A Cadenza for Caruso (9 page)

“Caruso, have dinner with me tonight,” Puccini said exuberantly. “I insist!”

The tenor had been planning to attend a dinner party, but he accepted Puccini's invitation without hesitation. “As soon as I change my clothing,” he said.

In his dressing room he told Martino he wanted him to deliver a note; he would write his apologies to the very nice society lady who was giving the dinner party. It was to be a large party; one tenor more or less wouldn't be missed. Caruso knew that wasn't strictly true, but he was too eager to talk to Puccini alone to let a little thing like a prior engagement get in the way.

But when he sat at the small writing table he kept in his dressing room and took out pen and paper, he found to his chagrin that he couldn't remember his hostess's name. His mind was blank. He'd sung at musicales at her Fifth Avenue mansion and he certainly should remember her
name. Cielo
, her family had helped
found
the Metropolitan Opera—her name, her name! “Martino, what is the name of the lady who gives the dinner party tonight? I cannot remember.”

Martino frowned. “I do not think you told me, Rico.”

“Of course I told you. A very big name in New York society. The lady who always hums off-key during performances.”

Martino shook his head. “You told me you go to a dinner party tonight, but that is all.”

“Eh, well, I do not go anyway.” But he couldn't just fail to show up without the courtesy of an explanation. What to do?

Emmy! Emmy Destinn was going to the same party—she could tell him the name. Caruso scribbled a hasty note and told Martino to take it to Emmy's dressing room. By the time Martino got back, the tenor was out of his cowboy suit, which would have to be cleaned and pressed before he could wear it again.

He had just finished dressing when Emmy Destinn's maid pushed open the door and walked in without knocking. “Madame Destinn says she cannot read your handwriting,” Sigrid announced, holding the note out scornfully at arm's length. “Look at that! Chicken scratches.”

“Sigrid,” Martino said reprovingly.

Caruso sighed; why did this woman go out of her way to aggravate him? “I merely want to ask her the name of our hostess tonight.”

“You do not know the name of your hostess?”

“Of course I know her name. I just temporarily forgot it, that's all.”

Sigrid's mouth dropped open. “You forgot the name of
Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt?!
”

“Vanderbilt!” Caruso cried, throwing up his arms. “Of course!”

“Ah, Mrs. Vanderbilt, yes,” Martino smiled, and hustled Sigrid out of the dressing room. Caruso sat down and wrote a second note, this time being careful with his handwriting. A sudden indisposition, he claimed. Martino took the note to deliver and Caruso went downstairs to find Puccini.

Puccini asked Caruso to select the restaurant, and the tenor chose a little-known place called Sanella's on West Forty-seventh that he'd only recently discovered. He didn't want Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt reading in the paper tomorrow that the world's greatest composer and the world's greatest tenor had been seen dining out together the night before.

Feathery December snow was falling by the time they reached Sanella's. They were seated and served with a minimum of fuss. When they were alone Puccini said, “I have been dying to ask you all day, Caruso. What were you doing in Luigi Davila's office? Why did you go to see him?”

Caruso explained what he'd had in mind. “I thought, if he knows
I
know he is a blackmailer, he will not be so eager to go ahead with his little scheme, yes? But I never spoke to him about it. He had already been dead for a day by the time I got there.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“Aha!” Caruso was rather pleased with this part. “I tell them I go see him on business, to arrange a few little singing engagements. Your name is never even mentioned, Puccini.”

The composer looked dubious. “And they believe that? That you go there on business?”

Caruso wasn't so pleased with this part. “Not completely. But what can they do? I say I go on business, they cannot prove otherwise. All we have to do is keep quiet, say nothing. You are safe, my friend.”

A tentative smile appeared on the composer's face. “I am safe, aren't I?” he said softly. “You don't know how that feels, Caruso, having that weight off my shoulders! I also feel guilty—finding my own release through the death of another man. I know I should be sorry he is dead. But I'm not, Caruso. God forgive me, I am not sorry. I am glad he's dead. I cannot help myself.”

The tenor made properly sympathetic noises. “You are happy to be free, and you are ashamed of yourself for being happy. There is no need for shame. Think how much Davila must have been hated for someone to kill him! He was a bad man—you do not feel shame over one such as that.”

“Hated or feared, one or the other,” Puccini sighed. “Either way, I have been rescued from an appalling fate by someone whose name I do not even know.”

“Do you want to know it?”

The composer shuddered. “No.”

The talk turned to other things as they ate their rigatoni, laughing often and enjoying themselves. In spite of Caruso's assurances to Puccini, the tenor too was feeling slightly guilty that a man's death should be a cause of celebration. Luigi Davila got what he deserved; yet somehow it didn't seem right to say so. But it was over and done with now; no need to dwell on it.

The snow had stopped by the time they left the restaurant, and Puccini suggested they walk to his hotel. As they turned into Broadway, Caruso again felt the surge of pleasure New York at night always brought him. The light reflecting from the snow on the street made Broadway seem even brighter than usual. The most brilliantly lit thoroughfare in the world—no wonder they called it The Great White Way. It was said there were more globes burning in a ten-block stretch of Broadway than in the entire city of London, and Caruso believed it. New York was truly an electric city.

The illuminated billboard advertisements were everywhere. Mrs. Patrick Campbell in
The Foolish Virgin
at the Knickerbocker Theatre. Robert Burns Cigars and Dewar Scotch. William Gillette in
Sherlock Holmes
at the Empire, across Broadway from the Met. Studebaker, Spencerian Steel Pens, C and C Ginger Ale (Splits 150), Aunt Hannah's Death Drops. Sarah Bernhardt in repertoire at the Globe. Kremonia, Better Than Ammonia. Mlle. Dazie in
A Night in a Turkish Bath
at Hammerstein's Victoria.

Neither Caruso nor Puccini talked as they walked, both men enjoying the companionable silence. If there was one good thing to come out of this blackmailing business, Caruso thought, it was that he now felt closer to Puccini than ever before. The distance that had always separated them seemed to have disappeared.

The Hotel Buckingham was not much farther, fortunately, Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth; the cold was starting to make itself felt. Caruso was just beginning not to enjoy the walk when they reached the front entrance. Across the street, worshippers were hurrying into St. Patrick's Cathedral; or perhaps they were just people who wanted to get in out of the cold for a while. Puccini invited Caruso in for a little liquid warmth.

The Buckingham's overheated lobby was a shock to their systems. They were hastily shedding their overcoats when Caruso spotted a lanky, derby-wearing Irishman unwinding himself from the chair he'd been sitting in.

“Evening, Mr. Caruso,” Lieutenant O'Halloran said pleasantly, and then turned to the other man. “Are you Giacomo Puccini?” He pronounced it
Jocky-mow
.

“I am,” Puccini said. “Who are you, sir?”

“Lieutenant O'Halloran, Detective Bureau. I thought I'd just drop by and give you a chance to tell me why I shouldn't arrest you for murder.”

6

Lieutenant O'Halloran had found the forged letters; it was as simple as that.

A routine police search of Luigi Davila's office after the murder had turned up a packet of four letters signed “Elvira Puccini.” O'Halloran had had them translated into English and found their contents quite interesting. Mostly they were concerned with the kind of poison to be used. One letter expressed the wish that “the whore Doria” not die too quickly.

“Who's Doria?” the detective wanted to know.

In Puccini's hotel suite, the composer poured out the whole story of misunderstanding and jealousy that had led to the servant girl's tragic suicide. When he got to the part about bribing Doria's family to withdraw the charges against his wife, he hesitated.

“I think,” Caruso said unhappily, “you had better tell him everything.”

So Puccini explained how he'd been able to circumvent the court's decision by writing one very large check. When he finished, there was an ominous silence.

Lieutenant O'Halloran took off his derby, looked inside, put it back on. “Is that the way they do things in your country?”

“Yes,” Puccini said without elaboration, mildly surprised at the question.

“It is a solution that satisfies everyone,” Caruso offered helpfully. “Doria's family are poor people—is that not true, Puccini? Sending Elvira to prison does not help them. But the money—ah, the money is something they can use. And the court is satisfied because, ah, reconstitution is made to the family.”

“Reconstitution? Oh—restitution.”

“Yes, restitution. So you see, Lieutenant, it is the best solution for everybody.”

“I wonder if Doria would agree,” O'Halloran said dryly. But then he thought of New York's own coroner's court, as corrupt as they came, and decided he was in no position to criticize. “Mr. Puccini, you're saying the girl took her own life. But the letters show your wife was arranging to have her killed—”

“Elvira did not write those letters!” Puccini said hotly. “They are forgeries, Lieutenant! Elvira did not hire a poisoner—the idea is absurd. It's a plot this Davila thought up. Those letters are forged.”

“Oh, you saw them, then?”

“I saw one of them. Davila said the others were just like it. I told him I knew Elvira had not written them—but he said would the police believe that?”

O'Halloran was thinking. “Do you have some samples of your wife's handwriting? Some letters she's written you? We have a man at the station house who's made a study of handwriting. He ought to be able to tell us whether Davila's letters are forgeries or not.”

A look of hope flickered across Puccini's face. “Yes, of course. I'll get them.” He got up and left the room. O'Halloran lounged after him, watching from the doorway.

“There is no back exit,” Caruso said crossly. “He is not going to run away.” O'Halloran just smiled.

Puccini returned with two letters. “Here you are, Lieutenant. Can your man really prove Elvira did not write those others?”

“We'll see,” O'Halloran said noncommittally. “Even if she didn't write them, Davila could still have made a lot of trouble for you, couldn't he, Mr. Puccini? What would the folks back home think if they knew about those letters? Do you think you could buy your way out of that one?”

Puccini raised one hand in the air. “Please. That is all I have been thinking of for the past week. If the Italian authorities believed those letters to be authentic, there is no way in the world I could save Elvira this time. And she is innocent! But I could not buy her freedom again.”

“Which gives you a pretty good motive for murder,” O'Halloran said pointedly.

Caruso was on his feet, shouting.
“Non è vero, sono discorsi in aria—”

“English, Mr. Caruso, English.”

“You talk nonsense! Puccini did not kill Davila—or anyone else! He is a creator, not a destroyer! You insult him—”

“Hold it, Mr. Caruso. Somebody ‘insulted' Luigi Davila pretty badly, and it's my job to find out who. Now it seems clear Davila was blackmailing Mr. Puccini here, but I'd say it hadn't been going on for very long. How much had you paid him so far, Mr. Puccini?”

“Nothing,” the composer said. “We were, ah, negotiating—that is the correct term? He wanted me to support him. For the rest of his life. I had not started paying him yet.”

“But you were going to?”

Puccini shrugged. “I suppose so. But I did not kill him. The thought never even occurred to me.” His face was taking on a pinched look.

“Davila was killed the day before yesterday, on Monday,” O'Halloran said, “about twenty-four hours before Mr. Caruso found him. Where were you Monday in the afternoon?”

“He was at the opera house,” Caruso said before Puccini could speak.

O'Halloran cocked an eyebrow at him. “All afternoon?”

“All afternoon.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He is there every afternoon,” Caruso stated flatly just as Puccini said, “I am there every afternoon.”

“
Every
afternoon?”

“Ask anybody!” Caruso exclaimed. “We all see him, he comes to every rehearsal. Ask anybody.”

“I intend to do just that.” The detective paused. “Davila wasn't a very successful blackmailer, was he? The way he lived and all. A man who'd made money out of blackmail surely wouldn't have stayed in a place like that—don't you agree, Mr. Puccini?”

Puccini looked puzzled. “A place like what, Lieutenant? Do you mean his home or his place of business? I never saw either of them.”

“They are the same,” Caruso started to explain. “He lived in one room behind—”

“You never saw his place, Mr. Puccini?” O'Halloran cut in.

“No, I told you I did not.” The composer narrowed his eyes. “That was a trap, yes? To see if I had been there?”

“
He
was not there,” Caruso declared. “
I
was there.”

“Oh yes, about that. Are you ready to tell me now why you were really there, Mr. Caruso? Why did you go to see Davila?”