A Cadenza for Caruso (10 page)

The tenor cleared his throat and tried not to look foolish. “I think perhaps I can talk him out of it. The blackmail, I mean.”

O'Halloran stared at him. “Talk him out of it? A blackmailer?” He pursed his lips and whistled tunelessly. “I think I liked your first story better.”

Caruso shrugged. “Eh, well, I went to see him about a concert tour,” he said agreeably.

“Don't play games with me!” O'Halloran barked, making the other two men jump. “Now tell me the truth, Mr. Caruso! Why were you there?”

Caruso gave a drawn-out sigh. “I think you do not believe me, whatever I say. But I did go to see if I can persuade him to abandon his plan to blackmail my friend. I think if he knows
I
know, he will be afraid to proceed.”

“You went there to bully him into backing down.”

Caruso's eyebrows shot up. “I? Bully? I never bully. I
persuade
.”

“Same difference,” O'Halloran muttered. “So Puccini sends you to try your luck—”

“No, no! Puccini does not send me. I send myself. Puccini does not even know I am going.”

“That is true,” Puccini nodded.

O'Halloran stared at them both a long time, wondering how much of their story he should believe. He decided to put off deciding. “All right, Mr. Puccini, I'm not going to place you under arrest, at least not now.” He paused for the double sigh of relief that greeted his announcement. “I want to check your alibi and get our handwriting expert to study these letters. But I don't want either of you to leave New York or even change your hotels—you're at the Knickerbocker, aren't you, Mr. Caruso? I want to be able to find you at any time of the day.”

The two Italians hastily assured him that they were not going anywhere. Then Puccini said, “Lieutenant, may I ask you a question now? How many people know about those forged letters? Besides yourself.”

“My superior. The officer who translated them. And the handwriting expert will know. Three people—four, counting me.”

“You have not mentioned any of this to the newspapers?”

“Not yet. Why? What would you do if we did?”

Puccini looked away. “Rather than go through another scandal? I think I would kill myself!”

O'Halloran gave a snort of derisory laughter. Italians! So theatrical—always talking about grand passions and suffering and the like. “Scandal isn't fatal,” he said shortly. “People don't kill themselves over scandal any more.”

“Doria,” Caruso said simply.

The police detective had the grace to look embarrassed. “You're right, I forgot about her. But she was a young girl—she couldn't have had much experience of the world. Look, Mr. Puccini, I'm not trying to make trouble for you. If you are innocent of murder and your wife did not write those letters, I give you my promise not one word of this will ever reach the press. But if either of you is guilty—then I also give you my promise that
everybody
is going to know about it. Including the authorities in Italy. Understand?”

“All too well, Lieutenant,” Puccini said. “It never stops.”

O'Halloran warned them again about changing their addresses and offered Caruso a ride back to the Knickerbocker. The tenor extracted a promise from Puccini that he wouldn't do anything foolish and accepted the detective's offer.

As the two men stood in the lobby putting on their coats, Caruso said, “Lieutenant O'Halloran, there is something I do not wish to ask you in front of Puccini. So I ask you now. This Luigi Davila, he is Black Hand, yes? No?”

O'Halloran grinned. “I was wondering when you'd get around to that. No, he wasn't, as a matter of fact. As far as we can find out, he never had anything to do with those terrorists—that was one of the first things we looked into. It's not the Black Hand this time. Davila was acting alone.”

Caruso smiled, the first time in an hour. “That is good news. Puccini has been through so much lately—to think the Black Hand is after him too …” He trailed off.

O'Halloran started to open the lobby door but paused. “Mr. Caruso, you seem like a decent fellow. Let me caution you about putting too much faith in your friend Puccini. He could be a killer, you know.”

Caruso bristled. “Puccini would never kill anyone! It is a preposterous idea.”

“There, that's what I'm talking about. He's your friend, and so you can't even imagine him as a murderer. But you saw how Davila was living—did that look like the place of a man who'd been in the blackmail business for long? It's beginning to look as if your friend Puccini was his only victim.”

Caruso sputtered, “There can be other reasons for killing besides blackmail!”

“And we're looking for them,” the detective assured him. “But so far it seems the only one with a motive for killing Davila is Jocky-mow Puccini.”

“Giacomo,” Caruso corrected him testily. “You are wrong, Lieutenant O'Halloran. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,
wrong!
”

“Maybe. Just be careful.”

Caruso snarled a fine Neapolitan curse and pushed through the lobby door into the winter night. How could a world that looked so bright in the morning turn to ashes before midnight? In less than twenty-four hours, everything had been turned inside out. Puccini was not free, he was not safe; now he had a bigger threat hanging over him than ever.

Giacomo Puccini, a murderer! Caruso shook his head in disbelief. How could Lieutenant O'Halloran be so obtuse? No sane man would ever seriously suspect Puccini of being a killer. Even now Caruso had trouble believing O'Halloran's suspicions were anything more than a cruel joke.

It had been a long day. When the detective let him out of the police motor car at the Hotel Knickerbocker in Times Square, Caruso was seized with an urgent need to talk to somebody. It was too late to go bursting in on Pasquale Amato, and the only other person who knew about Davila's attempt to blackmail Puccini was Ugo. But Ugo's door was locked; he was still pouting.

Caruso had trouble falling asleep that night.

The next morning he had to put Puccini's troubles aside long enough to deal with a small domestic crisis. He was only half dressed when it came out why Ugo had spent the previous day pouting.

Mario's new suit.

“I
tell
him to buy a new suit, Ugo,” Caruso said. “I do not want my valets looking shabby.”

“Then let him look not shabby for less money!” Ugo protested. “Do you know how much he spends for the suit? Eighteen dollars!
Eighteen dollars
, Rico. That is three dollars more than a member of the Metropolitan Opera chorus earns in a week!”

Mario looked mournful and said nothing.

Martino tried to help. “Eighteen dollars is not so much money for a good suit, Ugo. And prices do keep going up.”

“He is taking advantage of you, Rico,” Ugo said, ignoring Martino. “Eighteen dollars for a suit!”

Caruso looked his disgruntled valet straight in the eye. “Do you want a new suit, Ugo?”

“No, I do not want a new suit! I want you to stop wasting money! Tell him to take it back, Rico. Take it back and exchange it for something cheaper.”

“Eh, well,” Caruso said. “Clearly there is only one thing to be done. Mario!”

The young valet lifted his sad eyes.

“You are to return the new suit. Take it back and exchange it for a
forty
-dollar suit!”

“Forty dollars!” Ugo screeched. Mario looked stunned, while Martino just laughed. “Rico, you don't mean that!” Ugo cried.

“Ah, but I do! A forty-dollar suit, Mario, do you hear? Not a penny less. And Ugo, not one more word about this matter! No complaining, no pouting in your room—
not a word!
” he said sharply, as Ugo started to speak. “I have more important matters on my mind. You must not bother me with trifles at a time like this.”

“What is it, Rico?” Martino asked, concerned. “What is the matter?”

Caruso looked at the three of them and wondered if Ugo had kept his word about not telling the other two of the blackmail. This might be a good time to find out. “The police,” he said slowly, “suspect Puccini of murdering Luigi Davila.”

Martino's cry of distress could have been a woman's scream. “No, it is impossible! Mr. Puccini a murderer? How can they even think such a thing! And Luigi Davila? Why, Mr. Puccini would have nothing to do with a man like that! Are you sure, Rico?”

Ugo pressed his lips together, not speaking; Mario looked confused. “I am sure,” Caruso said. “Last night Lieutenant O'Halloran practically accused him to his face. And then later he warned me to be careful. He thinks Puccini killed Luigi Davila, no question of it.”

“He is crazy!” Martino said emphatically. “Anyone who knows Mr. Puccini would never think a thing like that!”

“Who is Luigi Davila?” Mario asked.

“Bah! Such an innocent!” Ugo spat out. “Luigi Davila is the dead man Rico found, dummy!”

Mario's mouth formed an O and his eyes grew wide. “And the police think Mr. Puccini killed him?”

“But why?” Martino asked. “
Why
do they think so? Did Mr. Puccini know him? Luigi Davila was a dreadful man,” he said to Mario. “He once tried to bribe me! To get to Rico.”

Caruso was convinced that neither Martino nor Mario knew about the blackmail. Ugo, he noticed, had not offered an opinion. He started to ask him but then hesitated. He thought a moment. “Martino, I want you to go to Puccini and see if he is all right. Invite him to have breakfast with me. He will probably refuse, but invite him just the same.”

“Yes, certainly. Perhaps there is something I can do for him.” He hurried away.

That took care of Martino. “Mario,” Caruso said, “I want you to mix up a new solution of throat spray. Put more salt water in it this time. And do it now, please—I want to take it with me to rehearsal.”

“Yes, signore, right away.” Mario left.

Caruso looked at his remaining valet. “Well, Ugo? What are you thinking?”

Ugo's eyes glittered. “I know Mr. Puccini is your friend, Rico—but he could have done it, yes? He could have killed the blackmailer.”

Caruso was shocked. “Ugo! How can you say such a thing! Puccini is no killer.”

“He had good reason, Rico.”

“Yes, yes, that is what Lieutenant O'Halloran keeps saying. But no matter how good the reason, Puccini could never kill anyone. Not even a blackmailer.”

They were interrupted by a sharp
rat-a-tat-tat
at the door—which Ugo opened to reveal a smiling Pasquale Amato standing there, his face still ruddy from the winter cold.

“Good morning, Rico! It is a clear December day, the snow is crisp and clean upon the ground, and I have come to take you to breakfast! So finish dressing, my friend, and we will go out into this beautiful day and …
what on earth is the matter?
” He'd finally noticed the expressions on their faces.

“The police think Puccini killed Davila,” Caruso said bluntly. “Help me finish dressing, Ugo.”

Tenor and valet went into the former's bedroom, leaving Amato standing by the door with his mouth open.

For the first time in more years than he could remember, Caruso didn't finish his meal.

“You must really be upset,” Amato said, eyeing the cream pastry with one bite taken out of it. They hadn't gone out after all, eating instead in the Knickerbocker dining room, where Puccini could find them if he decided to accept Caruso's invitation to breakfast. “What did this Lieutenant O'Halloran say, exactly?”

“He said Puccini is the only one they find who has a motive.” The tenor told his friend in detail what had happened the night before. “Just being accused can make a man look so guilty! Ugo has already started to wonder whether Puccini might not be a murderer.”

“Ugo? What does Ugo have to do with it?”

Caruso stirred the coffee he wasn't drinking. “Oh, he is there in the room when Puccini tells me about Davila—about the blackmail. He knows the whole story.”

“Mm,” Amato mused. “Do you think that is wise? Allowing him to stay and hear everything, I mean?”

“I do not know what Puccini is going to say before he says it, do I?” Caruso snarled—and was immediately contrite. “Ah—I am sorry, Pasquale. I am not myself this morning. The day starts off badly. Ugo complains about Mario's new suit and I am worried about Puccini—you understand.”

“Don't concern yourself, Rico, I do understand. What did you say Ugo was complaining about?”

“A suit Mario bought. Ugo thinks he paid too much for it, and he didn't. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh, how Ugo likes to fuss!”

The baritone nodded. “He does complain a lot, doesn't he? A natural-born grumbler.”

“Why does he do it?” Caruso asked, welcoming the change of subject. “Martino and Mario—they never complain. Only Ugo.”

“I have a theory about that,” Amato announced playfully. “Ugo's problem is that he is not sure how he fits into your family.”

“My family?” Caruso was puzzled. “All my relatives are back in Naples.”

“I mean your traveling family, the one that goes with you wherever you go. Consider. You are the papa, the provider, the head of the family. Martino is the mama, making sure the household runs smoothly. Barthélemy is the eldest son, helping Papa in the family business. Mario is the well-loved baby. And Ugo—Ugo is the child in the middle, the one whose role is not clear.”

Caruso looked at his friend askance. “Pasquale, that is the silliest thing I have ever heard you say!”

Amato laughed. “Why do you have three valets anyway, Rico? I get along perfectly well with only one.”

“Too much work for one person. I need them all.”

“Do you? Emmy Destinn needs only one maid, and she has almost as many clothes as you do. And Puccini is making do with no valet at all, now that his new man has run out on him.”