by Barbara Paul
“No,” O’Halloran answered casually. “Miss Farrar, are you and Mr. Freeman getting married?”
“No, Lieutenant, we’re not. The whole thing’s a mistake.”
“Of one kind or another,” he nodded.
Now what did he mean by that? Bella appeared at the end of the hallway, now so crowded with chairs and people that she couldn’t get through. “Miss Farrar!” she called. “Miss Destinn is on the telephone and she wants to know if it’s true that—”
“Tell her no, it’s not true,” I said. “And from now on, Bella, just take the names of whoever calls and say I’ll call back later.”
I was ushering everyone out of the crowded hallway when we all heard a young voice singing out, “Gerry! Where are you, my darling Gerry?”
“Enter the hero,” Osgood Springer said dryly. I shushed Scotti’s growl and went to meet my unintended intended.
“Gerry! There you are!” Jimmy Freeman shouted, and threw both arms around me—only to look over my shoulder into the furious face of Antonio Scotti. Jimmy released me and manfully faced his rival. “Mr. Scotti, I must ask you not to call on my fiancée again unless I am present.” Then before Scotti could answer, Jimmy noticed the others. “Mr. Springer, what are you doing here? Uh, hello, Mr. Caruso. And Lieutenant O’Halloran—is something wrong?”
O’Halloran cocked an eyebrow at him. “Miss Farrar is your fiancée?” All the time the telephone kept ringing, ringing.
I had to do something fast. “If you would all care to take a seat …? I must speak with Jimmy privately and I’ll rejoin you shortly.” Scotti was the first to object; I placed my fingers over his mouth. “Please, Toto. I won’t be long.”
He acquiesced as graciously as could be expected under the circumstances. I took Jimmy by the arm and steered him toward the music room, dreading what I had to do. The direct approach would probably be kinder in the long run; so I closed the door, faced him, and told him.
He did not take it well. He didn’t cry, but he looked as if he wanted to. I gave him a little hug. “Jimmy, it’s not you, you understand. It’s just that I don’t want to be married to anybody, at least not right now. I’m flattered to death that you asked me, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this misunderstanding. I’m very fond of you—you know that, don’t you?”
“No,” he snuffled, “I don’t know that. I don’t exactly feel overwhelmed with love right now.”
I kept talking to him and eventually he accepted it. “You’re still part of my life, Jimmy,” I said. “We’re not saying goodbye.”
“I suppose,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “that deep down I never really believed you’d marry me. But I want you to know I’m not giving up! I’m going to keep trying!”
Ah, the resilience of youth! I gave him a quick kiss and said, “Now I’ve got to get dressed. You go on out with the others—I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I hoped he and Scotti would be polite to each other. What a morning! There was only one person in my apartment right then that I really wanted to see, and that was Osgood Springer. My next step was obviously to find out why he’d told Jimmy to lie about getting into his Carmen costume early. But there was no chance of talking to him in private with that mob in my parlor! I’d just have to arrange something later.
But when I’d dressed and gone into the parlor, the mob had been reduced to one solitary figure. “I sent the others away,” Lieutenant O’Halloran said laconically. I suppose you can do things like that when you’re a police official. “Do you know what conspiracy is, Miss Farrar?” he said.
For some reason I felt confident his attack-techniques weren’t going to work that day. “Of course I know what conspiracy is, Lieutenant,” I said, seating myself casually in an armchair. “It’s an unlawful agreement between two singers to dispose of a third. That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it?”
“Is that what happened?”
The telephone was ringing; I ignored it. “Lieutenant, tell me the truth. Do you honestly think that Jimmy Freeman and I, either separately or together, are responsible for Philippe Duchon’s death? Is that what you honestly think?”
He gave a very human sigh. “I doubt if Freeman could carry off something that tricky. And from what I hear, you’re capable of taking care of yourself without having to resort to pouring ammonia into somebody’s throat spray. But you’re the only suspects I’ve got. Duchon himself thought you were the one who did him in—”
“Don’t remind me.”
“—and Freeman is the one who stands to gain the most from the other man’s death. He—”
“But it wasn’t an intentional killing, was it? The ammonia was only meant to disable. Did the district attorney’s office ever decide between manslaughter and murder?”
He nodded. “It’s murder. Duchon’s suicide was the direct consequence of an act of destructive malice, the D.A. decided. But if it wasn’t one of you two who did it, then who? Which brings up another matter. The word I get is that you’ve been asking questions—all sorts of interesting questions. You wouldn’t be doing my job for me, would you, Miss Farrar?”
It was getting impossible to keep any secrets at all. “What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
“I think you know what I mean. Your friends might tell you things they aren’t willing to tell the police. Has that happened? Do you have anything you want to tell me?”
I thought of Osgood Springer, of Morris Gest, and even of Jimmy. It wouldn’t do to run to this overly suspicious policeman with every hint or stray thought that happened to pass through my head. When I knew something definite, I would go to him. “No, I don’t have anything to tell you.”
He stood up to leave. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Mr. Caruso. Leave the detective work to the police. We know how to investigate, you don’t. Leave it alone, Miss Farrar.”
I gave him my startled-ingenue look. “Why, I wouldn’t have it any other way, Lieutenant.”
The expression on his face said he didn’t believe me for one minute, but he left without further comment. At last, I was alone for the first time that day! I stretched my arms over my head in pure pleasure.
My harried-looking maid came in and handed me two pieces of paper. “This one,” Bella said, “is a list of the people who telephoned. And this one,” a folded note, “was left for you by the gentleman with the scar.” She ran a finger along her jawline to demonstrate.
I read the note first.
Dear Miss Farrar,
I apologize for intruding on your time, but it is essential that I speak to you without delay. I will meet you at any time and at any place you designate. You can reach me by calling James’ telephone number. Please do not disappoint me.
Very truly yours,
Osgood Springer
Well, well. So the vocal coach wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to him. This was working out nicely.
I looked at the list of people who had telephoned. Well, well again: The grapevine had been busy that morning. In addition to Emmy Destinn and The New York Times, there’d been calls from Pasquale Amato, Morris Gest, Toscanini (twice), David Belasco, Gatti-Casazza, other singers (including a seconda donna who was trying to cultivate my friendship), other newspapers, and a couple of people whose names I didn’t recognize. Even Mildredandphoebe had called. The President of the United States did not call, but he was about the only one.
I put off telephoning Osgood Springer for the time being because I hadn’t yet figured out a way to approach him. I needed to put it all out of my mind for a while, to clear away the cobwebs.
There was always one reliable way to do that. I went into the music room and started practicing my scales.
Star of India, the sign read. Thought to be the largest star sapphire in the world.
“Impressive,” Osgood Springer said. I agreed. Someone jostled against us, eager to get a look at the prize piece in the Morgan collection of gems.
I’d chosen the American Museum of N
atural History for our meeting because it was public, because it was a place where we were unlikely to run into anyone from the Metropolitan Opera, and because it was only a few blocks around the corner and up Central Park West from where I lived. I paused to look at a rubellite from the mountains of China that had been used as an idol’s eye in India.
The Star of India was a big drawing card; there were too many people around for a private conversation. Springer and I wandered away toward the hall of fossil mammals.
Inside was a whole series of skeletons of animals that were now extinct. Two young men were earnestly examining a display of skulls set in an alcove of one wall. Springer and I found a bench facing a reconstructed saber-toothed tiger and sat down. I’d been planning to lead into the question of Jimmy’s Carmen costume gradually, but my companion saved me the trouble. “James told me you asked him why he’d lied about getting into costume early the night of Philippe Duchon’s misfortune,” he plunged in.
“Did I put it like that?” I didn’t think I had. “He said you told him to.”
“I did,” he said with a catch in his voice, “in a futile attempt to avoid the very thing that has happened. You heard Lieutenant O’Halloran this morning—he said you and James were his ‘two favorite suspects.’”
“Mm, I think that’s just part of the lieutenant’s technique. He accuses you of something and then watches the expression on your face. He made it fairly plain after you had all left that he wasn’t convinced either Jimmy or I was the culprit he was looking for.”
“Truly?” Springer was surprised. “That’s very interesting.” He lapsed into silence.
“You thought Jimmy would be suspected?” I prompted.
“It seemed likely. No one else stood to benefit so directly from Duchon’s removal. An ounce of precaution … there was so much confusion backstage that night, I didn’t think anyone would notice his getting dressed so early.” He gave me a wry smile. “I hadn’t counted on your remembering.”
“I’m not the only one who remembered. Mr. Springer, why did Jimmy get into costume so early?”
He was silent a moment, as if making up his mind. “Because I was fairly certain he’d be singing that night.”
A mild shock ran through me. Was I hearing a confession? The two young men had left the skulls display and were working their way around to our saber-toothed tiger. Five more people came into the hall together, all of them talking loudly. I stood up and gestured for Springer to follow.
The North Pacific hall was relatively uncrowded. Along one wall was a mural called Dancing To Cure the Sick, showing Indians of the Tlingit tribe in some sort of shamanistic ceremony. I had never heard of Tlingit Indians. “Did you say you knew Jimmy would be singing that night? Before …?”
“I said I was fairly certain he would be,” Springer answered. “I was upstairs on the dressing-room level before the performance started, and I could hear Duchon warming up. Then right in the middle of a vibrato passage he started coughing—big, racking coughs, alarming to listen to. I hurried to his dressing room … and Miss Farrar, I saw him spitting up blood.”
“Oh, no! You mean there really was something wrong with his throat? I thought it was all …”
“In his mind? So did I. But it wasn’t.”
“Oh, the poor man—but wait, Duchon had consulted Dr. Curtis. He said nothing was wrong.”
Springer shook his head. “The throat is such a delicate instrument. So many things can go wrong. Even the best of doctors can overlook something.”
My hand crept to my own throat. Dr. Curtis had once performed a throat operation on me. We stopped to look at a display of Indian clothing; how very small those people were. “Poor Duchon—spitting blood right before a performance. What did he do?”
“He used Caruso’s spray—”
“The spray? Was it all right then?”
“Perfectly all right—no ill effects at all. After a few minutes he was warming up again. But I hunted up James and told him to get into costume and make-up right away. He did, and he didn’t even ask why.”
The ever-obedient student. Suddenly I wondered if Gatti-Casazza had known his new baritone had been spitting blood. If he had, and he’d allowed Duchon to go on anyway—well, that certainly wouldn’t endear him to other singers. Perhaps that was why he was so adamant about not being on the dressing-room level that night. I asked Osgood Springer if he’d seen Gatti there.
He closed his eyes to think. “I may have. I can’t be sure.” He opened his eyes and started to finger the scar on his jaw. “Are you going to tell Lieutenant O’Halloran about this? About my instructing James to say he didn’t get into costume early?”
“I can’t think of any reason why I should. If he asks me, I’ll tell him the truth. But I won’t bring the subject up.”
“Thank you.” He dropped his hand down from his face. “It was totally innocent on both James’s part and my own. Perhaps naïve is a better word. I thought I was avoiding trouble.” He laughed shortly.
“Mr. Springer, where was that bottle of spray the last time you saw it?”
“Why, in Duchon’s dressing room, I suppose. The one he had later was Caruso’s, wasn’t it? The one Uncle Hummy picked up by mistake?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the dangerous one. Someone must have taken Duchon’s spray out of his dressing room to put the ammonia in it. Then Duchon missed it and sent Uncle Hummy to look. Uncle Hummy spotted Caruso’s spray and made the natural mistake of thinking that was the one he’d been sent to look for.”
Springer raised his eyebrows. “So Duchon then had another bottle of safe spray.”
“But it didn’t stay safe, did it? Our villain must have substituted Duchon’s original spray for that one when Duchon wasn’t looking—only now it had ammonia in it.”
“And in the meantime Caruso had sent back to his hotel for still another bottle of spray—”
“Confusing the matter even further,” I said. “But when the police got there, there were only two bottles—the one with the ammonia and Caruso’s second bottle. I wonder what happened to the other one.”
“It was probably thrown away long ago.”
Not that it mattered. Only one of those three bottles was important, and it had done its deadly job.
14
Geraldine Farrar Denies Marriage Plans, the small headline declared starkly.
Newspaper people amaze me, they really do. It’s incredible how they can tease a story out of absolutely nothing at all. If I had announced my engagement, well, that would have had some news value. But here I was getting all sorts of free publicity because I had not announced my engagement! My name was splashed through all the morning papers, all of them hinting I was some sort of exotic femme fatale irresistible to innocent young men.
I didn’t mind.
When I’d returned home from the Museum of Natural History the day before, Caruso had been waiting for me, demanding a “report” on whatever I’d found out. I told him about Springer’s seeing Duchon coughing blood, and how that had prompted him to tell Jimmy Freeman to get into costume early. Caruso seemed disappointed. He wanted Osgood Springer to be the villain.
I flipped through the rest of the newspapers. Conan Doyle had accused the Germans of abusing wounded prisoners. One-fourth the population of Belgium was dependent upon American bounty, which was feeding 175,000 a day in Brussels alone. The Lusitania was to sail under the Union Jack. Still no news of Prague; Emmy Destinn would be unhappy about that. I wondered what it must feel like, never knowing what was going on in your own country.
There was one article headlined Should Women Vote in New York? I didn’t even bother to read that one; men would never willingly give up the whip hand. New spring fashions—oh dear, puff sleeves were back! Well, that was something Emmy would be happy about.
And then I saw something on the entertainment page of the Times that chilled me down to the marrow of my bones: a small advertisement announcing that Emma Calvé was appearing at the
Palace Theatre. Emma Calvé! In a vaudeville house! It was Emma Calvé who’d sung in the first opera I ever saw, that production of Carmen in Boston that convinced me I was destined to be an opera singer. Emma Calvé, my inspiration and my idol! Now I was the one who was singing Carmen while she was playing the Palace along with the jugglers and the comedians and the trained-dog acts and Lord knows what else. The thought gave me no pleasure, no pleasure at all.
I swore to myself right then and there that at the first sign my voice was beginning to go, at the very first sign, I would retire. No prolonging of a dying career for me, no singing in vaudeville houses or saloons or town halls in little places nobody ever heard of. When I made my exit, I wanted it to be a graceful one, full of taste and discretion. Abdicate while you’re still queen, that’s the way to go.
I thrust the papers aside in irritation. I’d already put in several hours in the music room, but the practicing wasn’t good because my mind had been on other things. There were two things I had to do today, and I didn’t want to do either one of them. I had to try to pin Morris Gest down as to why he’d sneaked backstage right before Carmen. And I had to cheer up Jimmy Freeman. He’d made a fool of himself again when he told everyone I was going to marry him, and now he was feeling depressed.
It was beginning to look as if Morris Gest was the only real suspect left. I counted out Jimmy, Osgood Springer, Caruso, and myself, of course. Emmy Destinn hated Duchon, but he was no real threat to her. He was a threat to Scotti and Amato, by being in a position to take their roles away from them; but both Scotti and Amato had dispatched rival baritones before without having to dump ammonia into their spray bottles. They simply outsang them. Duchon was a bigger threat to Gatti-Casazza, who clearly was worried about losing his job to him. Very well, a question mark by Gatti’s name, absurd though that was. Toscanini wasn’t backstage long enough to do any damage. Dr. Curtis had no reason for wanting Duchon out of the way. And David Belasco hadn’t even met him.
So that left Morris, seething with resentment over the way Duchon had cheated him and fearful of losing his reputation as a tough operator it didn’t pay to cross. But that sneaky, underhanded way of getting even just didn’t sound like Morris; a full-page advertisement in the newspaper denouncing Duchon as a duplicitous double-dealer—yes, that was more Morris’s style. But not ammonia in the throat spray when nobody was looking.
