Prima Donna at Large (26 page)

“I can't think of any reason why I should. If he asks me, I'll tell him the truth. But I won't bring the subject up.”

“Thank you.” He dropped his hand down from his face. “It was totally innocent on both James's part and my own. Perhaps
naïve
is a better word. I thought I was avoiding trouble.” He laughed shortly.

“Mr. Springer, where was that bottle of spray the last time you saw it?”

“Why, in Duchon's dressing room, I suppose. The one he had later was Caruso's, wasn't it? The one Uncle Hummy picked up by mistake?”

“Yes, but that wasn't the dangerous one. Someone must have taken Duchon's spray out of his dressing room to put the ammonia in it. Then Duchon missed it and sent Uncle Hummy to look. Uncle Hummy spotted Caruso's spray and made the natural mistake of thinking that was the one he'd been sent to look for.”

Springer raised his eyebrows. “So Duchon then had another bottle of safe spray.”

“But it didn't stay safe, did it? Our villain must have substituted Duchon's original spray for that one when Duchon wasn't looking—only now it had ammonia in it.”

“And in the meantime Caruso had sent back to his hotel for still another bottle of spray—”

“Confusing the matter even further,” I said. “But when the police got there, there were only two bottles—the one with the ammonia and Caruso's second bottle. I wonder what happened to the other one.”

“It was probably thrown away long ago.”

Not that it mattered. Only one of those three bottles was important, and it had done its deadly job.

14

Geraldine Farrar Denies Marriage Plans
, the small headline declared starkly.

Newspaper people amaze me, they really do. It's incredible how they can tease a story out of absolutely nothing at all. If I had announced my engagement, well, that would have had some news value. But here I was getting all sorts of free publicity because I had
not
announced my engagement! My name was splashed through all the morning papers, all of them hinting I was some sort of exotic
femme fatale
irresistible to innocent young men.

I didn't mind.

When I'd returned home from the Museum of Natural History the day before, Caruso had been waiting for me, demanding a “report” on whatever I'd found out. I told him about Springer's seeing Duchon coughing blood, and how that had prompted him to tell Jimmy Freeman to get into costume early. Caruso seemed disappointed. He wanted Osgood Springer to be the villain.

I flipped through the rest of the newspapers. Conan Doyle had accused the Germans of abusing wounded prisoners. One-fourth the population of Belgium was dependent upon American bounty, which was feeding 175,000 a day in Brussels alone. The
Lusitania
was to sail under the Union Jack. Still no news of Prague; Emmy Destinn would be unhappy about that. I wondered what it must feel like, never knowing what was going on in your own country.

There was one article headlined
Should Women Vote in New York?
I didn't even bother to read that one; men would never willingly give up the whip hand. New spring fashions—oh dear, puff sleeves were back! Well, that was something Emmy
would
be happy about.

And then I saw something on the entertainment page of the
Times
that chilled me down to the marrow of my bones: a small advertisement announcing that Emma Calvé was appearing at the Palace Theatre. Emma Calvé! In a vaudeville house! It was Emma Calvé who'd sung in the first opera I ever saw, that production of
Carmen
in Boston that convinced me I was destined to be an opera singer. Emma Calvé, my inspiration and my idol! Now I was the one who was singing
Carmen
while she was playing the Palace along with the jugglers and the comedians and the trained-dog acts and Lord knows what else. The thought gave me no pleasure, no pleasure at all.

I swore to myself right then and there that at the first sign my voice was beginning to go, at the
very
first sign, I would retire. No prolonging of a dying career for me, no singing in vaudeville houses or saloons or town halls in little places nobody ever heard of. When I made my exit, I wanted it to be a graceful one, full of taste and discretion. Abdicate while you're still queen, that's the way to go.

I thrust the papers aside in irritation. I'd already put in several hours in the music room, but the practicing wasn't good because my mind had been on other things. There were two things I had to do today, and I didn't want to do either one of them. I had to try to pin Morris Gest down as to why he'd sneaked backstage right before
Carmen
. And I had to cheer up Jimmy Freeman. He'd made a fool of himself again when he told everyone I was going to marry him, and now he was feeling depressed.

It was beginning to look as if Morris Gest was the only real suspect left. I counted out Jimmy, Osgood Springer, Caruso, and myself, of course. Emmy Destinn hated Duchon, but he was no real threat to her. He
was
a threat to Scotti and Amato, by being in a position to take their roles away from them; but both Scotti and Amato had dispatched rival baritones before without having to dump ammonia into their spray bottles. They simply outsang them. Duchon was a bigger threat to Gatti-Casazza, who clearly was worried about losing his job to him. Very well, a question mark by Gatti's name, absurd though that was. Toscanini wasn't backstage long enough to do any damage. Dr. Curtis had no reason for wanting Duchon out of the way. And David Belasco hadn't even met him.

So that left Morris, seething with resentment over the way Duchon had cheated him and fearful of losing his reputation as a tough operator it didn't pay to cross. But that sneaky, underhanded way of getting even just didn't sound like Morris; a full-page advertisement in the newspaper denouncing Duchon as a duplicitous double-dealer—yes, that was more Morris's style. But not ammonia in the throat spray when nobody was looking.

My plan was to drop in at Morris's office unannounced, but when I got there his secretary told me he was at Carnegie Hall arranging a concert. My chauffeur let me out at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street and drove away to look for a place to park. I found Morris coming out of one of the business offices in the concert hall.

His rubbery face broke into a smile when he saw me. “Ah, Gerry, what luck! I was planning to call you in a day or two. I got a proposition for you, darling. How about taking over that concert schedule I set up for Philippe Duchon? It would be a nice gesture on your part.”

And it would mean some money for you
. “I don't want to talk about that now, Morris. But there is something I want to ask you. In private.” I opened one of the doors to the main auditorium; that huge place was dark and empty and quiet—no rehearsal in progress, thank goodness. “In here.”

Morris propped the door open so we'd get some light from the hall and sat down beside me in the last row. I casually mentioned my chauffeur would be coming in as soon as he parked the limousine—and then realized what I was doing. I was
protecting
myself! From Morris! Good heavens.

Plunge in. “Morris, I want you to tell me why you went backstage right before
Carmen
started. And why you told David Belasco you were in the gentlemen's restroom. I want the truth, Morris.”

He grunted. “Everybody's full of questions these days. Why do you want to know?”

“
Morris
. Tell me.”

“Oh, all right, I suppose it won't make any difference now. I went back to see Caruso. I want to take over the management of his affairs. Not his bookings—his regular agents could still handle that. But Caruso needs a personal manager, if he'd just realize it. And it might as well be me.”

“You wanted to talk to him about a thing like that while he was getting ready for a performance?”

“I just wanted to plant the idea. We'd have talked about it later.”

“Rico didn't say anything to me about that.”

“I never saw him! I stopped to break up an argument and it took longer than I thought it would and—well, there just wasn't time.”

“What argument? Who?”

“Dr. Curtis and Philippe Duchon. Duchon fought with everybody, didn't he?”

“Dr. Curtis! What were they arguing about?”

“Curtis's fee. He said Duchon had consulted him about his throat and then refused to pay his bill. Duchon said Dr. Curtis hadn't done anything and didn't deserve to be paid. I don't think Curtis cared about the money at all—he just hated that highhanded way Duchon had of treating people. I wasn't any too fond of it myself, as you know.”

“Is that all it was? Why didn't you want David to know about it?”

Morris sighed. “I didn't want him knowing I was trying to drum up more business. The Old Man says I spend too much time at work as it is and I ought to cut back. He says I'm neglecting my family.”

Oh my—such a simple explanation, and it so had the ring of truth to it! “Well,” I said, “I don't think anyone so addicted to work as David Belasco has the right to tell you to ease up. Good luck with Caruso. And Morris—thank you for telling me.”

He laughed. “The cat's outta the bag anyway. Lieutenant O'Halloran made me tell him yesterday.”

So the lieutenant had been there first. “Does David know now?”

“Yes. He's furious, of course.”

My chauffeur showed up just then, so I left Morris to cope with his father-in-law problem the best he could. Our little talk had lifted one burden but added another. I was delighted at no longer having to think of Morris as my one real suspect, but I was also at something of a loss because now I had
no
suspects.

I couldn't seriously suspect Dr. Curtis, in spite of what Morris had just told me. Philippe Duchon had been spitting up blood right before he saw Dr. Curtis—who had told him earlier that nothing was wrong with his throat. I was willing to bet that was how the argument started. But it was absurd to think of crotchety, outspoken Dr. Holbrook Curtis deliberately damaging the throat of a patient who owed him money. There was no way that could happen.

But it did sort of round things out. Now
everybody
had a reason for disliking Philippe Duchon.

I was expecting Jimmy Freeman at six; we'd talk a little and then go out to dinner. If Jimmy were seen in public with me so soon after the engagement fiasco, perhaps he'd feel a little less foolish. The telephone kept ringing at regular intervals; it was always Caruso. I'd told Bella to say I was out whenever he called for the next couple of days. The man was becoming a nuisance.

While I was waiting for Jimmy, I worked on a song I was writing as a birthday gift for my godchild, the daughter of a long-time fan. That was one of the nicest things about the gerryflappers; even when they married and started their families, they remained loyal fans. I was godmother to four little Geraldines and one small Gerald, and I kept careful track of their birthdays so I could send them something. The gerryflappers were always giving
me
things—some fine sewing, miniature paintings they'd done themselves, personal things like that. Last year one of them gave me the measles.

The song was coming along nicely. The little girl I was writing it for would be five in April. It's never too early to start a child singing; I can't remember a time in my own life when I was not singing. I owe so much to the kind of childhood my mother gave me. In case you haven't noticed, the primary occupation of little girls is sitting still.
Stop fidgeting, behave yourself, act like a lady, don't, don't, don't
—that's what little girls hear the most. But my mother
never
said those words to me. She said
Go! Do! Sing!

Jimmy arrived right on time, looking sheepish and a little disconsolate. I suggested that after dinner we drop in at the Metropolitan for a couple of acts of
Aïda;
Pasquale Amato was making his first appearance after recovering from his illness and I wanted to wish him well. Emmy Destinn was singing, but Caruso, fortunately, was not. I'd had enough of Caruso for a while.

Jimmy was far from his usual peppy self. I had to work on him; only when I began flirting openly did he start to respond. When at last he laughed, I felt we were getting somewhere. We dined at the Waldorf, and over dinner Jimmy mentioned that Osgood Springer had told him about our little meeting at the museum the day before. “He said you were very understanding.”

“Mm. Didn't you wonder why he wanted you to get into costume so early? For
Carmen
?”

“No, not really. Mr. Springer just said for me to get ready. He didn't say why.”

“And you just did it. Why?”

“Why what? Why did I get into costume?”

“Why do you do everything Mr. Springer tells you to? Don't you ever question him?”

“Never. I owe him everything, Gerry. I wouldn't be singing at the Metropolitan at all if it weren't for Osgood Springer. Besides, he never tells me to do anything that isn't good for me.”

“You owe him
everything
? Oh, really, Jimmy! He's your vocal coach, that's all. How could you owe him everything?”

“Well, he did give up all his other students in order to concentrate on my career. That's a pretty big sacrifice, I'd say.”

I put down my fork. “I didn't know that.”

Jimmy nodded. “He's put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak, and I'm the basket. I think he sees my career as a substitute for the one he had to give up when he had his accident. He does everything for me, Gerry. He rehearses me every day, he negotiates my contracts, he fights with Gatti-Casazza for me—he does more for me than my own father ever did. I even live in a suite of rooms in his house. I owe him, more than I'll ever be able to pay.”

That certainly put a different cast on things. Jimmy's career was Springer's
life
—would the vocal coach destroy another singer to protect it? Could he have lied to me about seeing Duchon spit blood? Suddenly a terrible truth occurred to me:
Everybody could be lying
. I'd not really questioned anything anyone had told me. Foolish, foolish! How many lies had I accepted as truth? I couldn't tell who was lying and who wasn't.