A Chorus of Detectives (13 page)

The tenor drew himself up. “And why not? I am policeman too!”

O'Halloran stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Since last March I am policeman. Mayor Hylan says I am. For my silver jubilee!”

The captain remembered. The city of New York had honored Caruso on the anniversary of his twenty-five years in opera; as part of the ceremonies, the mayor had made the tenor an honorary member of New York's finest. As his first ‘official' act, Caruso had gone to the opera house and arrested Gatti-Casazza. “Now, Mr. Caruso, I'm sure you understand what the word ‘honorary' means. You can't—” He broke off when he saw a twinkle in the tenor's eye. “All right, all right, you've had your little joke. But I'm going to warn you anyway. I don't want you looking for whoever's been attacking the chorus singers. This man is dangerous—do you want to get yourself killed? Promise me you won't let me catch you playing detective.”

With the request worded that way, Caruso was able to give his promise.

“And Miss Farrar too?”

“For Gerry, I promise nothing. I never know what she is going to do. You must ask her.”

O'Halloran nodded and decided there was no time like the present—or as soon as she was off the stage, rather. He ambled back to where Gatti-Casazza was listening earnestly to something Emmy Destinn was saying. The captain just caught the end of it: “The ones I've talked to say anyone could have gone into the greenroom and added poison to the pitcher. The guards were guarding the people, not the room and its contents.”

The police detective reintroduced himself; Emmy remembered him but not his name. “It's been a while, Captain O'Halloran,” she said, putting old name and new rank together easily. “Are you in charge of the investigation?”

He said he was. “You've been talking to the chorus singers about the last murder?”

She frowned. “It is impossible not to talk about it.”

“Yes, I'm sure. Let me ask your opinion of something. Do you think this new tenor—ah, Gigli, that's his name—do you think he's been sufficiently aggravated by the chorus to want to hit back?”

Both Emmy and Gatti-Casazza pooh-poohed the idea.

“Or Rosa Ponselle? What about her?”

“Of course not,” Gatti huffed. “That is ridiculous suggestion.”

O'Halloran noticed that Emmy had said nothing. “Is Miss Ponselle here today? No? Well, I'll talk to her some other time. Could you tell me—”

He was interrupted by a man Gatti introduced as his assistant. “Mr. Gatti, I think we're in for some trouble,” Edward Ziegler said as soon as the amenities were over. “A spokesman for the chorus asked me to meet him here after rehearsal.”

“They want something,” Gatti said heavily.

“Probably more money,” Ziegler nodded. “I had feared a mass resignation, but I thought we had that taken care of.”

“They could still resign,” Emmy said.

“They undoubtedly will, if this madman isn't found and stopped.” He peered over his pince-nez at O'Halloran. “Any chance of that, Captain?”

“Of course there's a chance. We'll get him, Mr. Ziegler, don't you worry.”

Ziegler said
hm
, excused himself, and hurried away. Gatti sighed and said, “Negotiating with the chorus—that is supposed to be only one of his duties. But now the chorus is taking up all his time.”

A new uproar broke out on the stage. Geraldine Farrar came storming off with fire in her eye and headed for the stairs that led down to the auditorium. “I'll kill him!” she screamed. “God help me, I'll kill him!”

Running after her were Pasquale Amato and Antonio Scotti, both of them looking anxious. “Gerry,
carissima
,” Scotti cried, “he does not mean what he says! He has big mouth, that one, but he does not mean it!”

“Who does he think he is, talking to me that way? I'm going to take his head right off his shoulders, I swear!”

“Wait, Gerry, do nothing rash,” Amato pleaded. “I remember you threaten to kill Toscanini on more than one occasion. Wait five minutes—take time to calm yourself.”

“Toscanini always had a reason,” Gerry snapped, “every time he yelled at me or interrupted me or got sarcastic. I may not have agreed with his reason, but he always did have one. That idiot out there on the podium—he stops me just to show he can. To prove his
authority
.” She snorted. “That man is so insecure he's pathetic.”

“So be kind,
gioia mia
,” Scotti urged. “Leave his head upon his shoulders. He needs it.”

She shot him a startled glance and laughed shortly. “He needs a new one.”

Amato smiled; the crisis had passed. “Finish the rehearsal, Gerry, and I speak with Quaglia afterward.”

“No, that is my job,” Gatti-Casazza said, walking over to join them. “Quaglia exceeds his authority, but I talk to him. You sing, I talk.”

“I'm not going to put up with this kind of harassment, Gatti.”

“I understand. But do not walk out. I talk to him as soon as rehearsal finishes.”

“If it happens again, I'm going to demand Quaglia's dismissal. I'm not joking.”

Gatti blanched. “We do not talk of that now. Let me reason with him first.”

The soprano reluctantly agreed, took a deep breath, charged back out on the stage, and yelled at Quaglia that she was ready.

Captain O'Halloran had watched the scene with interest, thinking he'd have to catch the outraged soprano the minute she left the stage. Angry people often gave things away that they otherwise kept well hidden. “Is she right?” he asked Emmy Destinn. “Was he just testing his authority?”

She gave him a sad little smile. “It is likely. Sometimes it seems to me that Quaglia is symptomatic of everything that is wrong in this house. I mean artistically. Quaglia's problem is that he succeeded Arturo Toscanini. Quaglia is a good, competent conductor—but Toscanini is a genius. So when Quaglia imitates Toscanini's behavior—the temper tantrums, the sarcasm—he simply calls attention to how far short of his predecessor he falls.”

“And you say he's symptomatic of the Met? How?”

She made a vague gesture with her hands. “Take the chorus. It has degenerated from what it was before the war, but the choristers are acting as if they are stars. They demand more and more. And these attacks have certainly put them in the spotlight. They are receiving too much attention, both the good kind and the bad kind. But the malaise goes farther than that. Some of the principal singers—well, let us just say it's getting harder for them to give the great performances they used to give as a matter of routine. Unfortunately, this house is living on the memory of greatness.”

O'Halloran was shocked. He'd always had a mental picture of the Metropolitan Opera as something grand and solid and eternal, unchanged by the changing world around it. He didn't like Emmy's gloomy version of the way things were; he wanted her to be wrong.

Gatti-Casazza rejoined them, pulling nervously at his beard. “
Cielo m'aiuti!
Gerry wants me to dismiss Quaglia, Quaglia wants me to dismiss Setti, Setti wants to dismiss the entire chorus!
Sono perduto!
”

“Setti?” O'Halloran asked. “Who's he?”

“Our chorus master. He is with Metropolitan as long as I am. But he grows old …,” Gatti trailed off, shaking his head.

“Don't we all,” O'Halloran murmured and turned to Emmy. “Miss Destinn, when I got here you'd just been talking to some of the chorus singers. I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around asking questions.”

Her eyes grew wide. “A series of murders has been committed—and you expect us not to talk about it?”

“I can't stop you from talking, I know that. But the less said the better—and I'll tell you why. Every time a story is repeated, it changes a little. Some detail is altered, or a new one is added, or something is left out. I've still got to talk to the chorus singers myself, so I'd like you not to encourage them to gossip.”

“Gossip! You call wondering how poison got into a pitcher of orange juice
gossip
?”

“Now, Miss Destinn, try to see my side of it—”

“Destinnova,” she said haughtily. “Ema Destinnova.” She turned on her heel and flounced away.

O'Halloran blinked. “What did she say?”

Gatti smiled. “Her new name. Emmy is very patriotic lady, Captain. When Czechoslovakia gains its independence, she changes her name to Ema Destinnova. We put the new name on the programs and sometimes the newspapers remember to use it—but to her friends she is still Emmy.”

O'Halloran got the point; she didn't consider him a friend. “Well, whatever her name is, she just now told me something a bit disheartening.” He repeated what Emmy had said about the Met's living on the memory of greatness. “Is it true? Have some of your people lost … er, well, you know what I mean.”

Gatti tugged at his beard so hard O'Halloran was afraid he'd pull it out. “Emmy exaggerates,” the general manager said reluctantly, “but there is some truth in what she says. Gerry sings beautifully today—she can still sing an exquisite Marguérite. But not at every performance, you understand? And Caruso's voice, it darkens more every year. Some say now he sounds more like baritone than tenor.” Gatti bit his lip. “Baritone. Pasquale Amato at one time has the most beautiful baritone I hear in all my years in opera.”

O'Halloran was surprised. “More beautiful than Scotti's?”

“Oh, yes. But the richness is gone from Amato's voice now. Scotti will last longer.”

“So what Emmy Destinn said was true.”

“
No completamente
. We are in period of transition, Captain. We have the great older singers reaching end of careers at same time we have new singers coming in to replace them. Ponselle, Gigli, next year Maria Jeritza.” Gatti looked hopefully at O'Halloran, but the captain had never heard of her. “For me, it is time of both great excitement and great pain—eh, I do not make myself clear. Transitions are hard.”

“You make yourself very clear,” O'Halloran said. “I understand. Do you think—”

He was cut off by the sound of a woman's scream. “Gerry,” Gatti muttered and shambled away, in no great hurry to find out what disaster had interrupted rehearsal this time. O'Halloran followed him to the side of the stage where Scotti and Amato stood watching.

Amato glanced at him, did a double take, and then said, “Lieutenant? Is that you? I do not recognize you without your derby hat!
Come sta?
”

O'Halloran took off the Stetson he was still wearing. “My wife bought me this one,” he smiled, shaking hands. “And it's Captain now, Mr. Amato, not Lieutenant.” Scotti didn't remember him and had to have his memory refreshed.

A war of words was being waged between center stage and the podium. “
Pazienza
, Gerry!” Scotti called softly.

“What is it this time?” Gatti asked mournfully.

“The same as before,” Scotti said. “Interruptions, insults, sarcasm. Gerry tries to be nice to Quaglia, she truly does try.” Amato nodded agreement. “But now,” Scotti went on, “now I think she runs out of niceness.”

“American singers!” Quaglia was screaming at the stage. “You are all lazy! You do not work!”

“Not work!” Gerry screamed back in outrage. “I've been working my … vocal cords off up here, and you call me lazy? Who do you think you are?”

“You do not try! You stand there and squawk like chicken and call it singing! Do you forget how to sing?”

A
deathly
silence fell.

Gerry walked slowly to the edge of the stage, placed her hands on her hips, and glared down at the man on the podium. “If you insult me one more time,” she informed Quaglia evenly, “I'm going to come down there and ram that baton down your throat.” She paused. “Imitating Toscanini's temper tantrums won't give you his talent, you know. So watch out …
Maestro
.” She pronounced the last word with just enough sarcasm to make it clear that Quaglia was in no way master there.

The conductor waited until she'd resumed her place upstage and then said to the violin section, in a voice just loud enough to be heard, “Eh, well—only a little longer. Next year Jeritza is here!”

“That does it!” Gerry shouted. “That really does it! Quaglia—I warned you!”

Quaglia stared at the baton she'd threatened to ram down his throat, tried to exchange looks with a few of the orchestra members (all of whom steadfastly refused to meet his eye)—and decided to run for his life. He sacrificed dignity to haste in his self-preserving flight up the auditorium aisle; the orchestra decided that meant rehearsal was over and started getting up to leave.

Backstage, Amato was laughing and holding out his arms to block the enraged soprano's rush toward the stairs. “You are too late, Gerry—he has made his escape!”

“The coward!” she fumed. “Wait until I get my hands on him!” Scotti and Gatti-Casazza were both making soothing sounds that were having little noticeable effect. “Gatti, that man must go!”

“We make no decisions now,” he said firmly, “not in heat of anger.”

“Who's angry?” she raged. “I have thought it over coolly and calmly and I have decided
Quaglia must go!
”

All the sound and fury gradually began to wane, but Captain O'Halloran hesitated. Talking to Geraldine Farrar while she was just everyday angry was one thing, but when she was coming off a monumental rage like this one … maybe it wasn't such a good idea. But he did need to ask her some questions. He went up behind her and cleared his throat, not even sure she would remember him.

The soprano turned and looked him straight in the eye. “O'Halloran!” she exclaimed. “It's about time you got here! Where have you been?”