Prima Donna at Large (23 page)

“So. What else?”

“Well, Morris Gest may have lied about where he was right before the opera started. David Belasco is going to try to find out the truth—Rico, what
are
you writing?”

“Notes. A good detective always makes notes. So we wait to hear from Mr. Belasco?
Bene
. Now—do you ask Emmy Destinn about the note from Duchon?”

“She said she thought she gave it back to me, and I'm sure she was telling the truth. Neither of us was paying much attention at the time.”

“Eh, Lieutenant O'Halloran probably just picks it up from your dressing table.”

“Probably. But Rico, how did he get into my dressing room? I have the only key.”

“Ahhhhh, that is right! I forget about that. You must ask the lieutenant how the note comes into his possession.”

“I did ask him. He wouldn't tell me.”

“Ask him again.”

“Rico, you're just
beginning
to sound bossy.”

He was busy reading through his “notes” and didn't hear. “Mr. Gatti. I think I see him go into Duchon's dressing room, but—”

“But he denies it,” I said. “Without even being asked, he denies it. He made a point of telling me twice he was never on the dressing-room level at all. How sure are you?”

“Not very. Backstage—so much confusion! I wish someone else is there to see also!”

“Yes, that would simplify matters considerably. Perhaps I should go back and ask everyone whether—Rico, doesn't all this strike you as slightly redundant? Surely Lieutenant O'Halloran is asking these same questions!”

“Of course he is asking these same questions,” Caruso said smugly. “But is he getting the same answers? People do not talk to the police as openly as they talk to a friend.”

“That makes me feel like a traitor,” I complained.

“No, no—you must not feel that way,” he told me in a surprisingly serious voice. “You must persevere—we must find the truth!” Then he switched back from that high-minded tone to his usual little-boy eagerness. “So, what else do you find out?”

I hesitated. “It's what I didn't find out,” I finally said. “It's Scotti. Was he backstage between Acts I and II or not? He said no, Belasco said yes. But Belasco became uncertain when faced with an absolute denial, the way you are no longer sure about Gatti's going into Duchon's dressing room.”

“It cannot be Scotti.”

“Of course it can't.”

We both sat in gloomy silence for a few moments. “So, then,” Caruso asked, “what do we do?”

I made up my mind. “We ask him. Between the two of us, we ought to be able to convince him how important it is to tell the truth.”

“
Eccellente!
I call him.” He reached for the telephone.

“No, wait—let me.” Scotti's apartment was directly under Caruso's, so I stood in the middle of the room and “called” the baritone. I began to sing, full voice,
Vissi d'arte
from
Tosca
.

I was only halfway through the aria when the knocking started; Mario opened the door and Scotti rushed in. “Gerry! You do not tell me you are coming here! Good morning, Rico. Do I interrupt,
cara mia
?”

“No, Toto, you do not interrupt,” I smiled. “In fact, we wanted you up here.”

“
Bene!
Is that coffee? Mario, one more cup, please!” But the valet as usual had known what would be wanted and was even then bringing in another cup.

When Scotti had poured his coffee and seated himself, Caruso and I exchanged an uneasy look; neither one of us wanted to broach the subject. Finally I did. I told Scotti as simply and as earnestly as I could how necessary it was for us to know where he had spent the interval between the first and second acts of last Friday's
Carmen
.

He stuttered and stammered a bit, but with Caruso's encouragement he eventually admitted that he had indeed come backstage after Act I. “But I do not put ammonia in the spray! Surely you do not think I do such a thing!”

“No, no—but what are you doing backstage, Toto?” Caruso asked. “Where do you go? Do you see anything?”

But instead of answering Caruso, Scotti turned his face to me. And suddenly I understood. I knew that look—oh, how I knew that look! I grabbed a silk cushion from the sofa and hurled it at his head. “Who was she, Toto?” I screamed. “Some little girl from the chorus?
Who was she?
”

Scotti was stammering something and Caruso started talking loudly in an attempt to play peacemaker and I was still screaming and Mario came running in to see what was the matter—so of course we all turned on poor Mario. The valet scuttled back out again, and the rest of us settled down some.

It had been a chorus singer after all. Scotti had been on his way to see me right after Act I but had been diverted—“only a little conversation, yes?” He wasn't even aware that at that very time I was throwing my castanets at Philippe Duchon and drawing blood; he learned of that only afterward. And no, he hadn't noticed anything else in particular going on. Some “little conversation” that must have been.

It wasn't the explanation I would have chosen, but it did account for Scotti's movements during a rather crucial period during Friday evening. Not that I ever suspected him of being the one who'd contaminated the throat spray, but it was one loose end that was now tied up. I believed Scotti's story; whenever he was engaged in one of his little “flirts,” as the Italians call them, he was deaf and dumb and blind to everything else going on around him.

“If we could only pin down the time more precisely,” I complained, “we might get a better idea of who could have done it. As it is now, the ammonia could have been put in the spray bottle any time after Emmy Destinn showed up backstage carrying her saddlebag with the ammonia in it. That was ten or fifteen minutes before Act I started, and Duchon didn't actually use the spray until right before his entrance during Act II. That's a big stretch of time.”

“It sounds unplanned, does it not?” Scotti offered. “Who would know ahead of time Emmy so conveniently brings a bottle of ammonia with her that night?”

“Yes, it must have been a spur-of-the-moment thing,” I agreed. “Emmy probably just dumped the bag somewhere while she was talking and someone saw it and thought, ‘Well, it won't hurt to look.' And found the ammonia.”

Caruso was back at his writing table, shuffling through his papers. “So. Now we remove one name from the list—Antonio Scotti.”

“What list is that?” Scotti asked.

“Our list of suspects.”

“You put my name on your list of suspects?”

“And my own,” said Caruso. “And Gerry's.”

Scotti held out a hand. “Let me see.” He glanced at the piece of paper Caruso gave him. “Eh, we know we three are not guilty. Let us see, that leaves—Gatti-Casazza, Toscanini, Amato, Destinn, Gest, Freeman, Springer, Dr. Curtis, and Uncle Hummy.” He lowered the paper. “Uncle Hummy?”

I shrugged. “He was there.”

“Emmy and Pasquale,” Caruso said decisively. “We remove their names too.”

“Is that the way a good detective works, Rico?” I asked, amazed. “First, eliminate one's friends from the list of suspects?”

“You do not seriously suspect Emmy and Pasquale,” Caruso said reprovingly. “You know you do not.”

“Of course I don't, but that's no way to go about it—we wouldn't have any suspects left that way. Look, Rico,” I said sarcastically, “there's only one person on that list who's not a close friend of ours. That's Osgood Springer. So why don't we just save time and decide
he's
the culprit and go after
him
?”

“Morris Gest is not my friend,” Scotti said. “Not particularly.”

“Well, he's mine, and if we're eliminating suspects on the basis of friendship, his name goes too.” Then I noticed Caruso; he was sitting up straight, his face was lighted up. “Rico?”

He turned his beaming face toward me and said, “Osgood Springer!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Rico!” I exploded. “Couldn't you tell I was being sarcastic?” Scotti just laughed.

Caruso brushed my objection aside. “Gerry, I think you are right! Osgood Springer did it!”

“I didn't say Osgood Springer did it!” I cried in exasperation. “Oh, Rico—why don't you
listen
!”

Scotti was looking at the list again. “Jimmy Freeman is not my friend either. We leave his name on.”

Scotti was being facetious, but his mention of Jimmy Freeman reminded me that the young singer was our prime suspect. Oh, how I hated that thought! Caruso explained to Scotti that Jimmy had lied about when he got into costume, and then said to me, “You are going to have to meet with him, Gerry. Find out the truth. He tells you if you ask him right, yes?”

“Why do I not meet with him instead?” Scotti asked in an over-casual manner. “We have man-to-man talk.”

I had to smile at that. “Toto, do you really think Jimmy would confide in you? You know he wouldn't.”

“But he tells Gerry,” Caruso added. “If there is anybody in the whole big world he tells, it is Gerry.”

Scotti glared at him, jumped to his feet, and announced, “Gerry, you do not meet with Jimmy Freeman.
I
do.”

I went over to him. “Now, Toto—as long as you indulge in little tête-à-têtes with chorus singers, you have nothing to say about whom
I
choose to meet.” He had no say in the matter under any circumstances, but why rub it in? “Tonight at
Madame Sans-Gêne
I'll arrange to meet Jimmy tomorrow. It's best this way, Toto.”

“In a public place!” Scotti shouted. “You meet him in a public place! With hundreds and thousands of people around you! This Freeman, he may be dangerous!”

Why, he was worried about me!
That
was his objection to my meeting Jimmy! Without any preamble I put my arms around his neck and pulled his face down for a long, intense kiss that reassured both of us. I didn't want to worry Toto; he was too dear. We rested our heads on each other's shoulders and just stood there a while, feeling good.

But then I noticed Caruso was sketching away like a madman; nothing can kill a romantic moment faster than discovering Enrico Caruso is drawing a caricature of you. It wasn't his usual kind of caricature, it turned out. Our faces were recognizable without any exaggerations being drawn in. Scotti's nose was not elongated, and my teeth weren't showing at all. He'd caught our postures perfectly, with our heads on each other's shoulders.
But
—he'd drawn us both without any clothes on.

I tried not to laugh; that only encouraged him. “Shame on you, Rico!” I exclaimed. “Nobody must see that!” I reached for the drawing.

But Scotti whipped it away before I could tear it up. “Oh, I like this, Rico! I like it
assai molto
! May I keep it?”

“
Sí, certo
,” the tenor said expansively.

I made a mental note to steal the drawing from Scotti the first chance I got. “Well, I'm going home now,” I announced. “I've been here all morning, and I want to get some rest before I start vocalizing.”

Scotti wanted to see me home, but I knew better than to let him come with me just then.

Jimmy Freeman's first and last performance in
Madame Sans-Gêne
was … satisfactory. He made no mistakes, neither vocally nor in his stage movements. But he didn't bring the audience to its feet either. The role itself simply wasn't good enough to create that kind of effect, and Jimmy wasn't seasoned enough a performer to make something more out of it. Pasquale Amato gave the role some personality when he sang it, but Amato had years of experience behind him. The overall performance of
Madame Sans-Gêne
was a rousing success, however, because
I
was marvelous. It's a soprano's opera; that's why I was singing it.

Jimmy was pleased with himself, however; he accepted everyone's congratulations with a glow on his cheek and a sparkle in his eye. I gave him a light kiss and made a dinner date with him for the following evening.

“Where?” he asked eagerly.

I was going to suggest Sherry's—but Sherry's was right across the street from Delmonico's, and I didn't want to remind Jimmy of that time he'd behaved so badly in the other restaurant. “You choose.”

“What about Sherry's? I'll reserve a table.”

Osgood Springer was watching all the fuss being made over his pupil with a wry smile on his lips. I left Jimmy to some new congratulators and motioned his vocal coach aside. “All right, so it wasn't a standard-setting performance,” I said. “But you're not going to tell him that, are you, Mr. Springer?”

“There's no point,” he shrugged. “James will never sing the role again.”

“It wasn't a wasted effort, you know,” I lectured him. “Jimmy has more experience now than he did twenty-four hours ago. And exposure—don't underestimate the value of exposure. The more the audiences hear him, the better off he'll be.”

“Yes, I understand all that, Miss Farrar. But what now? What comes next?”

I had no answer for him.

The next evening while I was dressing for my dinner date with Jimmy, David Belasco telephoned. “Morris did slip backstage before the first act of
Carmen
,” he told me, “while I thought he was in the gentlemen's restroom. But he won't tell me why.”

“Well, well, isn't that interesting,” I murmured.

“He may be seeing another woman,” Belasco said darkly.

“At the Metropolitan? Where everybody knows him? And with you in the building? David, that would be the
last
reason he'd sneak backstage!”

He laughed. “Perhaps you're right. So far as I know, Morris has always been faithful to my daughter. But there's always a first time.”