A Chorus of Detectives (23 page)

Scotti thought about it a moment and then said, “
Sì
, now I understand.”

“Good.” O'Halloran clapped the baritone on the shoulder and continued on his rounds.

“I must avoid muddy water,” Scotti said to himself and resumed his search for Mrs. Bukaitis.

O'Halloran was checking the deployment of his men. A man was stationed in the fourth-floor chorus dressing room, with two other men in the halls within calling distance. Two were in the greenroom. The others all patrolled constantly, checking the props room, the wings, the substage area, the catwalks above the stage, the wardrobe room upstairs, even the unused rehearsal rooms. Policemen in white tie and tails mingled with the audience. With the personal guards Gatti-Casazza had hired for the chorus singers, the killer would have a hard time getting to anyone now.
Maybe we've got him stopped
, O'Halloran thought.

The opera started.

Five or ten minutes into the first act O'Halloran moved to a place in the wings where he could see the stage. He watched Geraldine Farrar move with grace and authority through a role that had defeated all the sopranos who'd previously attempted it. O'Halloran didn't know anything about opera, but even he could see the lady on stage was in her element.

“Where does that dog come from?” Gatti's outraged voice boomed from behind him.

A shaggy yellow dog had trotted out on to the stage, tail wagging happily, obviously fascinated by this strange new playground he'd found. He sniffed at the furniture, almost tripped one of the singers, and jumped up on a chair where he could see better. Gerry made the mistake of trying to incorporate the dog into the action and patted him on the head—whereupon the dog started following her around the stage wherever she went. When Gerry sang a series of high notes, her new friend decided to make it a duet and howled along happily. The audience tittered.

But then the dog caught sight of the conductor's baton. He raced down to the edge of the stage and wagged his tail furiously. Back and forth his head went, then up and down, matching the movements of the baton. He dashed away four or five steps, then came back, then dashed away again. When the conductor failed to throw the shiny white stick for him to fetch, the dog barked at him.

Gerry had had enough. She grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and started dragging him toward the wings. He was puzzled and resisted, but she didn't loosen her grip. At the side of the stage she thrust the dog straight at O'Halloran and hissed, “
Arrest
this animal!”

The audience good-naturedly applauded her action. A stagehand took charge of the dog, and O'Halloran watched as the performance quickly settled into its proper groove once again. There was a lot of coming and going, and then Gerry was on stage alone with the tenor. Someone jostled O'Halloran; he drew his eyes away from the soprano long enough to see he was surrounded by male choristers and their guards, all eagerly watching the stage.

Out on the stage, Gerry Farrar was as aware of her offstage audience as of the one out front.
Zazà
was the kind of opera she loved—a seldom-performed piece in which the soprano appeared in almost every scene, virtually carrying the opera alone.
Zazà
told the story of a café singer who abandoned her career for her lover, only to learn he was already married to someone else. It was an
acting
opera, a display-case opera; and speaking of displays … it was time for the seduction scene. She performed her mini-striptease and got her usual audible response from the audience. Quickly covered again, she eased downstage right to the acoustically preferred spot on the stage and caught a glimpse of Captain O'Halloran's startled face staring out at her from the wings.

The first act was drawing to a close when Gerry became aware of a loud muttering from backstage, and even one or two voices raised in what sounded like anger. A quick glance to the wings on both sides of the stage told her she'd lost one of her audiences.
What
was going on? She was growing angry—until she remembered the last time this had happened.
Carmen
. When the chorus woman had been found with a knife in her chest.

God, not again!
she prayed. Out of necessity she forced all thought of what might be happening backstage out of her mind and concentrated solely on her singing. The curtain finally closed and Gerry ran off the stage, almost knocking down the tenor she'd sung the scene with. Stagehands, singers, and guards stood with their backs to the stage, staring at something she couldn't see. “Let me through!” she cried. The crowd parted just enough to make a path for her. She wriggled her way to the front.

And saw an unfamiliar woman—Mrs. Bukaitis?—being held by both arms, on one side by Antonio Scotti and on the other by a uniformed policeman. “Toto?”

He shot her a look of triumph. “I catch her, Gerry! I catch her myself!”

“You … caught her? Doing what?”

“Fastening
that
to platform under stage!”

That
, Gerry now saw, was a box Captain O'Halloran was holding. He removed the lid and showed her the homemade bomb inside. He said, “She was trying to blow up the stage, Miss Farrar.”

While I was on it
. Suddenly her knees gave way and the whole backstage area began to revolve around her. Then hands were gripping her and she felt a chair being pushed against the back of her legs. “Gerry—sit!” Gatti-Casazza's voice commanded out of nowhere. She sat.

Then Emmy Destinn was there, forcing her head down between her knees. The floor stopped heaving, and the near-faint passed. Gerry was immediately on her feet again. Emmy murmured, “So Toto was right.”

O'Halloran handed the bomb to one of the police officers, who gingerly carried it out of the opera house—to everyone's audible relief. The captain said, “Come along now, Mrs. Bukaitis. You've got a lot of questions to answer at the station.”

Gatti-Casazza held up a hand to stop him; he had a question he wanted an answer to right then. “Why?” he asked Mrs. Bukaitis. “Why you do this terrible thing?” Then he gave an exasperated shrug and said to O'Halloran, “I forget—she speaks no English.”

“Of course I speak English,” Mrs. Bukaitis said scornfully. “You assume I am ignorant because I scrub floors! It was easy to fool
you
.”

“I know it!” Scotti cried. “I say she understands—I am right!”

Gatti persisted. “But why? Why do you want to kill?”

Mrs. Bukaitis cursed in her own language. “My countrymen are being killed every day and you do nothing about it!”

O'Halloran asked, “So how is killing innocent people going to stop that?”

“It is to make you pay attention! You squander money on luxuries like opera while men and women in my country are being enslaved! Free Vilnius!”

O'Halloran scowled. “Who's Vilnius?”

“It is a place, you fool, not a person! The capital city of Lithuania. Poland enslaves Vilnius, and the rich and powerful United States does nothing! You turn your backs! You do not deserve your safety and comfort!”

“An anarchist,” Scotti breathed.

O'Halloran was shaking his head in disbelief. “So you think the best way to get the United States to help you is to blow up the stage of its leading opera house? Did I get that right?”

“To make you listen!” Mrs. Bukaitis screamed. “To prove we are serious!”

“I
know
it is anarchist!” Scotti exulted. “All the time I say it is anarchist! Gerry, do I not say it is anarchist?”

“Yes, Toto, that's what you said,” Gerry agreed. She muttered to Emmy, “He's going to be impossible to live with.”

“Anarchist—that is your word,” Mrs. Bukaitis objected. “I am a patriot.”

“A pretty bloodthirsty one,” O'Halloran said dryly. “There was enough dynamite in that box to blow the roof off this place.”

Scotti was thinking. “
Un momento
… I think this is not first time she tries. Perhaps first time the bomb, it does not go off? Therefore more dynamite this time?”

O'Halloran swallowed a laugh. “That's not the way it works, Mr. Scotti, but what makes you think this is the second time?”

“Mrs. Poplofsky,” he said promptly.

“Who?”

“Poplofsky,” Gatti-Casazza repeated slowly, as if the name should be familiar.

“You should know her, Mr. Gatti,” Scotti said, “she works for you.” He turned to O'Halloran. “Mrs. Poplofsky is scrublady here in opera house. One time she sees Mrs. Bukaitis trying to do something with mysterious box—by the platform under stage! That is first bomb, yes?” Mrs. Bukaitis muttered under her breath.

O'Halloran took out his notebook and asked Scotti to spell Mrs. Poplofsky's name. Scotti made a stab at it. O'Halloran said, “She works here, you say? Where can I find her?”

Scotti said, “Underneath stage is a room filled with brooms and soap and mops. There is place to sit down and drink coffee. Mrs. Poplofsky goes there about ten-thirty in mornings.” Everyone gazed at him in admiration for possessing this esoteric bit of knowledge.

Gerry walked over to the scrubwoman and looked her over from head to toe. “You almost killed me. I've never met anyone before who wanted to kill me.”

Mrs. Bukaitis sneered. “You, somebody else—what difference does it make?”

“
What difference does it make?
” Gerry screamed. “Did you hear what she said—
what difference does it make?
”

Emmy spoke up. “Is that why you murdered the choristers? Because it doesn't matter to you who dies?”

“What do I know of your precious choristers?” Mrs. Bukaitis jeered. “They are nothing to me.”

“I do not understand,” Gatti said. “Do you say you do not murder the choristers?”

Mrs. Bukaitis spat in the direction of the general manager's shoes. “You Americans!” she snarled. “You understand nothing!”

“I am Italian,” Gatti protested faintly.

“And I am Czechoslovakian,” Emmy said proudly.

“Well,
I'm
American,” Gerry growled. “Do you want to try spitting at me?”

Mrs. Bukaitis considered it, saw the expression on the soprano's face, and decided discretion was the better part of survival.

“All right, folks, I think that's enough,” Captain O'Halloran said. He motioned with his head and Scotti reluctantly gave up his hold on Mrs. Bukaitis's arm. A uniformed officer stepped up to take his place, and the two policemen marched the would-be bomber off between them. “I'll let you know when the hearing's set,” O'Halloran said to Scotti. “You'll be needed to testify.”

“I testify with pleasure,” Scotti announced. “I and Mrs. Poplofsky.”

When O'Halloran left, everyone started talking at once. There were a few hysterical laughs and some outright cheering. Only Gatti seemed to remember that they were supposed to be performing an opera; he did his version of hurrying around, getting things going again.

“Emmy,” Gerry said, low, “do you think she did it? Do you think she murdered the five choristers?”

Emmy hesitated, and then muttered. “No.”

Gerry shook her head. “Neither do I.”

Scotti came swooping down on them. “Eh, what you say now? Gerry, you laugh at me,
carissima
,” he reproved. “You think I am foolish to investigate scrublady, no? But now—you think I am foolish now?”

She looked at him with an expression he'd never seen before. “You saved my life, Toto,” she said simply.

They wrapped their arms about each other and stood there shuddering for a moment or two, at last letting it sink in what a truly close call they all had had.

Rosa Ponselle decided it was time she and the Metropolitan's chorus master had it out.

On Tuesday, the day after
Zazà
, the chorus was just finishing a rehearsal in the roof theatre. Rosa waited outside, bravely facing the stream of choristers as they left. Setti was always the last to leave; she went inside and closed the door behind her. “Mr. Setti, we have to talk.”

He smiled pleasantly. “But of course, Miss Ponselle. I fear I have only uncomfortable chairs to offer here—”

“I'll stand. Mr. Setti, why are you doing it? What did I ever do to you?”

He blinked. “I do not understand.”

“Oh, you understand, all right. They aren't bothering me right now, I admit—but how long is that going to last? When will they start again?”

“They … you speak of the choristers?”

“Of course I speak of the choristers! Who else? What I want to know is why you put them up to it. Why did you?”

“Put them …” Setti's face fell as he at last understood what she was saying. “You accuse me? You say
I
cause them to … you are wrong! You cannot be more wrong! I try to get them to
stop
.”

“Oh, don't do that! Don't tell
lies
. I heard you, Mr. Setti!”

He looked so honestly puzzled that Rosa felt a twinge of uncertainty. “You hear me … say something?” Setti asked. “What do you hear?”

“Right before
Forza
, I heard you telling some of the choristers to box me in, not to let me move around so much. You actually told them to stand on my feet to keep me from moving if they had to! Now don't lie about it, Mr. Setti—I heard you!”

The chorus master looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “But it is not
you
I am talking about, Miss Ponselle! Yes, I say these things—out of desperation, I might add. But not about you!”

“Oh, sure!”

“Consider. Do you hear me say your name? Think back.”

Rosa was uneasy. “Well, I don't actually remember hearing my name. But you had to be talking about me. Who else could it be?”

“I speak of Irene Matera. She is contralto—you know her?”