Poor Butterfly (17 page)

I took off my shirt, threw it to Castillo, and put on the white shirt. It wasn’t too bad a fit.

“I can cover the dog so no one’ll come around here and get curious about what’s written on him till I get him home and wash him up,” Castillo said, surveying the animal. “Got one of those blankets people put on greyhounds to race them. I’ll show you.”

He moved around the counter, went to a corner of the shop, and came up with a dusty box.

A few seconds later Miguelito’s official number in gold was 9, and I was broke and on my way to look for a killer.

I
tucked my shirt in and asked a pair of ladies carrying paper shopping bags how to get to the Opera—not the old Opera, but the one that was reopening.

“You mean the old barn where that guy got killed last week?”

“That’s the place,” I said.

“Dumb place to build a opera, you ask me,” she said, shifting her bag from her right to left hand.

“Or anything else,” said her friend. “Nobody goes there. Nothing around there. It’s a dump.”

After their critique and recommendations for urban renewal, they told me how to get to the Opera. It was about ten blocks away. I started out staying with the growing crowds, following a pride of young sailors for a few blocks, a gaggle of shoppers for another block.

It was somewhere near one in the afternoon when I hit the corner a block away from the Opera. I hid in a doorway and looked for the police. They weren’t visible, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Reverend Souvaine’s troops were out in force, about twenty of them. This was a big day. Dress rehearsal. Special guests, the press would be there.

The placards were bigger than ever. One announced:
FIRST SACRILEGE. NOW MURDER.
Another claimed:
BUY A TICKET, HELP THE JAPS.
Souvaine himself was not in sight. He’d show up for the crowds.

Across the street from where I was hiding, a rusting abandoned delivery van sat in a little weed-covered empty lot. The flecked dead paint on the side of the van indicated that it had once distributed Fleecy White Laundry Bleach, Little Boy Blue Bluing, and Little Bo-Peep Ammonia. Now it sat without tires, without front doors, and probably without engine, but with a better view of the San Francisco Metropolitan Opera Building than I had from the doorway. I moved out of the doorway, back down the block away from the street the Opera was on, crossed the street, and approached the van from behind. The back of the van had two doors; one was rusted shut, the other hung on one hinge. I climbed up and in and tried not to cut my hands on the bits of glass and pieces of metal left by kids or bums.

“Use Fleecy White, you’ll find delight,” I mumbled. “It’s a peach of a bleach they say.”

There were enough holes in the side of the van so I could see the front of the Opera. I was tired. I was hungry. My back let me know that it wasn’t going to take much more of this without major complaints.

I watched for a while. Carpenters, painters, laborers, and guys with rolled-up blueprints under their arms came and went. It seemed as if the number of people working on the building had tripled and they were all moving fast to get the final touches done for the opening. The action inspired Souvaine’s people, who marched with the step of the truly righteous. Sloane, Cynthia, and the widow Bertha were there shouting and urging the elderly to remain vigilant in case some Jap tried to sneak past them without reading their placards.

I could see Gunther’s Daimler parked down the street in front of Stokowski’s limo. Stokowski’s driver leaned against the hood in full uniform, reading a newspaper and occasionally glancing over at the ancient army.

No cops, but they had to be there.

I sat for a few minutes, being careful not to get a splinter of something up my rear. Then, in one of the beams of light coming through the holes in the van, I found a discarded crushed can of Armour’s Treet, the all-purpose meat. I used the jagged top of the can to pry at a small, already crumbling hole near my face. I managed under cover of the shouting in front of the Opera to make the hole big enough so I could see through it while sitting. Life was getting luxurious.

After about an hour, just as I was beginning to consider something risky, my break came. Two things happened at once. An overweight ancient woman carrying a placard reading
ABANDON YOUR COUNTRY ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE
Suddenly collapsed. Cohorts screamed and abandoned their posts. Others continued to hold their banners high. Sloane knelt at the fallen warrior’s side, and she and he were surrounded. At that same moment, Stokowski, Gunther, and Shelly came out the main door and started down the steps of the Opera.

Behind them a uniformed cop and Inspector Sunset came running down the steps in the direction of the fallen woman. From a doorway across the street another uniformed cop emerged, heading in their direction.

Shelly, sensing the need for his services, put a finger to his glasses and held up his cigar as he charged into the crowd, shouting, “Let me through, I’m a dentist.”

The crowd parted and let him through. Gunther and Stokowski headed for the limousine, and I scrambled out of the back of the van. The limo was facing my direction. I hoped the driver wouldn’t make a U-turn and move away from me.

Stokowski, who was wearing a pink shirt, narrow green tie, gray suit, and what looked like tan suede shoes, glanced at the crowd, shook his shock-haired head, and moved with Gunther into the limousine. Sunset and the uniformed cops were breaking up the crowd of old people as I crossed the street and hid behind the corner of a small brick factory.

When the crowd cleared, the fat woman was sitting up and downing a bottle of Royal Crown Cola. She held it in two hands and took it like a baby getting its morning bottle. Shelly stood triumphant and looked around as if expecting applause. No one paid him any attention. The cops helped the fat lady up, and Shelly reluctantly ambled to the limousine. The second he got into it, the driver pulled away slowly, careful to avoid the bevy of the aged who had spilled into the street. The limo was about to turn the corner when I stepped into the street.

I waved my hands and the limo stopped. The back door opened and I scrambled in, tripping over Gunther’s feet and landing on my face on the floor. The door closed and the limo pulled away down the street.

I rolled over on my back and found myself looking up at Stokowski. “There is something appropriately operatic about you and your entourage, Mr. Peters.”

He reached down to help me to a sitting position and Shelly, sitting in the front seat next to the driver, peered down on me excitedly.

“You should have seen it, Toby,” he said. “I just saved a woman’s life.”

“I’m proud of you, Shel,” I said.

“Are you all right, Toby?” Gunther asked.

Even by his usual standards, Gunther was resplendent. His three-piece gray suit was neatly pressed, his tie new and silk, his face cleanly shaven, and there was a distinct smell of cologne in the air.

“I’m alive,” I said. “How are you and Gwen getting along?”

I think Gunther blushed.

“A most accomplished young woman and a researcher of the finest quality,” he said. “We spent much of the night putting together the charts.”

“Blammed her right above the heart,” Shelly said to the driver, demonstrating a solid bang with his open palm. “Started to breathe right away.”

“Can you ask your driver to pull over for a second?” I asked Stokowski.

Stokowski nodded and reached over me to touch the driver’s shoulder. The car pulled over.

“I didn’t kill her,” I said.

“I did not think that you had,” Stokowski said. “I’ve so informed the police. They are polite but not inclined to consider possibilities which will complicate their lives. It is easiest for them if you killed Miss Bartholomew.”

“How long did she work for you?” I asked.

“A few weeks,” he said. “Mr. Lundeen hired her to serve as my liaison for this engagement. Her work was adequate and her temperament erratic, which is not unusual for a former soprano.”

“What do you know about her?” I went on.

Stokowski shrugged.

“Very little. As I said, she informed me that she had left a career, apparently not a greatly successful one, as a singer. She wished to remain close to musical life and because of her knowledge of opera had taken a variety of jobs in the area as they became available. I am very sorry, but I can’t say that I am deeply grieved by what has happened to Miss Bartholomew. I am, however, deeply offended. The guilty must be punished.”

“Like in an opera,” Shelly offered.

“In opera, everyone is punished,” said Stokowski.

I got off the floor, pulled down the jump seat, and sat facing Stokowski so I could see through the back window in case a patrol car headed our way.

“It might be a good idea to cancel the opening tonight,” I said.

“That,” he said, “I cannot do. It would be an act of cowardice. There is destruction, horror, going on in Europe in this war. It cannot be forgotten. The feeling in our hearts must be respected. Music can play a part. I know it’s only a small part, but it’s a very important one because music can bring consolation, respite. It can remind us that with human life something exists of beauty to comfort and look forward to.”

“Right,” said Shelly excitedly. “It’s like good dental hygiene.”

“It is
not
like good dental hygiene,” Gunther said precisely.

“Matter of opinion,” Shelly said, beaming at us all.

“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I assume you have joined us for a purpose. What can we do for you?”

“Short list,” I said. “First, I need some money. The cops took my wallet.”

“I am, unfortunately, carrying no cash,” Stokowski said, turning up the cleanest palms I have ever seen.

Gunther came up with his wallet and handed me a pair of twenties.

“Next,” I said, turning to Shelly, “I need to find a guy named Farkas, Snick Farkas. Skinny, about forty, carrying a blue shoulder bag. He’s got a beard and should be wandering the streets around here. He’s an opera buff. But he doesn’t make much sense. I think he saw the person who killed Lorna Bartholomew.”

“I’ll find him,” Shelly promised, clamping his unlit cigar in his teeth.

“He does not sound like an ideal witness,” said Stokowski, with a sigh.

“Gunther, I’ve got some research for you.”

I handed him the sheet of paper on which I’d written the message Lorna Bartholomew had painted on Miguelito. Gunther looked at it.

“Rance, Johnson, and Minnie,” he read. “Cherokee, Texas. March 15, 1936. Those are characters in …”

“
La Fanciulla del West
. I know,” I said. “See if you can find out what it means. Where’s Jeremy?”

“With Miss Tenatti,” replied Gunther.

“Anything else?” asked Stokowski. “I must eat and get back to rehearsal.”

“I’ve got to get back and into the building,” I said.

“You have a plan,” said Stokowski.

“Your chauffeur and I are about the same size,” I said.

“Ah,” said Stokowski. “Charles, do you hear all this?”

“I hear,” said the driver with a definite English accent.

“And …?” Stokowski asked gently.

“There’s an extra uniform in the trunk,” said Charles.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll put it on. Charles, you get out here. I’ll drive back, walk in as if the Maestro forgot something. Shelly, you wait till I’ve been inside for two minutes, and then drive back and pick up Charles. I’ll get the uniform back later.”

Charles nodded.

“Anything else?” Stokowski asked.

“I could use something to eat,” I said.

“Take my lunch,” said Charles, handing me a paper bag. “I’ll pick up a hot dog.”

“Charles, you’ll lunch with Mr. Wherthman, Dr. Minck, and me,” said Stokowski. Sounded like a generous offer, but I had the feeling Gunther would wind up with the check.

“You might get in trouble for this, Maestro,” I said, getting out of the limo.

“Trouble is not unknown to me,” Stokowski said. “There are those who say I have courted controversy and both bedded and wed her.”

“Be cautious, Toby,” Gunther said.

“Am I ever anything but? Let’s meet in Lundeen’s office at seven.” I moved to the rear of the car.

I could hear Shelby’s voice as the trunk popped open.

“See his teeth, Stoki? Nice, huh? My doing? A year of work.”

“That’s admirable,” Stokowski said.

I opened a box in the trunk that looked right. It was. A freshly pressed uniform. I looked around for someplace to change. The street was deserted but the sun was high and bright. Hell. I took off my clothes and started putting on the uniform. I got it on without interruption.

“Good fit,” Charles said.

He was standing next to me, his cap off. He was older than I thought. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. His hair was curly, short, and white. His skin pinkish.

“Thanks,” I said.

“When the war started,” Charles said, “the Maestro moved to Columbia Records. One of the first things he recorded was ‘God Bless America’ and ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ coupled with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag. I was in the orchestra. Bass viol.”