A Chorus of Detectives (26 page)

Then Gerry saw something that made her heart skip a beat. It was a photograph of the man with whom she'd had the first serious romance of her life, when they were both nineteen—the former German Crown Prince, Frederick Wilhelm, who was now living in exile on the Dutch island of Wieringen. The photograph showed him in a blacksmith shop, learning how to make a horseshoe.
Oh God, Willi!

She turned the page so violently she tore it. After a moment she forced herself to pay attention to the clothing advertisements. Skirts were still getting shorter, making no concession to winter winds. Gerry marveled at and rejoiced in the change in women's clothing styles; for
centuries
women had worn skirts that went all the way down to the floor, skirts that were graceful to look at but which successfully impeded women's movement. Then almost overnight skirts were revealing an ankle, then a calf, and now the more daring styles were actually showing a knee! A revolution as well as a revelation.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and the paper featured page after page of gift suggestions. Gerry's shopping was done, and even then the maids were busily wrapping her presents in bright-colored paper. She'd decided on the fur coat for Scotti. Idly she wondered what his gift to her would be. Last year he'd given her emeralds.

Merry Christmas. A killer is loose.

Once the thought had intruded, she made no attempt to drive it away. Her investigating had produced nothing conclusive about ‘her' suspect; she could prove Giulio Setti neither guilty nor innocent. Since Mrs. Bukaitis and Beniamino Gigli were now both off the suspects list, Scotti and Gatti-Casazza were helping her by questioning the choristers.

She herself had concentrated on talking to the stagehands, for two reasons. First, she didn't quite trust anything the choristers might have to say; and second, she'd always had good rapport with the Metropolitan's backstage crew. But the stagehands hadn't been able to tell her anything she didn't already know, and none of them could truthfully remember where Setti had been every moment he was in the opera house. And so far the choristers hadn't been any help to Scotti and Gatti.
Scotti and Gatti
, sounded like a vaudeville team.

Oddly, the attempted shooting during
Lucia
had had one beneficial effect. The chorus baritone who'd been shot at told everyone who would listen how his guard had pushed him into a corner at the sound of the first shot and then proceeded to shield his body with his own. This impressed the rest of the choristers, who seemed to realize for the first time that the Met's management truly was trying to protect them. Also, and perhaps more important, the intended victim was a
German
singer, the first ever to be attacked. That convinced the Italian contingent—that is to say, the majority of the choristers—that they were not being singled out for persecution. As a result, the chorus was now more cooperative and better behaved than it had been all year.

But that was the only good thing to come out of so much trouble. Gerry had followed up the lead Emmy Destinn had given her, but it led to nothing. Rosa Ponselle told Gerry that she'd been mistaken about Giulio Setti, that the chorus master had in no way been responsible for the chorus's badgering of her. Since Rosa seemed embarrassed when she made this admission, Gerry was inclined to take her word for it.

All of which left her exactly nowhere. How do you look at three sanerappearing men and decide which one has gone quietly but murderously crazy? Setti still seemed to her the most fragile of the three, the one most likely to break under pressure. And the pressure on Setti was great, had been great since the end of last season. The other two had no such direct threat hanging over their heads; their futures were safe. Gerry found it difficult to think of either of them as a killer; it was too improbable. Quaglia might be a possibility, but Ziegler she dismissed altogether. There was no way that starchy, overly formal man was going to get his hands dirty committing a
murder
. Unthinkable.

But one thing she knew for certain: Setti dreaded nothing so much as a forced retirement.
Me too
, she thought wryly. But there was a difference between them. Setti would hang on as long as he could; Gerry, on the other hand, was repelled at the thought of experiencing what Setti was going through now—the mutterings that it was time to quit, the looks of disappointment, the hints that it might be wise to start thinking of other things. For Gerry, the dread was of unsold seats in the opera house, of desertions from her army of gerryflappers, of the lessening of the demands made on her time and talent. No, that was not for her. She'd come in at the top, and she'd go out at the top.

And it was time; the signs were already beginning to appear. Gatti had told her that next year she'd have to share to role of Tosca—long an exclusive Geraldine Farrar property—with that Jeritza woman from Vienna. That was the first step in the dethroning process; lord knew she'd seen it happen often enough to other singers.

She still had one more season in her. And she'd make it one to remember! She'd make every single performance stand as a reminder of the glory days that were slipping away from them all. The world had changed so much—there was no center now, no focus. And there seemed to be so many more people now than there were before. Where did they all come from? Where were they going? And what would they do when they got there? The world had changed, and it was going to change even more. The handwriting was on the wall: adapt or die.

One more season—and then what? What kind of life was there for her when she no longer had an opera stage to perform upon? She'd been a star too long to content herself with sitting in a rocking chair and twiddling her thumbs. She liked being a star. She didn't want to give up being a star. Did she have to stop being a star altogether just because her voice was going?

For the past decade David Belasco had been importuning her to star in one of his plays.

“Bella!” she called to the maid. “Get my blue coat and have Albert bring the limousine around front. I'm going out.”

On the way to Belasco's theatre it occurred to Gerry that this might not be the best of times to descend upon the producer. David Belasco was having problems of his own; the high priest of the American theatre was under attack by a raucous gang of postwar theatre people for what they called the ‘ornate hokum' he produced. Belasco had given over forty years of his life to staging plays better than anyone else in the country, and now the theatre he loved so deeply was turning against him. It angered Gerry and scared her at the same time. It could happen to anyone in the public eye.

The Belasco Theatre on West Forty-fourth Street was the same beehive of activity it had always been. A harried-looking young man told her ‘the Governor' was upstairs in his private rooms. Gerry took the stairs to the top floor, where an equally harried-looking middle-aged man ushered her in to The Presence.

And there he sat, enthroned behind the desk mounted on a Ming dais, waiting to receive the reverence due him. “Gerry—what a pleasant surprise!” He rose to greet her. “Here, let me take your coat. Please sit down, my dear, and tell me why I am blessed by a visit from the world's leading soprano—who could be the world's leading actress if she would only place herself in my hands.”

She smiled. “Thank you, David. Is now a good time to talk?”

“Anytime you wish to talk, dear lady, is a good time.” As courtly as ever. “Allow me to wind up this call and then my time is yours.” Only then did she realize he'd been talking on the telephone.

Gerry welcomed a few moments' grace to reorient herself while Belasco talked about a casting problem with whoever was on the other end of the line. It had been six or seven months since she'd last seen her old friend, and she was surprised at how much stouter he'd grown in that time. The hair was all white now, but he still wore a black suit and the reversed collar that gave him the air of priestly authority he so carefully cultivated. The air was heavy with the scent of burning joss sticks and the lighting was dim; the effect was one of a temple where one came to worship. Some things never changed.

“What about the Cornell girl?” Belasco was saying. “She's contracted for one more play.”

Gerry looked around. David Belasco's private rooms were legendary, with their labyrinths of shelves and glass cases and alcoves stuffed with art treasures and stage props, everything from suits of armor to antique velours to trinkets worn by the Borgias. But the total effect wasn't quite as colorful as Gerry remembered it, somehow. Many of Belasco's treasures had the slightly coated look things get when they're left in the same place too long. From where she sat, Gerry could see dust on the tops of two of the display cases.

“He may be well-known in England,” Belasco said, “but no one's heard of him here. Explain to him what life in New York can be like without money. A long-term contract will protect him from that.”

The beginning of a headache was making itself felt. Gerry hoped the producer wouldn't expect
her
to sign up for life.

Belasco hung up the phone and made a sound of mild annoyance. “Sometimes I think I'll never understand this new generation of actors. Here's a man fresh from the London stage, and he wants to act for the Theatre Guild for a pittance when he can earn ten times the salary elsewhere! And why? Because the Guild calls itself an ‘art' theatre company! What am
I
—a vegetable dealer?”

“Young people don't always know what they want,” Gerry murmured.

“He's not that young—he's thirty. Have you seen the kinds of plays the Guild has been putting on? They take themselves so seriously—all this heavy soul-searching, this exploration of an ‘inner life', whatever that is! They have no sense of what theatre is about. People want to be entertained when they come to a playhouse. They want spectacle, melodrama, farce! They don't want to be—what is the term?—
psychoanalyzed
.”

“That's certainly been true for as long as I can remember,” Gerry sighed, “but these are new times, David. Maybe audiences want something different now.”

“Oh, we all have to keep up with the times,” he said airily, “but the basic appeal of the theatre never changes. It must supply something that is missing in our dreary everyday lives. All this dark pessimism the new playwrights keep giving us … I must say I find it unwholesome.”

“Have you thought about producing any of the new playwrights? Perhaps you could provide whatever's missing.”

“Impossible, Gerry. I must have something to work with! Have you heard of a fellow called O'Neill? Well, he is being praised as the new ‘voice' of American theatre. But, my dear,
the man can't write!
Such wooden dialogue I have never before encountered in all my years in the theatre! And such gloomy subject matter! No, the fad for that kind of play is just that—a fad. Mr. O'Neill won't be around long. You must understand that all this new drama is merely temporary … it will pass, it will pass. And when it does, then the theatre can go back to being what it has always been.”

Gerry's headache blossomed. “What are you planning now?”

“I'm thinking of a French play that should adapt well to the American stage, a contemporary piece called
Tiger Cats
. Two marvelous acting roles—and no preaching! There's no place in the theatre for a pulpit, something the Theatre Guild would do well to remember.” He blinked at her. “But my dear, you must forgive me! Here I am rambling on about these upstarts in the theatre when you have a far more serious problem in the opera house. Do the police have any idea of who's responsible for the killings?”

“I don't think so. But there are enough policemen and guards backstage that we're probably as safe as it's possible to be—with a madman in the house. The guards were able to prevent a murder, you know—the last time he tried.”

“So I've been given to understand. And the attacks have all been confined to members of the chorus?”

She nodded. “Someone has a terrific grudge against choruses. He's mad, of course.”

Belasco leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I seem to remember a certain soprano who took it on herself to uncover a killer not too many years ago. And succeeded! Are you by any chance planning a repeat performance, Gerry?”

She smiled wearily. “I've tried, but it's not the same this time. This time it's ugly and vicious—and sometimes I'm afraid. I
hate
being made to feel afraid!” She was silent a moment and then muttered, “Damn him to hell and back!”

He laughed. “That sounds more like the old Gerry.”

“The problem is,” she went on, “I'm pretty sure I know who the killer is. But I have no evidence! And I can't think of any way to find some.”

Belasco sat up straight. “My dear, you must be careful. Whoever this man is, you must not give him the slightest hint that you have any suspicion he is guilty!”

“Oh, I'm being careful—you can be sure of that! We've had more than our share of bad luck this year. Gatti was able to keep it out of the newspapers, but someone tried to blow up the Met stage last week.”

“Gerry!” He was stunned into momentary silence. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, the bomb turned out to be a dud. And Scotti caught her before she was able to set it anyway.”

“
She?! Her?!
”

“Some political fanatic who'd gotten a job at the Met as a scrubwoman. It's a good thing Scotti caught her. Her next bomb might have worked.”

Belasco was visibly shaken, and Gerry immediately wished she hadn't said anything about it. “But this is dreadful!” he cried. “What is happening in the world? How can you bring yourself to go into that place when there is so much danger?”

“Tell me a safe place in the world and I'll go there,” she said dryly. She was glad she hadn't mentioned that the near-bombing took place during a performance of
Zazà;
that was the opera in which Belasco had directed her and he still had a proprietary interest in it. “Actually, I think I'm pretty safe at the Met,” she went on. “The killer doesn't seem interested in anyone except choristers. It's the standing by and watching it happen without being able to do anything that's getting me down. As to the bombing—well, a bomb can be planted anywhere, can't it? The woman responsible is locked up. She won't be trying again.”