A Chorus of Detectives (33 page)

“You don't suppose,” Emmy Destinn asked, “that we are the only people left in this entire opera house, do you?”

She knew they weren't, but the other four understood what she meant. There was something depressing about an opera house after its audience had left. The work lights were on, illuminating the stage, but the wings and the auditorium were in shadow. The five of them stood obediently on the stage, just where Captain O'Halloran had told them to wait.

Scotti said, “Earlier I wish Rico can be here. Now I am not so sure.” Gerry reached out and took his hand.

The tension was making Gatti-Casazza perspire. “What if he suspects a trap?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “What if he does not go to greenroom?”

But it was Amato who asked the question they were all really thinking. “Which one?” he said softly.

Which one
.

They waited. Before long Gerry began to get the fidgets. “I don't imagine it would hurt if one of us went to take a look—”

“
No!
” four voices cried in unison.

“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Gerry said.

They waited some more. What was in actuality only a few minutes seemed like an hour, so they all jumped when they heard a faint
pop!
from the direction of the greenroom. They looked at one another uncertainly.

“What do you suppose that was?” Emmy asked.

“It is not gunshot, surely?” Scotti murmured.

“No,” Amato agreed. “Not loud enough.”

“I am not so sure,” Gatti worried. “At this distance … with greenroom door closed …”

The four singers exchanged a long look—and then as one dashed away toward the greenroom, leaving Gatti-Casazza standing alone in the middle of the stage. “The captain says wait here!” he called after them.

Amato reached the greenroom first, but hesitated when he saw the door was closed. “What do we do? Do we go in?”

“No, better not,” Scotti cautioned. “We do not know what happens inside.”

“Well, we can't just stand here wringing our hands,” Gerry said. “We ought to do something!”

“Knock?” Emmy suggested. The other three stared at her.

“Something is wrong,” a new voice said. “I know it—something is wrong!”

The singers turned to see Giulio Setti watching them anxiously. “Mr. Setti!” Gerry cried. “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows shot up. “I am not supposed to be here?”

“You're supposed to be in—I mean, well, uh,” she finished lamely.

“I hear something that could be pistol shot,” the chorus master said. “Do you not hear it?”

“Yes, Mr. Setti, we hear it,” Amato said. “We are wondering what to do.”

Gerry and Scotti exchanged an embarrassed look. “We are wrong,” the baritone said softly. She nodded and turned away, ashamed.

“Wrong about what?” Setti wanted to know.

“We are not sure it is gunshot,” Amato interjected smoothly. “It is so faint, no?”

“True,” Setti admitted.

“What else could it be?” Emmy asked.

Just then the greenroom door opened and one of O'Halloran's men stuck his head out. “Huh. The captain said it would be you folks making all that racket. He wants you to wait for him on the stage—he'll be with you shortly.”

“For heaven's sake, tell us!” Gerry cried. “Did you get him?”

The man grinned sourly. “Yeah, we got 'im.” He closed the door.

A cry of relief went up that startled Setti, who was still in the dark. “What is it? What happens?”

“You come back to the stage with us, Mr. Setti,” Scotti said, “and we explain.”

When they reached the stage, Gatti-Casazza was still standing there in dignified solitude. When he caught sight of Setti surrounded by his fellow detectives, he blanched. But then he realized that no policemen were holding the chorus master's arms. “Setti!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

“That is second time someone asks me that,” Setti complained—and was startled when his old friend of twenty years flung both arms around him in a giant bear hug.

Once it was explained to Setti that the police had just captured the chorus-killer, he became speechless. He couldn't even ask questions; his mouth just kept opening and shutting, opening and shutting. The rest of them, on the other hand, couldn't stop talking.

“I wonder why that shot was fired?” Emmy said. “Do you suppose that policeman was hurt—the one who was acting as bait?”

“Oh, I do not think of that!” Gatti gasped. “I hope he is all right!”

Amato said, “I think he is not hurt. The policeman in greenroom who tells us to come back to stage, he would say, do you not think? Or they send for ambulance.”

Scotti smiled wryly at Gerry. “Rico, he will not let us forget our mistake.”

“I know,” she groaned. “We'll never hear the end of it.”

Then a voice spoke loudly out of the shadow at the side of the stage. “I would greatly appreciate it if someone would kindly explain to me what this is all about.” Edward Ziegler stepped into the light and strode toward them. “Captain O'Halloran told me to wait here with you. Wait for what?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Amato gasped, “Mr. Ziegler! You are here!”

Ziegler stopped, held his arms out, and looked down at himself. “As you say, I am here. Why is that so startling? From the expressions on your faces, I would judge that you expected me to be elsewhere? I repeat, will someone kindly explain to me what this is all about?”

“Quaglia,” Emmy said breathlessly. “It's Quaglia.”

“Qua-gli-a,” Gatti repeated slowly, as if he had never heard the name before.

Scotti grimaced. “Captain O'Halloran was right.”

“Right about what?” Ziegler asked testily. “And what's all this about Quaglia?”

Amato explained. “Maestro Quaglia, he … he is one who kills the choristers.”

Ziegler was shocked. “What utter
balderdash
.”

“No, it isn't,” said Gerry. “Quaglia is the killer.”

“But he can't be!”

Gerry sighed. “He can, and he is.”

“I don't believe it!”

“Better listen to the lady,” Captain O'Halloran said, walking out on to the stage. “It was Quaglia—he was the one we were looking for. And there's something more. I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just say it straight out. He's dead.”

On this night of shocks, that was perhaps the worst one. Setti was the first to recover his voice. “You shoot him?”

“No, sir, he shot himself,” O'Halloran said. “With a Derringer only this big.” He measured a distance with his thumb and forefinger. “When he saw he'd been caught in the act, he put a bullet in his brain. That's why I didn't want any of you coming into the greenroom. It's not a pretty sight.”

Gerry shuddered. “I was so sure he couldn't have done it.”

Gatti asked, “Your man, Captain—the one who pretends to be Tony Spinelli? He is unhurt?”

“Tony Spinelli?” Setti and Ziegler said together.

“The real Tony Spinelli is at home safe and sound,” O'Halloran told the two ex-suspects. “One of my men, Sergeant Rossi, impersonated him. It was a set-up, to draw the killer to the greenroom. And Sergeant Rossi is fine—not a scratch on him.”

“He is a brave man,” Emmy murmured.

“We were able to stop Quaglia in time,” O'Halloran went on. “Two other men and I were hiding in the greenroom and we jumped him—just as he was going for Sergeant Rossi. With this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of wire to which wooden handles had been attached at each end.

“A garrote?” Amato gasped.

O'Halloran nodded. “A garrote for the chorister and a Derringer for himself—if needed. The minute he knew we had him, he pulled out that little gun and held it to his head and shot himself.” O'Halloran shook his head. “I've never seen anything like it. He didn't hesitate
one second
—as if he'd been prepared for this all along.”

“Perhaps he wants to die,” Scotti suggested.

“Maybe. I don't know. All I do know is that that man stopped thinking straight a long time ago. Lord knows when he went off the deep end, but somewhere along the line he made the chorus a scapegoat for everything he hated. He'd probably convinced himself that he was just doling out punishment—punishment that was deserved, I mean.”

Gerry's eyes were fixed on the garrote. “He … he was carrying that thing all the time I was talking to him?”

“I don't understand,” Ziegler said plaintively. “It was
Quaglia's
idea that the three of us hire bodyguards—why would he want a bodyguard around? A guard would prevent his getting to any more of the choristers. It
was
Quaglia's idea, wasn't it, Mr. Setti?”

“
Sì
,” the chorus master agreed. “I remember clearly, in hotel room … and this is
before
bridge in
Butterfly
breaks down!”

“He'd already rigged the bridge to collapse by then,” O'Halloran explained. “Mr. Gatti told me that bridge had been in the warehouse since last spring—he could have done it anytime. As for those bodyguards, well, you didn't hang on to them long, did you?”

Setti frowned. “I think
I
am one who suggests we get rid of bodyguards—not Quaglia.”

“Doesn't matter. He knew you two would get sick of having them around sooner or later. Just as a matter of curiosity—when you did decide to get rid of the bodyguards, who brought the subject up?”

Setti and Ziegler exchanged a look. “Quaglia,” they said heavily.

O'Halloran nodded. “There you are.”

Pasquale Amato suddenly whirled on Emmy Destinn. “I
say
it is Quaglia—and you talk me out of it!” She shrugged helplessly.

“I, too, think it is Quaglia,” Setti announced to the stage at large. “At one time.”

That was the signal for everyone to start talking at once. O'Halloran found himself bombarded not only with questions but with opinions as well. Ziegler was angry once he realized he'd been manipulated by a killer, but Setti was inclined to take a what's-done-is-done view.

Scotti watched the two of them talking and said to Gerry, “We do those two decent men a great injustice,
carissima
.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “I've been thinking the same thing. I don't know about you, Toto, but I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself.” She waited until the hubbub began to die down a little and then went over to the police captain. “Well, O'Halloran, you win this one.” She held out a hand. “Congratulations.”

He took her hand, not knowing whether to shake it or kiss it; he compromised by just holding it. “I have a nice little lecture prepared about amateur detectives who meddle in police matters.”

She shook her head. “You won't have to deliver it—I've learned my lesson. I think we all have. We ended up accusing two innocent men, and that is unforgivable. You won't have to worry about us anymore, Captain. This was our swan song.”

O'Halloran was surprised by the note of finality in her voice. He released her hand and wished her a happy New Year.

“New Year's—yes, it's almost here, isn't it? Have a happy one yourself, Captain.” She smiled and went back to Scotti.

Suddenly everyone was talked out. They would all have more to say about the night's events, repeatedly and at great length, but they would say it later. Now they wanted silence. As if on cue, they departed
en masse
—Geraldine Farrar, Antonio Scotti, Pasquale Amato, Emmy Destinn, Edward Ziegler, Giulio Setti.

Only Gatti-Casazza remained, waiting until the police had removed Alessandro Quaglia's body. He shook Captain O'Halloran's hand, telling him he had two lifetime seats at the Metropolitan Opera whenever he wanted them. The captain and his men left.

Gatti turned out the worklights in the now-empty opera house. Only the regular night watchman was there—no more police, no bodyguards. The bodyguards' salaries alone would guarantee that they'd finish the season in the red. And there was no way to measure the loss of five lives. The Metropolitan had paid a high price for survival.

But in two more days a new year begins
, Gatti thought. A new year is starting, Jeritza is coming, a new season is waiting to be planned. New productions, new excitement.

“We survive,” Gatti said aloud, and went home.

Epilogue

Caruso's appearance in
La Juive
on Christmas Eve of 1920 was his last performance; he died the following year. It was the beginning of the end of the Metropolitan Opera's “Golden Age”.

Geraldine Farrar kept her word and retired at the end of the next season. She lived a full and active life, attaining
grande dame
status in her old age. She never remarried. Emmy Destinn left the Met at about the same time, even though her vocal powers were at their peak; she simply quit. She went back to Prague, married somebody, and never set foot on an opera stage again.

Pasquale Amato taught in New Orleans for a few years and then returned to New York as a vocal coach. Gatti-Casazza stayed on as the Met's general manager until 1935. Antonio Scotti put all his money into a touring opera company and went bankrupt; he spent his final years living on handouts from friends.

The Metropolitan continues.

About the Author

Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels,
In-Laws and Outlaws
and
Kill Fee
, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.