by Barbara Paul
But then Caruso thought of something. “Ah—Ugo, Mario cannot have been turning his salary over to Luigi Davila. Davila had not been in the blackmailing business very long when he was killed—so, Mario is innocent!”
Ugo sneered. “You always take Mario’s part. You decide he is not guilty because you do not wish him to be guilty. Just like Mr. Puccini.”
“Ugo!” Caruso roared so loudly that Martino came running in to see what was the matter. Caruso waved him out with assurances that all was well. Ugo’s words had stung; Caruso had to admit there might be some truth in them. Reluctantly he added Mario’s name to the list of suspects, more to placate Ugo than out of any conviction of his own. Then he added a big black question mark after the name.
Partly mollified, Ugo said, “Now what do we do, Rico?”
Caruso smiled wickedly. “I have been thinking about that. A person who has been blackmailed once can be blackmailed twice, yes?”
Ugo shrugged.
“So I was thinking I will write a little note to our suspect if we find one. A note saying that I, an unnamed gentleman, am taking over where Luigi Davila left off. I will say that I, the new blackmailer, have ‘inherited’ the evidence Davila left behind! What do you think?”
Ugo was frowning. “Did we not decide that the killer removed all the evidence from Davila’s office?”
“Ah, but Davila could have made copies! Which he hid someplace else. No blackmail victim can take the chance that there is still evidence somewhere that can hurt her—or him, them.”
“And then if our suspect agrees to pay …” Ugo’s eyes were gleaming. “Yes, I see! It is a good plan, Rico!”
“Yes! Now we must decide how to word the note.”
“Oh—I forgot to ask you. Do your own investigations reveal nothing? No suspects?”
Caruso thought for a long time before he answered. Finally he said, “Yes. One suspect.”
“Who?”
“Pasquale Amato.”
Ugo’s face lit up, loving the thought of a new scandal. “Mr. Amato? What—?”
“Do not ask what he has done because I am not going to tell you. Be content knowing only that it is possible, just possible, that he may have been approached by the blackmailing Mr. Davila.”
“It must—”
“Not a word, Ugo! I am not going to tell you.” Congratulating himself on his own fair-mindedness, Caruso added his friend’s name to the list of suspects. His real motive was considerably less admirable than he liked to think, however. He was certain Amato was innocent of murder; but a note from an unknown blackmailer would give the baritone an uncomfortable moment or two. Caruso chuckled. That should pay him back nicely for the incident of the glued Bible.
He held up his list so Ugo could see: Sigrid, Mario?, Pasquale. “I do not send a note to Mario,” he announced, “at least, not yet. I talk to him first. If I am not satisfied, then we send him a note.”
Ugo nodded unenthusiastically. “What will the note say?”
Caruso thought a moment and then began to write.
Luigi Davila made copies of all his important papers and left them with me for safekeeping. I now offer these papers for sale. If you wish to purchase any part of them, meet me
“Where is a good place?” Caruso asked.
“Some public spot,” Ugo said. “Let’s see … how about Central Park?”
“Too cold.”
“Indoors, then. A train station, a museum—”
“A museum! That’s it.”
at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Friday, 9 December, at twelve noon. I shall be waiting in the Venetian glass section on the second floor. If you do not wish to purchase these papers, I intend selling them to the newspapers.
“Signature?” Ugo asked.
Caruso placed a black X at the bottom of the page—there, that looked properly mysterious. He copied the letter carefully and took out two envelopes. “What is Sigrid’s last name?”
Ugo looked blank. “I don’t know.”
“Eh, well, there is only one Sigrid backstage at the Met.” He wrote Sigrid on one envelope and Pasquale Amato on the other. “Now Ugo, I want you to deliver these letters tomorrow afternoon during final dress rehearsal. Wait until the rehearsal starts. And be sure to hand them directly to Sigrid and Pasquale—do not leave them lying on a dressing table. Tell each one that a man you do not know stopped you on your way into the opera house and asked you to deliver an envelope. That way neither one will suspect you of having anything to do with it. You understand?”
“Yes, Rico.” Ugo took the two letters, his eyes gleaming, excited by the adventure he was involved in. “What if they ask me what the man looks like?”
“Make up something. Describe Lieutenant O’Halloran. Now please tell Martino to prepare the bath. I am ready for a long soak.”
“Which scent?”
“It does not matter, anything,” Caruso said distractedly. Ugo raised his eyebrows and left. Caruso was excited himself; they were coming down to the wire, as they said at the American racetrack. If everything worked out, Sigrid would show up at the museum on Friday, Caruso would notify Lieutenant O’Halloran, and the murderer would be safely locked up in jail before the curtain opened on the première of La Fanciulla del West on Saturday night. Then they could all forget about murder and blackmail and ugly suspicions and concentrate on the important thing—the music.
Caruso finished his bath and called to Mario for a massage. The tenor stretched out on his stomach—no easy task—and Mario’s strong young fingers dug into his neck and shoulder muscles. Soon the knots of tension began to loosen. Mario had known nothing about massage when he first joined Caruso. But he’d learned the techniques quickly from Martino, once the older valet’s hands had begun to grow arthritic.
Knead, knead, slap, slap. Caruso tried to consider Ugo’s suspicions of Mario objectively. Ugo had always been a little resentful of the younger man who had so quickly won his place in the previously closed all-male household. Ugo had made his displeasure clear—but there had never been even a hint of bad feeling between the new valet and Martino. Undoubtedly because of the deferential courtesy Mario always showed the older man.
So, was the problem Mario or was it Ugo? Caruso remembered Pasquale Amato’s whimsical description of Ugo as the middle child in the “family”—the one whose role was not clearly defined. Jealous of the new baby. Caruso groaned.
“Do I hurt you, signore?”
“No, no—it feels good, Mario. Continue.”
But there remained the problem of the fate of Mario’s monthly salary. It was inconceivable to Caruso that the young man could be paying off a blackmailer; there had to be some perfectly simple explanation. What Caruso needed was a subtle and crafty way of finding out from Mario what he did with his money. He thought about the matter a good five minutes and then said, “Mario, what do you do with your money?”
“Signore?”
“Your monthly salary—what do you spend it on?”
“I send it to my mother and sisters in Milan,” the valet said mournfully. “They have no money.”
Caruso twisted around and looked up at him. “You send all of it?”
Mario looked positively funereal. “Alas, no. I keep two dollars for myself, for expenses. I have tried to get by without spending anything, but it is very difficult, signore.”
Two dollars a month for personal expenses, Caruso thought in amazement. And Mario was feeling guilty about holding back even that small amount. A lot of Europeans in America sent money back home; Caruso cursed himself for not thinking of that. Especially with the example of Sigrid fresh in his mind—sending part of her salary to support her illegitimate daughter. Nothing illegitimate about Mario’s actions, though. But wait—Ugo would say Mario was lying.
“How do you send the money, Mario? Loose in an envelope?”
“Oh no, signore—that is not safe. Every month I buy a postal money order. I buy one just this morning.”
Aha. “Do
you know,” Caruso said nonchalantly, “I have never bought a postal money order. Is that not strange? I do not even know what one looks like.”
“Would you like to see mine?”
“Yes, please, if you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” Mario wiped his hands on a towel and left the room. He was back immediately with the postal money order.
One glance at the form told Caruso all he needed to know. The order was indeed made out to Mario’s mother, and the amount was exactly two dollars less than what the young man earned in a month. And out of those two dollars he’d had to pay the cost of the money order itself.
Caruso handed the form back and sighed. “Mario, why do you not tell me your mother and your sisters are in need? It is good that you take care of your family—but from now on you will keep half of your salary, and you will spend it on yourself. And do not worry, I myself will make up the difference to your mother. She will not have to go without.”
Tears of gratitude welled up in the young valet’s eyes. “Oh signore—how can I thank you? You are so good!”
“No, no, I am a pig. I should have found out long ago.” Secretly he resolved to add a little something extra to Mario’s monthly postal order—once he could figure out a way to manage it all without Ugo’s finding out. He broke into Mario’s fervent grazies to announce, “Now we will say no more about it—it is settled! Let us concentrate on finishing the massage.” He stretched out on his stomach again, and felt one hot tear splash on his back.
Scratch one name from the list of suspects.
10
“Hip, hip, hurrah,” David Belasco enunciated with great care.
“Eep, eep, urra,” Caruso caroled happily.
Dress rehearsal was due to start in about ten minutes, but Belasco was still trying. He’d given the chorus one final lecture and was now tying up a few loose ends. “Again, please.”
Caruso was happy to oblige. He was happy about everything. He had a suspect, he had a plan, the plan was in operation, and soon everyone at the opera house would be thanking him for removing the dark cloud they were all laboring under.
Backstage, the usual last-rehearsal confusion prevailed. Today they would rehearse for the first (and only) time with the full stage sets in place. The costumes were complete, the stage properties were ready. Everything was ready. Naturally, everyone was in a state of advanced panic.
“Don’t be nervous, Rico,” Barthélemy had said nervously.
All four of Caruso’s retainers were there; none of them wanted to miss the dress rehearsal, which was often more interesting than the actual performance. Martino kept fussing with Caruso’s costume. Mario carried the throat spray, looking even more lugubrious than usual in the midst of such operatic splendor. Ugo kept bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, excited at being the only one there besides Caruso who knew about that other thing going on there today.
“Just be calm,” Barthélemy said, fidgeting. “Take deep breaths.”
Caruso laughed and clapped his accompanist on the shoulder. “I think you are the one who needs to take deep breaths, Barthélemy. Me, I feel wonderful!” Just then an enormous racket broke out on the other side of the stage, making both Barthélemy and Martino jump. “Go see what that noise is, Mario,” Caruso ordered. “Give the throat spray to Martino.”
Mario hurried away, almost colliding with Pasquale Amato. “Your policeman friend is here, Rico,” the baritone said in a rush, “and he is driving our composer to distraction!”
“Lieutenant O’Halloran?”
“The same.” Amato had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the orchestra tuning up. “I think he is trying to make Puccini crack.”
Just then Puccini’s voice rose above the backstage clatter: “Do not bother me at a time like this!” The red-faced composer charged out from behind a flat, followed by the derby-clad police detective.
Instinctively Caruso put out a hand to detain O’Halloran, hoping to allow Puccini time to escape. “Lieutenant, there is something I wish to ask you—”
“Not now, Mr. Caruso.” O’Halloran shrugged off the restraining hand and followed Puccini down the offstage stairway into the auditorium.
“Why does he pester him now?” Caruso complained. “Surely the lieutenant knows how important today is!”
“That is why,” Amato said dryly. “Hoping to catch him off-guard, no doubt.”
Mario returned from his errand. “The horses have arrived,” he announced tragically.
They all trooped across the stage to take a look at the horses, Caruso’s spurs clanking noisily. Emmy Destinn and a large black mare were eyeing each other distrustfully. When Emmy practiced mounting, Caruso saw she was wearing cotton stockings—eh, Belasco had won that one, then. The mare stretched back and tried to bite the soprano’s ankle.
“I want a different horse!” Emmy announced in no uncertain terms, sliding off her mount.
For the first time it occurred to Caruso that the exposure of Sigrid as the murderer would be a great shock to Emmy. She was fond of her maid, in a strange sort of way. Caruso’s good mood was momentarily dampened; he did not wish to cause Emmy pain. But he could see no way around it; they would all just have to be especially kind to Emmy when the news broke. Suddenly he realized the normally highly visible maid was nowhere in sight. “Have you seen Sigrid?” he whispered to Ugo.
“Not yet,” Ugo whispered back. “But do not worry, Rico, I will find her.”
“What are these horses doing here?” a horrified voice cried. Gatti-Casazza elbowed his way through the crowd. “They are not supposed to be here now! Which of you is in charge?”
One of the animal handlers stepped forward. “This here’s the Metropolitan Opera, ain’t it? I got an order to deliver eight horses—”
“Yes, yes, but not now—they are not needed until the third act! Oh dear!” Gatti-Casazza stared at a steaming pile on the floor. “We can’t have these animals backstage during the entire performance! Take them outside—right now, please.”
“Cold out there,” the handler grumbled. “Not good for the horses, either.”
“But surely you have vans? What did you bring them in?”
“They’re open vans, not much protection.”
“Then please see to it that Saturday night you have the proper kind of van, the kind that does offer protection. As for now, you’ll simply have to improvise something. We can’t have all these animals here while we’re trying to put on an opera!”
“Well, I s’pose we could double-blanket ’em.”
“You do that. And somebody clean up that mess!” The handler and his assistants started moving the horses out. “Oh dear, we should have started by now!” Gatti-Casazza exclaimed, combing his beard nervously with his fingers. “Will you take your places, please? Everyone off the stage who does not belong on the stage!”
Caruso turned to his accompanist. “Barthélemy, take Mario out front and watch from there. And Mario, try to smile once in a while. Martino—why not join them? I do not think—”
“I stay here,” Martino said firmly. “You may need me.”
Caruso knew better than to argue. He drew Ugo aside and said, low, “I change my mind about one thing. Do not deliver Pasquale’s letter until the rehearsal is finished—I do not wish to throw his performance off. But Sigrid’s letter can be delivered any time you find her alone. If she is here.”
Ugo answered by digging an elbow into Caruso’s ribs and gesturing theatrically with his head. The tenor followed his look—and there was Sigrid, arguing with Emmy, as always. That was all right, then.
“I am starting this rehearsal in exactly thirty seconds,” a voice from the orchestra pit announced. “The rest of you may join me or not, as you please.” Toscanini smiled in satisfaction at the mad rush his words caused. The stage lights went down; the only thing visible was the glowing end of a burning cigar. The first hair-raising chords sounded from the orchestra. The stage lights slowly went up to revea
l Amato and one of the miners in the saloon. Dress rehearsal was under way.
Caruso put Sigrid and the letters at the back of his mind and anxiously watched the stage action. The fight went smoothly; no one got hurt. The Bible opened the way it was supposed to. Caruso made his entrance; and when Amato knocked his drink off the bar, no one got splashed. The singing was true, the orchestra was authoritative, the music was beautiful.
The first act of La Fanciulla del West was the longest, running about an hour. When Caruso left the stage, he had sweat off all his make-up and hurried upstairs to apply more. Martino handed him a towel and then knelt down to oil Caruso’s spurs. “Mr. Belasco’s orders,” he said apologetically.
“Where is Ugo?” Caruso asked.
“Here.” Ugo stood in the doorway, shaking his head no. He hadn’t been able to deliver the letter yet. Ugo stepped back from the door and Puccini rushed in, followed by Lieutenant O’Halloran.
“Caruso,” the composer cried, “if you keep singing like that I will have to rename the opera The Lad of the Golden West! Divine!”
“Emmy won’t like that,” the tenor laughed. “You are satisfied, then?”
“I am enchanted! I have never seen a dress rehearsal go so smoothly—especially the final rehearsal of a new opera. Ah, if only all rehearsals were like this one! I must speak to Amato and Madame Destinn.” He hurried out, not even looking at Lieutenant O’Halloran as he passed; Puccini had decided to deal with the policeman by ignoring him.
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” Caruso hissed. O’Halloran only smiled and followed Puccini out. Caruso finished putting on his make-up and hurried downstairs.
