top.
Lieutenant O’Halloran seemed inclined to eliminate Belasco and Caruso, and I could see no reason to disagree with him. So who was the first suspect? Well, there was no way around it: I wrote down my own name. Next came Jimmy Freeman, as preposterous as that might be. A thought occurred to me: If Jimmy Freeman belonged on a list of suspects, shouldn’t Mr. Springer’s name be there as well? He had a big investment in Jimmy. I didn’t think Toscanini had any real motive, but as long as O’Halloran considered him a suspect, he should be included. I ended up listing just about everybody: Geraldine Farrar, Jimmy Freeman, Osgood Springer, Arturo Toscanini, Giulio Gatti-Casazza, Morris Gest, Emmy Destinn, Pasquale Amato, Antonio Scotti, Dr. Holbrook Curtis.
Once I had my list, I didn’t have the foggiest notion what to do with it. I couldn’t believe any one of those people was guilty. It must have been a chorus singer. Or a stagehand. Perhaps a member of the orchestra? Or someone from the audience had sneaked backstage without being seen and … oh, how absurd! I went back to studying the list, thinking vaguely about the process of elimination. But when you came right down to it, there was only one name there I could eliminate with absolute certainty—my own.
I was still mulling it over when the doorbell rang and Enrico Caruso erupted into the room before the maid had a chance to announce him. “Gerry! You are alone? Bene, we talk!” He was carrying a small rectangular box tied with bright yellow ribbon that he put down on my writing table while he shrugged out of his overcoat.
“What’s this?” I said, picking up the box.
“A birthday gift for you. Brr, I am cold! Do you have coffee?”
“It’s not my birthday, Rico.”
“I know, I know! But I think if Lieutenant O’Halloran is here, I need reason for coming to see you. I must have coffee!” He charged off to the kitchen to ask the maid to make some.
I opened the box. It contained a slip of paper that read: I.O.U. one birthday gift, E. Caruso.
He came back from the kitchen. “Is he come yet?”
“O’Halloran? He left just a little while ago.”
“Do you know what he does? He sends one of his men to me this morning, to show me big, heavy manacles.” Caruso made a face. “Manacles! The man, he tells me they are what I wear when he leads me through the streets to the jailhouse if the lieutenant finds out I am ‘snooping’ again. Snooping, that is what they call it!”
I had to laugh. “You don’t suppose the lieutenant is trying to intimidate you, do you?”
“He succeeds,” Caruso nodded, wide-eyed. “He means it, Gerry—he puts me in the, ah, pokey if I investigate.” Then a sly look came over his face that immediately put me on my guard. “But he does not say you cannot investigate!”
“I! What do I know about investigating?”
“It is not difficult, Gerry. I do it before, I know how. I help.”
“But Lieutenant O’Halloran—”
“Yes, yes, you see?” he cried excitedly. “I cannot investigate—so I stay in the background, I look innocent and unconcerned. The lieutenant keeps one eye on me, he never notices that you conduct investigation of your own. Is good plan, no?”
It was a crazy plan. But Caruso’s enthusiasm had a contagious quality to it. Farrar and Caruso, Consulting Detectives! I laughed out loud at the thought of it—but I didn’t say no. “Rico, what would I do? I can’t ask questions the way the police do.”
“You can, you can! And people we know talk to you more freely than they do to Lieutenant O’Halloran. You listen. You read things. You watch.”
“I snoop, in other words.”
Caruso let loose a whole arpeggio of sighs. “Why does everyone like that word so much?” he complained. “Eh, well, you snoop. Then we talk over what you find out and decide what you do next.”
My maid Bella came in with the coffee, poured us each a cup, and left us alone again. What Caruso proposed was patently ludicrous. The very idea, Geraldine Farrar doing the police’s work for them! It would make a good plot for a farce. But what if I could find something Lieutenant O’Halloran could not? Surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to ask a question or two?
I thought about it for a while and then gave in. As long as Lieutenant O’Halloran seriously considered me a suspect, I’d better do something to protect myself.
“But understand this, Rico,” I said. “I’m not going to do anything outré like hide under Jimmy Freeman’s bed to see if he talks in his sleep. I’ll have the final word on what I do and don’t do. Will you agree to that?”
“Certo, yes,” he answered quickly. Too quickly.
“I’m not just talking, Rico. I make the decisions.”
“I agree, I agree! That is the way it should be!”
Well, we’d see. “So what do we do first?”
“First, we make a list of all possible suspects. Detectives always make lists.”
“D’you mean like this one?” I handed him the list I’d already made out.
Caruso whooped and caught me in a bear hug that almost cracked my ribs. “I know you make good detective! You already start without me!” When he read my name at the top of the list he rather ostentatiously insisted on adding his own to the bottom.
By unspoken agreement we ignored the first and last names and argued over the rest of them. “I don’t think any of these people did it,” I said.
“Nor I,” Caruso agreed. “So perhaps we prove they did not do it? Then Lieutenant O’Halloran looks elsewhere.”
I groaned; it sounded like an impossible job. “I just now thought of something—there should be one other name on that list. Uncle Hummy.”
“Ridicolo.”
“I agree. But isn’t it equally ridiculous to suspect any of those other people?”
“What is his motive?”
“I have no idea. Duchon was using him to run errands, so they must have made some sort of peace. But Uncle Hummy was there at the right time, Rico.”
He scribbled the old man’s name on the list. “Eh, well, we talk to him the next time he comes to the opera house.”
Caruso slapped his forehead. “Per dio! I must remember—stay out of things, watch quietly, say nothing. It will be hard, very hard!”
I could believe that. “So how do we go about eliminating names from this list?”
“Choose one name, start with him. Or her, if you choose Emmy.”
“Him.” There was one name I wanted to eliminate right away. I picked up the telephone and gave the operator Scotti’s number. “Toto? I want to ask you one question.”
“Anything, cara mia.”
“Did you put the ammonia in Duchon’s throat spray?”
“What? What do you think I am?”
“Yes or no, Toto.”
“No!”
“That’s good enough for me. Ciao.” I hung up.
Caruso threw his arms up in the air. “Is that what you call investigating? Impossibile!”
“He said he didn’t do it, and I believe him. I’ve thought of something I could investigate, though.” I told him about the note Duchon had written telling me not to stay seated while he was singing the Toreador Song. “Lieutenant O’Halloran has that note now. Not that there’s any reason he shouldn’t have it. But when I asked him where he got it, he wouldn’t tell me. Don’t you find that peculiar?”
Caruso jumped on it like a starving dog on a bone; it was a starting point. “Very peculiar, very peculiar indeed! When do you last see the note, Gerry? Think back.”
“I’ve been trying to remember, and I think it was when I gave it to Emmy to read. I don’t believe she gave it back.”
“Emmy?” Caruso drew his brows together. “Why does she keep the note, and then why does she pass it on to the police?”
“And why is it even important?” I didn’t think it was important at all; but like my partner, I was eager to find a starting point. “I’ll talk to Emmy, see what I can learn.”
“Bene, bene. Now. Last night—all those conflicting stories? Perhaps we, eh, unconflict a few?”
“Which ones?”
He thought a moment. “Amato and Morris Gest do not agree about the time they bump into each other backstage. Amato says before the first act, Morris says after. How do we find out who is right?”
“That’s easy. I can ask David Belasco if Morris was with him the whole time before the opera started.”
“Yes! Magnifico!” Caruso gave a little bounce of joy, causing me a moment’s concern for the chair. “You talk to Mr. Belasco, yes.”
“Also, I’d like to try to pin down exactly when Jimmy Freeman got into in costume,” I said. “The way he told it last night, it sounded as if he didn’t dress until we were well into the first act. But I’m pretty sure I saw him in costume before the opera even started.”
“You must be wrong, Gerry. Jimmy, he has no need to get into costume before … oh.” It sank in on him. “O cielo! Unless he knows ahead of time he sings that night?”
We were both quiet while we mulled over the significance of that. Then I said, “It can’t be true.”
Caruso looked at the list again. “What else?”
“I thought we were going to select one name and concentrate on that one at first.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Eh, a good detective must be flexible. Can you think of anything else?”
“Don’t we have enough to start?”
The telephone rang. It was Scotti, demanding an explanation. Caruso decided that would be a good time to pick up his hat and coat and tiptoe out, leaving me to smooth the troubled waters as best I could.
Detectives always make lists, Caruso had said, so after a light evening meal I made another one. Only three items: Duchon’s note, Jimmy’s costume, Morris’s whereabouts before the opera started.
Asking Emmy Destinn about Duchon’s note would have to wait; Emmy was scheduled to sing that evening and I didn’t want to bother her during a performance. David Belasco would probably be at his theatre or checking on one of his other productions in town, so the question of Morris Gest’s whereabouts would have to wait too.
That left Jimmy Freeman and the costume I thought I saw him wearing before he said he put it on. If only I could be sure! But I couldn’t, which meant I’d have to find corroboration—one way or the other—from someone else. Gatti-Casazza would be tied up at the opera house all evening. I preferred not to call Scotti again, because I wasn’t quite ready to confess I’d undertaken the role of detective. I’d explained away my earlier telephone call as a bit of foolishness I was indulging in and wasn’t exactly flattered by the ease with which he accepted that explanation.
The logical person for me to ask about the time Jimmy got into costume was Mr. Springer. But he’d be sure to tell Jimmy I’d asked; besides, I was certain he’d back up his star pupil in any story Jimmy chose to tell. No, they were just too close; I needed someone disinterested. I considered asking some of the other singers in the cast of Carmen, or the chorus members, or the stagehands—some of them must have seen Jimmy early in the evening. But backstage gossip being what it is, it would soon be all over town that Geraldine Farrar suspected Jimmy Freeman of doing dastardly deeds, etc. No, best keep it to the circle of people O’Halloran had called together after the performance.
So who else was backstage before the opera started? Pasquale Amato, for one. I looked up his number and called, but his valet said he was asleep. Next I tried Dr. Curtis and this time was in luck. I told him what I wanted to know—whether he had seen Jimmy Freeman backstage before the performance started.
“Yes, I saw him,” Dr. Curtis rasped, “him and his nanny both. Springer was busy coaching away—does he ever stop? I remember thinking what a pathetic little scene it was, since there was no chance Freeman would get to sing. Huh.”
“Dr. Curtis, this is important. When you saw Jimmy, was he in costume yet?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I think I remember him in costume before the first act, but he says no, he didn’t get dressed until later.”
“So? What difference does—” He broke off suddenly as he understood what I was getting at. “You mean he wouldn’t have gotten into costume early unless he’d known … oh, I must say, Gerry—that’s pretty far-fetched. You don’t seriously think Jimmy Freeman is our culprit, do you?”
“No, I don’t—I don’t think so at all. But it’s been bothering me and I’d like to prove myself wrong. Was he in costume when you saw him?” There was a long silence. “Dr. Curtis?”
“I’m sorry, Gerry, I just don’t remember. Why don’t you ask Amato? He was there. Or Emmy—she was there too.”
“Emmy is singing tonight and Amato is asleep. I’ll ask them tomorrow.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
I said I would and hung up. Suddenly I was exhausted. One telephone call and I was all detected out; it occurred to me that perhaps I’d bitten off more than I could chew. But then I glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was already past my usual bedtime—where had the hours flown to? I was tired, that was all.
I was just getting into bed when the telephone rang. It was Caruso, wanting a “report.”
“For heaven’s sake, Rico, I just got started!” I protested. “I don’t have anything to tell you yet.”
“You have had hours,” he insisted. “Surely you do something!”
I explained that the only person available had been Dr. Curtis and summarized our conversation for him. Then I explained what I planned to do next.
It didn’t satisfy him. “You could have gone to the opera house—there you talk to Emmy, to Mr. Gatti, to thousands of people! You can still go! It is not late, you—”
I hung up on him. Impossible man! But he did have the sense not to call back, thank heaven for small favors.
11
Monday I got an early start. Caruso telephoned just as I was leaving, but one of the maids took the call and I was able to slip away without talking to him.
My first stop was the Hotel Astor. I’d d
ecided to start with Pasquale Amato because he was an old friend and could be counted on to cooperate. I found him seated at a small table writing a letter; when I told him what I was doing, he put his head down on his arms and his whole body began to shake. For the life of me I couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or crying.
He was doing both. “Oh, Gerry, Gerry! You let our friend Rico talk you into this, yes?”
“Not completely,” I said, slightly miffed at his reaction. “He just … encouraged me, so to speak.”
“He is afraid to play detective himself—he fears the police lieutenant and his threats of imprisonment, no? So he makes you do the, ah, foot work?”
“Leg work. And he’s not making me do anything, Pasquale. All I want is to ask you a question. Now are you going to answer, or are you just going to sit there and moan and wail and laugh and cry?”
“Oh, ask your question, by all means, do ask your question,” he moaned and wailed and laughed and cried.
I asked him if he’d seen Jimmy Freeman before the curtains opened on the first act of Carmen. He had. “Was he in costume?”
Amato squinted his eyes as he peered back into the recent past. “Yes, he was. He was ready to go … aha, long before Duchon’s accident. Too long. I see.”
My heart sank. I was so hoping he’d tell me my imagination was running away with me and I only thought I’d seen Jimmy in costume that early. But if Amato had seen him too, then that seemed to settle it.
Amato understood my concern. “Gerry, it means nothing. I often get into costume early myself—we all do, yes?”
“But not when we think we won’t be singing that night. Besides, why does Jimmy say he was not in costume before Act I when you and I both saw he was?”
“He says that? Ah. That makes a difference, yes? But perhaps he is merely embarrassed at appearing so eager. Is this not possible?”