Prima Donna at Large (18 page)

“Ah, Mr. Scotti, yes. The lieutenant wants you to come down too, please. Now if you'll tell me where I can find Mr. Caruso, I'll be on my way.”

“On the men's side,” I said, and sent the maid with him to show him the way. “I hope it doesn't take long—I really do want to get out of here.”

“I also. Are you almost ready?”

“Heavens, no. And I am
not
going to hurry.”

But I did. I wanted to get the interview over with so I could go home and crawl into bed and not get up for seventeen days.

It turned out to be a sort of mass interview. The fourth-act set had been struck and chairs placed in a semicircle on the stage. We made quite an assembly: me, Scotti, Caruso, Emmy Destinn, Pasquale Amato, Jimmy Freeman, Osgood Springer, David Belasco, Morris Gest, Gatti-Casazza, and Toscanini. Everyone looked as resentful of being there as I felt.

Lieutenant O'Halloran was standing with his back to the auditorium, facing our semicircle. The other three policemen moved around behind us here and there, making everyone nervous. The lieutenant cleared his throat. “I know you are all wondering about Philippe Duchon's condition. One of my men just got back from the hospital, and the news isn't good. Dr. Curtis says the vocal cords are destroyed—Duchon won't be singing any more. In fact, he won't even be able to talk. The damage is irreversible.”

We sat in stunned silence for a long time; I couldn't even hear myself breathing. I had wondered whether Duchon would be able to sing again, but not really; I mean, I kept thinking he would recover or Dr. Curtis could operate or
something
. I'd been denying the possibility that the voice might be gone forever. But the lieutenant had just scotched that.

Finally Scotti stirred. “So easily,” he murmured.

I knew what he was thinking. Every singer on the stage was thinking the same thing.
If a lifetime of singing can be ended that easily
—
then how safe am I?

Lieutenant O'Halloran went on: “The substance added to the throat spray was ordinary ammonia, in sufficient quantity and of sufficient strength to burn the lining of his throat and trickle down to the vocal cords. Since the ammonia was in a bottle with an atomizer spray screwed on tightly, it evidently didn't give off enough odor to warn Duchon.”

Ammonia. Emmy Destinn had held a bottle of ammonia under my nose when I felt faint.

“I've asked you folks to stay,” Lieutenant O'Halloran said, “because most of you have some sort of grudge against Philippe Duchon. You—”

“
I
have no grudge against Duchon!” Caruso cried.

“I said
most
of you, Mr. Caruso. Maybe even all of you—now wait a minute, wait a minute!”

Several people had started to protest at once, but it was David Belasco who won the floor. “Lieutenant, I have never even met Philippe Duchon!” he objected. “Why would I possibly want to harm him?”

“You're here because you're a witness who was backstage during the crucial time, Mr. Belasco. You are all witnesses, to some degree or other. As to motive, all I've had time to find out is that there was a lot of bad feeling between Moan-sewer Duchon and just about everybody else here. I don't know all the details yet, and I sure don't know which are the important ones. But you were all backstage sometime during the period the ammonia was added to the spray bottle. Now I want you all to think back. When was the last time you saw the bottle?”

Caruso shrugged. “How can we tell? They both look alike.”

“Both? What both?”

“
My
spray bottle and Duchon's. Uncle Hummy took mine by mistake and gave it to Duchon. I had to send Mario back to the Knickerbocker for more.”

O'Halloran stared at him. “Uncle … Hummy, did you say? Who's he?”

Caruso explained, and told about the confusion of the two bottles. The lieutenant thought that over and said, “Mr. Caruso, do you realize what that means? That means the bottle with the ammonia in it may have been meant for
you
.”

“
No
,” we all said emphatically.

The lieutenant looked surprised. “Why are you so sure?”

Emmy Destinn spoke up. “Because Caruso does not make enemies, Lieutenant. Not that kind, at any rate. Oh, we have all wanted to strangle him at one time or another—”

“Emmy!”

“—but not seriously and not for long. Duchon, on the other hand, made an enemy every time he opened his mouth. That ammonia was meant for him, no question.”

“She is right, Lieutenant,” Gatti-Casazza said as a murmur of agreement ran across the stage. “No one wishes Caruso harm. Duchon was the, ah, intended victim.”

“Mm, maybe. So where's this Uncle Hummy now?” It turned out no one had seen him since the opening of the second act, and the lieutenant was suddenly very interested in the old man. “What's his real name?” No one knew. “Well, then, where does he live?” No one knew that either. “Then how about a description?” he asked in exasperation. Gatti provided a description, and O'Halloran sent one of his men to start the search.

“Surely you do not suspect Uncle Hummy,” Scotti protested. “He is a harmless old man!”

“Maybe he is and maybe he isn't, but he did handle Moan-sewer Duchon's spray bottle. Where's your own spray bottle, Mr. Caruso?”

“In the dressing room.”

Lieutenant O'Halloran sent another of his men up to fetch it. “We have three bottles, right?” he asked. “Mr. Caruso's original bottle, Mr. Duchon's original bottle,” (he'd given up on
Moan-sewer
) “and Mr. Caruso's second bottle, the replacement for the one Uncle Hummy supposedly picked up by mistake. Dr. Curtis gave us the bottle with the ammonia in it, and if Mr. Caruso's bottle is in his dressing room—there should be one more bottle around here somewhere. Anybody know where it is?”

Nobody did, of course, so the lieutenant put his third man to work looking for it. The second man came back with Caruso's bottle. Bottles, bottles, bottles! What would finding the third bottle tell him? I wished he would get on with it.

He did. He walked over to where I was sitting, planted himself squarely in front of me, and said, “Miss Farrar, I have to tell you—right now you are my prime suspect.” The first words he ever spoke to me.

“That's ridiculous!” Jimmy Freeman shouted.

“
Stupido
,” Pasquale Amato muttered.

I agreed with both of them. I was also pleased to see that everyone else on the stage was looking disgusted.

Lieutenant O'Halloran counted off on his fingers. “Number one, Mr. Duchon accused you of being a German sympathizer.” Well, well—the lieutenant
had
been busy. “Number two, you threw your castanets at him hard enough to draw blood.”

“She throws a chair at me once,” Caruso sighed.

“And a vase of flowers at me,” Toscanini smiled.

“And an open bottle of wine at me,” Amato added, “alas.”

“I am lucky,” Scotti said. “At me she throws nothing harder than a pillow.”

I gave O'Halloran my tenth-best smile. “I throw things, Lieutenant.” The first words I ever spoke to
him
.

“Number three,”
he plowed on, determined to make his point, “Duchon himself accused you of doctoring his throat spray. The way I get it, he staggered out on the stage and pointed his finger at you. He was going for you when he collapsed. Or did I get it wrong?”

A dead silence descended over the stage; there was no way of arguing that point away. Finally I said, “No, you didn't get it wrong, Lieutenant. But Duchon did. I didn't put ammonia in the spray bottle. Good heavens, I'm a singer myself! I couldn't do a thing like that. Besides, I don't carry ammonia around with me!”

“I do,” Emmy spoke up. “At least, I did tonight. There's a bottle in the medicine bag.”

Lieutenant O'Halloran pounced on that. “Is there any missing? Was the bottle full when you got here?”

Emmy wasn't sure. “You'll have to ask Dr. Curtis—it is his medicine bag.”

“Was this bag out of your possession anytime during the evening?”

“Oh, I put it down three or four times. While I was waiting for Pasquale.”

“Pasquale?”

“Me, Lieutenant,” Amato said. “Emmy carries the medicine, to help Dr. Curtis. I am not in the opera house for a few weeks because I have been ill. So I go visit and say hello, I am back—you understand?”

“So the bag was left unattended several times during the evening. Meaning anyone could have taken the ammonia bottle.” He looked directly at me. “Anyone.”

“Oh, cut it out, Lieutenant,” Morris Gest snarled unexpectedly. “You're barking up the wrong tree. Gerry wouldn't seriously harm anyone—it's not her way.”

O'Halloran raised one eyebrow. “A lady who throws things?”

Toscanini chimed in, “But that is precisely
why
she does no serious harm! She lets the anger out often, in little spurts. This does give her the unfortunate reputation of being stubborn, selfish, unreasonable—”

“Thank you very much,” I snapped.

“—but she does not let the anger, eh,
pile up
—you see? She does not hold it in and let it grow and become dangerous.
Per dio
, Lieutenant—Gerry is the
last
person you should suspect!”

T'amo
, you funny man.

“Mm, that's as may be,” the lieutenant was saying, “but we'll save that for later. Right now, I want to go over everything that happened here up to the time Duchon pointed his finger at Miss Farrar. I want you to think back over what you saw, and be sure to check each other on details. Mr. Caruso, you start.”

That sounded like a simple enough procedure, but it turned out that nobody remembered anything the same way. It was incredible, the number of different versions of the same incident that came out! Even simple little things, like where Emmy had put down the medicine bag in my dressing room. I distinctly remembered seeing her drape it over the back of a chair, Scotti said she put it on the dressing table, Emmy claimed she put it on the floor because she remembered having to stoop over to pick it up, and Amato didn't remember her putting it down at all!

Everything
that had happened came out that same garbled way. Osgood Springer said my castanets had hit Duchon at the corner of the mouth (it was the hairline), David Belasco said he'd seen Scotti backstage at a time Scotti insisted he was still out front, Toscanini said Dr. Curtis was attending to Duchon on the right side of the stage when in fact it was the left, Jimmy Freeman said he didn't get into costume until the first act was well under way (I could have sworn I'd seen him dressed earlier than that), Caruso thought he saw Gatti go into Duchon's dressing room but Gatti said he hadn't been upstairs all evening, Emmy was convinced that Uncle Hummy's new tweed coat was brown instead of gray, Amato said he'd bumped into Morris Gest backstage before the first act but Morris said it was
after
, and on and on and on. Lieutenant O'Halloran was beginning to get a glazed look in his eye.

David Belasco finally spoke up and put an end to it. “If I may make a suggestion, Lieutenant,” he said with that surprisingly soft-voiced authority that got him attention whenever he wanted it, “these people have had a long and stressful evening. They're tired and upset. A good night's sleep can sometimes work wonders toward clearing the memory. Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow?”

I was glad to see Lieutenant O'Halloran was a man who could take suggestion. “Not a bad idea, Mr. Belasco—we're not getting very far this way. Go on home, folks, and thanks for your help. Somebody'll be around to talk to you tomorrow.”

A cheering thought. Morris Gest headed straight for me. “Are you all right, Gerry?”

“Dead on my feet, but otherwise unscarred. I'm all right, Morris—don't worry.”

He gave my arm a little squeeze and went back to collect Belasco. Toscanini gave me an encouraging wink and Scotti came over to help me with my coat.

Caruso went up to O'Halloran. “Lieutenant, you worry about these conflicting stories, no? Do not distress yourself.
I
will help you get the truth! I assist you in your questioning and—”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Caruso. You will keep your nose out of it this time. You will do no ‘investigating' on your own. None at all. Understand?”

“But I help you before!” Caruso protested. “You tell me I am a help! You stand right here on this stage and you say—”

“Mr. Caruso, listen to me. Listen carefully. Don't meddle. Don't ask questions, don't eavesdrop, don't read other people's mail. Don't do any of those things you did the last time we met. Whatever occurs to you—don't do it. If I catch you playing detective even
once
, I'm going to throw you in the pokey for obstructing justice.”

Caruso's mouth dropped open and his eyes grew huge. “You do not do such a thing!”

O'Halloran leered. “Just give me the excuse. I mean it, Mr. Caruso. Keep out of it
completely
. I'll tolerate no interference from you this time.”

“But … but … but …” Caruso sputtered.

“No buts. No nothing.
Keep out of it!
Do you understand?”

Emmy and Amato exchanged a knowing look, and without speaking a word marched over to Caruso. They each took an arm and gently steered the sputtering tenor off the stage.

That “last time” they'd been talking about had been just a little over four years ago, when a small-time impresario had been killed shortly before the world première of
La Fanciulla del West
. Caruso had taken it upon himself to find the killer, of all things. I wasn't involved in it, but Emmy Destinn told me Caruso had poked and pried and made such a pest of himself they were all ready to drop him into the East River. But his bumbling around
had
helped turn up the killer, and I guess he was thinking of doing the same thing again—until Lieutenant O'Halloran wrote paid to
that
little plan.