Prima Donna at Large (19 page)

“Ready?” Scotti said. “One good thing about all this—no fans waiting at the stage door at this hour, yes? They are all home in bed like good sensible people.”

But he was wrong. Mildredandphoebe were outside, huddling together against the cold. “What happened?” Mildred said instead of hello. “The doorkeeper wouldn't let us in—he said something about a police investigation.”

“Police,” Phoebe nodded.

I was so tired I was ready to drop, but they'd been waiting there in the cold all this time and I couldn't just brush them off. I told them as briefly as I could what had happened.

“That's terrible!” Mildred exclaimed. (“Terrible!” Phoebe echoed.) “And they have no idea who did it?”

“Oh, they have an idea,” I said dryly, “but they're wrong. Look, I'll talk to you about this some other time. Right now, I am dreadfully tired.”

“Perhaps in a few days?” Scotti suggested.

“Of course,” Mildred agreed quickly. “Take care of yourself, Miss Farrar.” Phoebe nodded vehemently; they really are nice girls.

It wasn't until I got home that I remembered David Belasco had said something to me about a late supper—but that was before Duchon had made his dramatic entrance in Act II. Belasco must have forgotten about it, as I had. Fortunately.

“
Riposi bene
,” Scotti whispered, and kissed me goodnight.

10

I didn't sleep well, but I rose at my usual hour and got in my daily practice—scales,
lieder
, a few arias. Scotti called and tried to persuade me to come to the Knickerbocker for lunch, but I didn't want to go out. I knew I was going to have to talk to Lieutenant O'Halloran sometime during the day, and I didn't feel like being sociable with that impending interview hanging over my head.

One thing I did was write a congratulatory note to Jimmy Freeman. Poor Jimmy. He'd done a remarkable thing last night, taking over for Duchon that way—under circumstances that would have shaken even a seasoned singer. But he'd done it, and he'd done it well. Last night was a big step forward for Jimmy, and we should all have been fussing over him afterward instead of sitting in a semicircle arguing about who saw what when.

Sometime during the morning I called the hospital and inquired about Philippe Duchon's condition: no change. Also, no visitors. I tried to imagine what Duchon must be going through, not only the physical pain but also the devastating knowledge that his life as a singer was over. Not even during those moments when I outright hated him had I ever wished so horrible a fate for him. I called Wadley & Smythe and ordered two dozen orchids to be sent to the hospital. Maybe he'd remember.

It was late afternoon before Lieutenant O'Halloran arrived. The maid had to ask him twice for his derby hat; he was obviously used to wearing it indoors. “Well, Lieutenant,” I said once he'd settled on a sofa, “have you come to arrest me?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Now, Miss Farrar, I just want to ask you some questions.”

“Oh, is that all? And here I was thinking that last night you virtually accused me of putting ammonia in Duchon's throat spray. Did I dream that?”

He sighed. “Miss Farrar, one thing I've found out today is that you and Duchon fought like cats and dogs—and that alone makes me think you're not the one who tampered with the spray. Someone bent on destroying a man would be more circumspect. But I'm not allowed to go on hunches. I have to deal with evidence, and I have to account to my superior for what I do—you understand?”

I didn't believe that at all; I thought he was trying to put me off my guard. I sat down in the chair farthest away from the sofa and said, “Very well, Lieutenant, ask your questions.”

He gave me a mildly reproachful look and left the sofa for a chair nearer mine. “First of all, tell me what you and Duchon fought about.”

“Everything. Philippe Duchon is arrogant and overbearing, and impossible to work with.” The lieutenant wanted details, so I told him about Duchon's refusing to rehearse
Carmen
, his presuming to pick out the numbers I was to sing in our joint concert—now canceled, I suddenly realized—and a number of similar things. “But Lieutenant, that's only half the story. We disagreed a lot, yes, but we always made the effort to work together. Duchon is as adept at apologizing as he is at causing trouble. He'd bring me flowers, take me to lunch, write me little notes—”

“Like this one?” He pulled out a notebook and found the single sheet of paper he'd slipped between the pages.

It was the note Duchon had written last night, instructing me to stay seated during his aria. “How did you get this?” I asked.

“Never mind how I got it. Is that what you were fighting about last night?”

“That started it, yes.”

“Miss Farrar—why did you throw your castanets at him?”

Oh, I didn't like this! We were getting into a personal area that was really none of the police's business. What had tipped the scale for me last night was that one final insult, when Duchon accused me of enjoying seeing Jimmy Freeman make a fool of himself in Delmonico's. The story made me look bad, it made Jimmy look bad, but—worst of all—it did
not
make Duchon look bad.

So I told that nosy police detective that I didn't remember. “You must understand, Lieutenant, Duchon was a constant irritant—he was always doing something to make me angry. It could have been anything.”

“The way I hear it, he said you enjoyed watching James Freeman make a fool of himself.”

Oh, for … I felt like throwing something at him. If he already knew the answer, then why did he bother asking me? To see what I would say, obviously. “That could be right,” I smiled coolly.

“Miss Farrar,” O'Halloran said in a way that let me see how patient he was being, “I know about the rivalry between your protégé and Philippe Duchon. I know about the scene in Delmonico's. What I don't know is your version of it. So why don't you tell me?”

Jimmy must have already told him about Delmonico's, or perhaps one of the people
I
had told about it. “What did you do, Lieutenant, talk to everybody else before you came here? Were you saving me for last?” He just smiled, so I went on and told him about Jimmy's ineffectual verbal attack on Duchon in Delmonico's. In fact, I ended up telling him just about everything he wanted to know; he knew it all anyway.

When I'd finished, I asked him a question. “How is all this going to help you find the killer?”

“The
killer
?”

“Killer, yes. Killing Duchon's voice is the same as killing the man. For all practical intents and purposes, Duchon's life is over. He can't sing. He'll never manage an opera company without being able to talk. He can't even coach. So what's left for him? You don't spend your life creating music and then switch over to permanent silence without batting an eye. That's
death
, Lieutenant.”

“Mm, I suppose it is, in a way.”

“So why aren't you trying to find out who put the ammonia in the throat spray? Why do you keep asking about irrelevant matters like that little scene in Delmonico's?”

“We might not find an eyewitness to the act, so now I'm looking for motives. Who had a reason to want Duchon out of the picture, that sort of thing.”

“But surely you don't mean—” I caught myself in time and clamped my lips together.

It didn't make any difference. “Go on and say it, Miss Farrar. Surely I don't mean James Freeman? Ask yourself one question: Who gains the most from Duchon's removal from the scene?”

“That's absurd, Lieutenant. Jimmy Freeman is a sweet boy who wouldn't harm a fly.”

He didn't think that worth commenting on. “Freeman was scheduled to sing Pasquale Amato's roles while Amato was ill, until Duchon showed up and took his job away from him. Freeman was demoted to standing by for his rival, and Duchon was planning to sing at the Met next year—making Freeman's chances for getting ahead even slimmer. And there was bad feeling between the two, on the verge of erupting into something nasty, looks like. Last night Duchon wanted Gatti-Casazza to get rid of Freeman, didn't he? Freeman has a motive, all right.”

“Oh, Lieutenant,
everybody
has a motive if you want to be picky about it. I'm telling you,
nobody
liked the man. Why single out Jimmy Freeman?”

He grunted. “Unfortunately, you've got a point. Everyone does have some kind of motive—including you, don't forget. Gatti-Casazza was worried that Duchon was after his job, for instance.”

“He needn't have been. The board of directors would never have fired Gatti to hire Duchon.”

“But could he be sure of that? And if Gatti went, what would happen to Toscanini—who was already at loggerheads with Duchon?”

“Maestro Toscanini has a place at the Metropolitan for as long as he wants. He'll leave only when
he
chooses to go.” Not for another hundred years, I hoped.

“Then there's your manager. Duchon cheated him, and from what I can find out, nobody cheats Morris Gest and gets away with it.”

I was silent. That was true.

“Duchon and Emmy Destinn have been enemies for years, dating back to their singing together at …” He flipped through his notebook until he found what he wanted. “At Covent Garden. Her reasons for disliking him seem to be about the same as yours. She told me their working relationship had settled down into a good, dull, solid hatred.”

“Ha! Good for her.”

“The other two baritones, Amato and Scotti—they were both in danger of losing their roles to Duchon.” He sighed. “Ten years ago I wouldn't have believed something like that could be an adequate motive for attacking a man. But that was before I'd worked with opera people. Now I know better, if you'll excuse my saying so. So I'd have to say both Scotti and Amato had motives too. In fact, about the only ones who don't have motives are David Belasco and Enrico Caruso. Belasco didn't even know Duchon. Caruso got along with Duchon better than anyone else managed to, but he still got mad enough one night to ask Gatti-Casazza to replace him. That was during a performance of …” He started flipping through his notebook again.

“The Huguenots,”
I said.

He couldn't find the page. “That sounds right. But even so, Caruso could never stay mad long enough to carry out an act of retaliation.”

I smiled, halfway meaning it. “You sound as if you know Rico well.”

“Well enough,” he said dryly. “I know he fancies himself a detective. If you're his friend, Miss Farrar, you'll convince him I meant what I said last night. I'll lock him up if I catch him snooping this time.”

“But you wouldn't really.”

“Yes, I would,” he said simply—and I believed him, Lord help us. “Now, Miss Farrar,” the lieutenant went on, “I want to go over your movements last night one more time. Don't rush; try to remember everything you saw and name everybody who saw you. Take your time, get it straight.”

How tedious. I told him basically the same thing I'd told him the night before, but with more detail. He'd interrupt now and then to get something clarified, and he asked a few questions when I'd finished—such as did I actually see Uncle Hummy pick up Caruso's throat spray or did I only hear about it afterwards? I'd only heard about it. “By the way,” I said, “have you found Uncle Hummy?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “Everyone at the Metropolitan knows who he is but nobody knows where he lives.”

“Well, I shouldn't worry, if I were you. Uncle Hummy can't stay away from opera very long. He'll show up soon. And Lieutenant, you're wrong about Jimmy Freeman. He didn't put the ammonia in the spray. I'm as sure of his innocence as I am of my own.”

He scratched his cheek with a long bony finger. “But I'm not sure of either, you see. No matter how many other motives I'm able to dig up, we still can't get away from the fact that it was
you
Duchon accused.”

“That's
ridiculous
!” I stormed. “He was just guessing! If he
knew
I'd tampered with the spray, would he have gone ahead and used it?”

“But he must have had some reason for suspecting you—”

“He was angry with me! I'd just thrown my castanets at him!”

“True, but there might be something more. I'm going to ask him about it as soon as he's able to write out his answers. Dr. Curtis says a couple more days. Well, I think that's all for now. I'll be going. My coat and hat?”

I called the maid, and just like that he was gone. No thank you for your help or I'm sorry I took up so much of your time, no attempt to reassure me or promise to keep me informed. I didn't think I liked this Lieutenant O'Halloran very much. But whether I liked him or not, I was going to cooperate in every way he asked me to. A person capable of destroying a singer's voice was capable of anything. What if that person ever got mad at
me
?

But who was it? I couldn't imagine any of the people I knew doing a thing like that. Guns, poison, knives, nooses, heavy clubs for banging people over the head—I could imagine certain people I knew using those; heavens, I'd thought of using them myself on occasion. But
going for the voice
—that was simply unimaginable. Yet someone had done it. I sat down at my writing table and took out a piece of paper and wrote the word
Suspects
at the top.

Lieutenant O'Halloran seemed inclined to eliminate Belasco and Caruso, and I could see no reason to disagree with him. So who was the first suspect? Well, there was no way around it: I wrote down my own name. Next came Jimmy Freeman, as preposterous as that might be. A thought occurred to me: If Jimmy Freeman belonged on a list of suspects, shouldn't Mr. Springer's name be there as well? He had a big investment in Jimmy. I didn't think Toscanini had any real motive, but as long as O'Halloran considered him a suspect, he should be included. I ended up listing just about everybody:
Geraldine Farrar, Jimmy Freeman, Osgood Springer, Arturo Toscanini, Giulio Gatti-Casazza, Morris Gest, Emmy Destinn, Pasquale Amato, Antonio Scotti, Dr. Holbrook Curtis
.