A Cadenza for Caruso (16 page)

Today was Wednesday, and tomorrow was dress rehearsal. Friday's calls would depend upon how dress rehearsal went. The Saturday matinee was
Faust
, and Saturday night was the world première of
La Fanciulla del West
. Following the performance, the Vanderbilts—ah yes, the Vanderbilts—were hosting a supper party and reception. That should keep them up most of the night; Sunday would be spent recuperating.

And Monday was the inquest into the death of Luigi Davila.

Lieutenant O'Halloran—if he knew there was someone else who might have a motive for killing Davila, surely he would see to it that Puccini was not arrested? Two possible murderers, with no real proof that either man was guilty. In Italy, the authorities would simply arrest both men. Caruso did not think it was the same here.

But could he take that chance? Just telling O'Halloran about the bigamy—that would cost him Pasquale's friendship for life, even if the baritone was never charged with the crime of murder. Caruso felt he was being forced to decide between the two men, Puccini and Amato. How could anyone make such a choice? Pasquale was more than just a friend—
per dio
, he
loved
the man! He had never been that close to Puccini; only recently had they become friends.

But it wasn't that simple. Puccini was one of the greatest composers Italy had ever produced. The man had more music in him, more opera to write—how could Caruso risk all that glory being lost to the world? Puccini's name would be remembered long after Caruso's and Amato's were forgotten. One does not throw away a creative genius so easily.

Caruso stood by the window a long time, remembering details of his long association with Amato. The horseplay on stage, the serious moments of creating beautiful music, the supper parties, the after-hours escapades—
No!
he decided suddenly and emphatically. He could never turn in his friend. He was appalled with himself for having even considered it. Caruso resolved then and there he would never reveal Amato's guilty secret to another living soul. Never, never, never, never,
never
.

Abruptly he whirled from the window and hurried over to the table where he'd left the two sketches. He picked them up and stared at them a moment. Then he angrily tore both sketches to bits and threw the pieces away.

Never.

Caruso pushed open the door of Del Pezzo's Restaurant on West Thirty-fourth Street to be met by a wave of laughter and warmth, as well as the most delicious cooking aromas he had ever smelled. Ah, how he loved restaurants! Caruso spent so many hours in restaurants he'd come to look upon them as a sort of second home. Good food remained one of the pure, unadulterated joys of life, regardless of what else might go wrong. His mouth was watering in anticipation, and already his headache seemed better.

Caruso was greeted by Del Pezzo himself, an old friend who was always glad to see him. “Ah, Enrico, we have been waiting for you! I take your coat, yes?”

The tenor handed over his coat, hat, muffler, gloves, and cane. “My friends are here?”

“They are here and so hungry they have already ordered. What do your taste buds cry out for tonight?”

“Clams and spaghetti,” Caruso said without hesitation. “And later—zabaglione.”

Del Pezzo led him through rows of tables covered with checkered cloths to one where Emmy Destinn and Pasquale Amato were sitting. Caruso was cheered to see they were laughing and talking easily; that was good, everyone should be friends.

“Ah, Rico, old friend—we have been waiting for you!” Amato called out. “That is your chair there.”

Caruso sat down. “All is well?”

“Quite well,” Emmy said lightly. “We have decided to forgive each other.”

“We have also agreed never to mention that dreadful rehearsal again,” Amato added. “I had more accidents that one afternoon than in all the other rehearsals I have ever done! One thing after another.”

“And
your
accidents have a way of spilling over onto other people,” Emmy contributed, also forgetting they'd agreed not to talk about it. “Not to mention the unnecessary complications added by a certain practical joker in our midst.” She glared at Caruso with mock ferociousness.

“The Bible,” Caruso groaned. “But I do not glue those pages together! Something happens, everyone thinks I am responsible—but I do nothing!”

“Hah,” Emmy snorted.

“He is telling the truth, Emmy,” Amato said, surprisingly. “Rico did not glue the Bible pages together. I did.” The other two stared at him in astonishment. “It took me the
longest
time,” Amato complained. “Every single page—a dab here, a dab there—”

“But, but why do you not say something at the time?” Caruso sputtered. “Why do you let everyone go on thinking
I
am the guilty one?”

“Because
that
is the joke, Rico. It is time you got a taste of your own medicine. The joke is not the Bible, but your getting blamed for it. The joke is on
you
.”

Caruso sat there speechless—but Emmy was laughing her head off. She reached across the table and patted Amato's hand. “You have redeemed yourself.”

Just then the waiter arrived with a tray laden with spicy food. Emmy and Amato dug in with gusto; Caruso chewed a clam thoughtfully.

“Oh my, look at Rico,” Emmy said after a few minutes. “He is pouting.”

“I do not pout,” the tenor said a touch waspishly. “I think seriously. But I never pout.”

“Surely you are not angry, Rico?” Amato asked. “Do I get angry when you play a trick on me? No, I do not! Not ever.”

“That is true,” Caruso sighed. “You are right, Pasquale—I deserve it.” Nevertheless, his feelings were hurt. Here he had just made this big decision never to reveal Amato's secret—only to find out his friend had made a goat of him.

“What are you thinking seriously about?” Emmy asked him.

“Friendship,” he growled.

The other two burst out laughing.
“Cielo!”
Amato exclaimed. “Emmy, I ask Rico here to help me win back your friendship. But now I fear I must ask
your
help in convincing our sensitive friend here that I am not such a terrible villain after all.”

“He is not such a terrible villain after all, Rico,” Emmy said agreeably.

“Oh?” Caruso said sourly. “What kind of villain is he, then?”

That launched a lively discussion of degrees of villainy, both on the stage and off, that Caruso eventually found himself joining in on. The three discovered they were in wild disagreement as to what constituted villainous behavior. With one exception.

“Luigi Davila was a villain of the very worst sort,” Emmy pronounced decisively, while the two men nodded emphatic agreement. “A blackmailer must surely be the lowest form of life on the face of the earth.”

“Did you know him, Emmy?” Caruso asked.

“I met him once. He wanted me to sign a contract with him.”

“What happened?”

Emmy giggled. “I turned Sigrid loose on him. He never bothered me again.”

“That would do it,” Caruso agreed. “But what about the man who killed Davila? Where does he rank on our scale of villainy?”

There was silence. Then Amato remarked, “Perhaps I should not say so, but I do not think killing a blackmailer is the worst crime a man can commit. How else does one pry loose a leech? There is no satisfactory solution.”

“Would you kill a blackmailer, Pasquale?” Caruso asked slyly.

Amato smiled. “Alas—no, I would not. Killing a man takes the heart of a lion, and I … I am a pussycat. I cannot kill.”

And to his immense relief, Caruso found that he believed his friend with all his heart and soul. Pasquale Amato could not kill. No matter how many wives he had tucked away, he would not kill to protect that or any other secret. Violence was simply not a part of the man's nature.

By the time they reached the zabaglione and coffee, Caruso was back to his normal cheerful self. Nothing was so satisfying as the company of good friends following a good meal. The incident of the glued Bible still rankled a little, but the evening had produced one unexpected bonus: his headache was gone.

Caruso left Del Pezzo's feeling better in several ways than when he went in.

“Bath, Rico?” Martino greeted the tenor when he returned to the Hotel Knickerbocker.

“In just a few little moments. First I must speak to Ugo. Send him in here, please, Martino.”

When he and Ugo were alone, Caruso plunged right in. “Tomorrow afternoon is dress rehearsal, Ugo—we are running out of time. Tell me, where have your investigations led you? Do any of the servants know of a secret scandal in their employers' lives?”

“Nothing that is not already general knowledge,” Ugo said with barely concealed excitement. “But do not despair, Rico—I have found what you are looking for! Two of the servants themselves may be paying blackmail!”

“The servants themselves?” Caruso had never even considered that possibility. “Who are they?”

Ugo was grinning smugly. “The first is Sigrid—Madame Destinn's maid.”

Caruso found himself grinning back; the thought that that impossible woman might be the villain he was pursuing pleased him enormously. “What terrible thing has Sigrid done?”

Ugo lowered his voice, even though they were alone. “It is said,” he whispered, drawing it out, “that eight years ago she gave birth to an illegitimate child!”

Caruso was dumbfounded. “Sigrid? A
mother?!
”

Ugo nodded. “It is supposed to be a big secret, but three different valets tell me the story. And two of the stagehands know about it.”

Caruso tried to digest this information; of all the women he knew, Sigrid seemed the
least
likely to succumb to passion and get herself involved in an illicit liaison. “I do not believe it,” he said at last.

Ugo shrugged. “Every month she sends most of her salary to Stockholm—to support the child. A little girl, they say.”

Sigrid, with a daughter! Caruso tried to picture Emmy's maid with a little girl and failed utterly. But Ugo had said three valets and two stagehands had all told the same story. “Ugo, does Emmy know?”

“I do not know, Rico. I know of no way to find out short of asking her outright. And I think you do not wish me to do that.”

“No, no, of course not.” He thought about it a little longer. “Why would Sigrid pay a blackmailer when so many people already know of the affair?”

“She does not know they know. It is supposed to be a secret.”

“But if she sends most of her salary to Stockholm, where does she get the money to pay a blackmailer?”

Ugo looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps she steals from Madame Destinn? Some servants do steal, you know. Scandalous!” he finished on a note of righteous indignation.

Caruso hadn't been able to picture Sigrid with a daughter, but he found he could visualize another image of her quite easily: Sigrid with a knife in her hand, going after Luigi Davila. Suddenly he felt justified in having disliked the woman for so many years.

He sat down at the desk and took out pen and paper. He wrote
Sigrid
at the top of the page in big bold letters. “There, that is one. You say
two
servants may be paying blackmail—who is the other?”

Ugo was uneasy. “You will not like it, Rico.”

Caruso sat with pen poised over the paper. “Who is it?”

“You will not like it a
lot
.”

“Come, come, Ugo—the name?”

“Mario.”

Caruso sighed, put the pen down, swiveled in his chair to face Ugo, and folded his hands placidly in his lap. “Ugo. You cannot put a person on the suspect list just because you do not like that person.”
Sigrid is different
, he told himself. “Shame on you, Ugo—trying to get Mario into trouble.”

“You always take his part,” Ugo said sulkily. “You do not even
listen
to me.”

“Eh, well,” Caruso sighed again. “I will listen. What has Mario done to invite the attentions of a blackmailer?”

Ugo threw up his hands. “I do not know! Mario never talks about himself—Mario never talks about
anything
. But Rico, consider. What does he do with his money?”

“His money?”

“Have you ever seen him spend any money? You pay him a good salary, you provide his food and a place to live. You even buy the clothes he wears.”

Still harping on the new suit
, Caruso thought. “So?”

“So, where does his money go? I spend my money, Martino spends his money, Barthélemy spends his money—but Mario never spends a cent. So what happens to his salary? Perhaps he was turning it over to Luigi Davila?”

“Ugo, you do not know what Mario does with every minute of his time. He could be spending money without your knowing about it.”

Ugo shook his head vigorously. “No, Rico, he spends nothing. Ask Martino, if you do not believe me. We have wondered about it many times.”

That made a difference; if Martino had also noticed, then there might be something in what Ugo said. “Perhaps he is saving his money. In a bank.”

“He has no bank passbook among his belongings. I looked.”

Caruso was shocked. “You searched his belongings?”

“You tell me to investigate,” Ugo said sullenly. “I investigate. I am sorry if you do not like what I find.”

“Yes, yes, but I do not mean …” Well, it was only fair, he supposed; his own servants should be exposed to the same sort of scrutiny as other people's. Caruso didn't for one minute believe innocent young Mario had been paying a blackmailer—but what
did
he do with his money?

“How much do you know about Mario?” Ugo went on. “You know everything there is to know about the rest of us, but you do not really know anything about Mario at all—do you, Rico?”