A Chorus of Detectives (30 page)

He caught sight of that afternoon's stars peering anxiously out toward the stage. He walked quietly up behind Geraldine Farrar and Antonio Scotti and said, “Why are you still here? Why didn't you go home?”

Gerry waved her hands vaguely. “I'm not really sure, Captain. We just felt we ought to stay. And now Caruso is sick—”

“He is?” O'Halloran was surprised. “He sounds wonderful to me.”

Scotti said, “But while he is sounding wonderful, he is feeling terrible. The doctor, he should not let him sing.”

O'Halloran looked out on the stage and saw Caruso leaning heavily on one of the choristers. But although the body was suddenly weak, the voice was as strong and glorious as ever.

“What a tremendous effort he's putting into this performance,” Gerry murmured softly. “Foolish, foolish … but heroic, too.”

The performance proceeded without incident. Every time Caruso came off the stage he was bathed in sweat and his face twisted in pain. The stairs to the dressing-room level were too much for him, so he made a costume change in the wings—assisted by four friends, two valets, and one wife. Then they all stood agonizing while the tenor went back out to enchant his Christmas Eve audience; Gerry wondered if they knew what a generous gift he was giving them. His fourth-act aria
Rachel, quand du Seigneur
brought down the house. They knew.

“One more act,” Amato said to O'Halloran. “Just one.”

“Will he make it?”

The baritone's mouth twisted into a wry grin. “
Sì
, he will make it. The fool.”

On stage for the last act, Caruso sang with an intensity and poignancy that had his backstage listeners all holding their breaths. The act was to end with Eléazar mounting the platform from which he would be hurled to a grisly death in a boiling cauldron. Gatti-Casazza arranged for the curtain to close just as Caruso made his way toward the platform so he wouldn't have to climb the steps. Timing was all-important.

It worked. The curtain closed just as the tenor reached the foot of the steps. The chorus sang its final phrases from behind the closed curtain; the orchestra played the chords that ended the opera.

And Caruso collapsed.

12

The Christmas Day matinee performance of
Mefistofele
was marred by nothing more serious than a late lighting cue, but the police turned up something interesting right before the evening performance was about to begin. Fifty of the men choristers were scheduled to carry long poles to which brightly colored banners were attached. But eight of the poles had been booby-trapped; someone had driven carpet tacks through them, the sharp points sticking out just far enough to tear up the pole-carrier's hands. Emmy Destinn gazed calmly at the banner pole Captain O'Halloran was holding gingerly, said “Good for you,” and marched out on the stage to sing a flawless
Aïda
. The Triumphal Scene was performed with slightly fewer banners than usual that night.

O'Halloran wondered if their elusive madman had crossed over into still another stage of his dementia; no one had died when the
Butterfly
bridge collapsed, and murder-by-carpet-tack was ridiculous. Did he, whoever he was, now want to maim instead of kill? O'Halloran decided it was more likely that he'd simply been prevented from killing by all the protection surrounding the choristers. The carpet tacks were just a mean-spirited gesture, a reminder that ‘he' was still there.

When O'Halloran showed up backstage Monday night for
I Pagliacci
, he was disappointed to learn that Caruso had cancelled.

“He has pleurisy,” Gatti-Casazza told him. “His wife calls in consulting physician who says Enrico's illness is misdiagnosed.” Gatti pulled at his beard meditatively. “Dorothy is right all along … she says that Enrico's doctors do not know what is wrong.”

“I'm surely sorry to hear that,” O'Halloran said. “He'll be all right, won't he?”

“
Sì
, in time. When he collapses after
La Juive
—that frightens him, you understand. Now he listens. The new physician says rest, Dorothy says rest, I say rest—he rests. It is hard for Enrico to admit he is ill, but now he faces truth. He comes back in, eh, perhaps a month? It is better this way.”

O'Halloran nodded. “Yeah, it won't hurt him to take it easy for a while. He'll be missed while he's gone, though.”

Gatti made a sound halfway between a grunt and a groan. “Tonight much of audience demands the money back.”

Pasquale Amato spotted them talking and hurried over; he was dressed and made up for the role of Tonio in the evening's production and looked as if he had something on his mind. He nodded to O'Halloran and said to Gatti, “Do you ask him?”

“I ask him now,” Gatti answered. He cleared his throat. “Captain O'Halloran, a few of us wish to speak to you privately—away from the opera house and all its distractions. In your office, perhaps?”

Uh-huh
, O'Halloran thought. “And just who, exactly, are ‘a few of us'?”

“We two,” Amato said. “Scotti. Gerry and Emmy.”

“What a surprise. Look, I'm kind of busy now—”

“Please, Captain,” Amato said urgently. “We do not ask unless it is important.”

“I suppose you've got it all figured out who the killer is.”

Amato hesitated, and then said, “We know it is one of two.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, well—isn't that interesting! Are you going to tell me or do you want me to guess?”

“We tell you tomorrow morning,” Gatti said firmly. “In your office. At ten-thirty.” Then he remembered his authority did not extend to giving orders to the New York Police Department and added, “If that is satisfactory with you.”

“And if it isn't you'll keep pestering me until I do listen to you,” O'Halloran sighed. “All right, Mr. Gatti, Mr. Amato—tenthirty tomorrow morning. My office.”

“
Grazie
, Captain,” Gatti said.

“
Bene!
” Amato smiled. “That is big relief. Now I sing better tonight because of you! Are you not happy to make contribution to opera?”

“I'm ecstatic,” O'Halloran growled.

On Tuesday morning, December 28, heavy snow fell from a dark New York sky as if determined to bury the entire city before nightfall. All the overhead lights inside the police station had been turned on, but they weren't strong enough to disperse all the shadows. Faces looked jaundiced.

Captain O'Halloran had turned up the radiator in his office as far as it would go. Then he'd had to steal three extra chairs from other offices. Now five luminaries from the Metropolitan Opera sat in a semicircle facing his desk. There would have been six of them, O'Halloran was informed, but one of their number was still ill. Antonio Scotti was wearing an expensive-looking fur coat that he refused to take off in spite of the steam heat hissing behind him.

Geraldine Farrar said, “We've decided that the only way to catch this madman is to set a trap for him. There is no other way. We must create a situation in which he'll think he has a clear shot at one of the choristers and consequently reveal himself.”

“Isn't that a trifle dangerous for the chorister?” O'Halloran muttered dryly. “I'll tell you right off, I'm not agreeing to any plan that uses a civilian as bait.”

“We won't have to, Captain. All we have to do is make it
appear
as if the chorister is alone. We'll need the cooperation of one of the bodyguards—”

“Hold it. You've thought up your plan with somebody specific in mind, haven't you? What if you're wrong?”

“Then we'll know, won't we?” Emmy Destinn said complacently. “Besides, the plan isn't all that specific.”

O'Halloran stared at them a moment. “Mr. Amato, last night you told me you knew the killer was one of two people. What two?”

“One of them is Edward Ziegler,” Amato said slowly.

“And the other is Giulio Setti,” Gerry Farrar added quickly.

O'Halloran felt a brief flash of amusement; the Great Detectives were not of one mind? “Why those two?”

Gatti-Casazza spoke for the first time. “Perhaps is best if we tell you what we do. We divide into two teams, and each team narrows list of suspects down to one person. But then is trouble—neither team convinces the other to change their minds. All along we plan to come to you when we think we know who killer is, but now …” He spread his hands apologetically. “Now we come with two names. One is my assistant, whom I trust. Other is friend of twenty years,” he finished sadly.

“Which one do you suspect, Mr. Gatti?”

“Setti,” he said heavily. “My old friend Setti.”

O'Halloran was curious. “Who's Mr. Caruso's choice?”

“Ziegler,” Scotti said, “but he is wrong. It is Setti.”

“No, it
isn't
,” Emmy said waspishly.

Eventually O'Halloran got it straightened out. Caruso, Destinn, and Amato suspected Edward Ziegler; Farrar, Scotti, and Gatti-Casazza suspected Giulio Setti.
And neither of them would be my choice
, the captain thought to himself. “Something puzzles me,” he said aloud. “Miss Farrar, perhaps you could explain to me how a man of Giulio Setti's size and age could succeed in hanging a man who was bigger and younger and stronger than himself.”

She took a deep breath. “I've given that a great deal of thought, and the only possible explanation is that Setti did
not
hang him.”

“You mean we've got two murderers?”

“No, just one. I mean that poor man really did hang himself. It was exactly what everybody first thought it was—a suicide. Setti couldn't have done it, you're right. But we've been assuming all along that five deaths meant five murders. Couldn't only four of them be murders? And one a suicide?”

Emmy smirked. “Don't change your opinion, just explain away the fact.”

“Emmy, stop that! Captain, it is possible, isn't it?”

“At this point I'm beginning to think anything is possible. As long as you're here,” he added with a show of reluctance, “you might as well tell me about this trap you want to set up. How would it work?”

In outline it was simple, but the details would require a great deal of working out. One of the bodyguards would be primed to rush around in a state of near-panic, claiming he'd ‘lost' the chorister he was supposed to be guarding. Then one of the Great Detectives would casually mention to another one—within earshot of the suspects—that he/she saw the chorister in question going into the wardrobe room or the properties room or some other semi-isolated spot to be selected later. Concealed inside said semi-isolated spot would be several of Captain O'Halloran's men, waiting to see who took the bait.

“Suppose someone did show up,” O'Halloran objected. “He could just say he was helping to look for the missing chorister.”

“Not if he carries gun or knife or bully club,” Scotti said.

“Billy club,” Gerry corrected. “Although ‘bully' might be more accurate, come to think of it.”

“But what if he's
not
carrying a weapon?” O'Halloran persisted.

“Then we'll have to think of something else,” Emmy said. “But as long as there's a chance it might work, how will it hurt to try?”

“Seems awfully vague to me,” the captain muttered. “He could even explain away the weapon—he could say he'd started carrying it back when the first murder was committed. Self-protection. It wouldn't prove anything.”

The others were silent a moment. Then Gerry said, “You mean we have to catch him
in the act
.”

“Afraid so. And that means civilian bait, and that means no dice.”

“No … dice?” Scotti repeated.

“He means we can't do it, Toto,” Emmy sighed. “Captain, would you be willing to use one of your policemen as bait?”

“How?”

“He could take the place of the chorister.”

“That won't work, Emmy,” Gerry objected. “Setti knows every one of the choristers and knows them well. Ziegler probably knows most of them too,” she added in belated acknowledgment of the other team's candidate.

“Can they identify them from the back?” Emmy asked. “When they're in costume and make-up?”

They all thought about that a while, and then the Metropolitan contingent was smiling broadly at the police captain. “Well, Captain?” Gatti asked. “What do you say?”

“It will take one whale of a lot of planning,” he grumbled. “So many details to be taken care of!”

“I help you,” Gatti offered. “Planning and details, that is my métier.”

O'Halloran tried to make his voice casual as he asked when Quaglia was conducting next.

“Well, he's conducting
Tosca
on Thursday,” Gerry said. “I don't know if he's scheduled before then.”

“No, he is not,” Gatti said. “
Tristan
and Bodanzky Wednesday,
Tosca
and Quaglia Thursday.”

Then it hit Gerry. “Quaglia!” she cried excitedly, jumping out of her chair. “You suspect Quaglia!”

O'Halloran was annoyed. “Now, Miss Farrar, I didn't say that.”

“Yes, you did! You wouldn't want to know when Quaglia was conducting if you didn't suspect him! You want him to be there when we spring the trap! Come on, Captain—admit it!”

“I just don't think he should be ruled out, that's all.”

That satisfied her. She sat back down and said to Scotti, “He suspects Quaglia.”

Amato rose and took a couple of steps toward O'Halloran's desk. “At one time I too suspect Quaglia,” he told the captain in a tone of confidence-sharing, “but then I change my mind. Let me tell you why.” He started on an involved explanation that the others were constantly interrupting and contradicting until O'Halloran finally yelled for quiet. “I want you to tell me exactly why you suspect these two men, but one at a time, please. Mr. Gatti, you start.”