beams of light coming through the holes in the van, I found a discarded crushed can of Armour’s Treet, the all- purpose meat. I used the jagged top of the can to pry at a small, already crumbling hole near my face. I managed under cover of the shouting in front of the Opera to make the hole big enough so I could see through it while sitting. Life was getting luxurious.
After about an hour, just as I was beginning to consider something risky, my break came. Two things happened at once. An overweight ancient woman carrying a placard reading ABANDON YOUR COUNTRY ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE Suddenly collapsed. Cohorts screamed and abandoned their posts. Others continued to hold their banners high. Sloane knelt at the fallen warrior’s side, and she and he were surrounded. At that same moment, Stokowski, Gunther, and Shelly came out the main door and started down the steps of the Opera.
Behind them a uniformed cop and Inspector Sunset came running down the steps in the direction of the fallen woman. From a doorway across the street another uniformed cop emerged, heading in their direction.
Shelly, sensing the need for his services, put a finger to his glasses and held up his cigar as he charged into the crowd, shouting, “Let me through, I’m a dentist.”
The crowd parted and let him through. Gunther and Stokowski headed for the limousine, and I scrambled out of the back of the van. The limo was facing my direction. I hoped the driver wouldn’t make a U-turn and move away from me.
Stokowski, who was wearing a pink shirt, narrow green tie, gray suit, and what looked like tan suede shoes, glanced at the crowd, shook his shock-haired head, and moved with Gunther into the limousine. Sunset and the uniformed cops were breaking up the crowd of old people as I crossed the street and hid behind the corner of a small brick factory.
When the crowd cleared, the fat woman was sitting up and downing a bottle of Royal Crown Cola. She held it in two hands and took it like a baby getting its morning bottle. Shelly stood triumphant and looked around as if expecting applause. No one paid him any attention. The cops helped the fat lady up, and Shelly reluctantly ambled to the limousine. The second he got into it, the driver pulled away slowly, careful to avoid the bevy of the aged who had spilled into the street. The limo was about to turn the corner when I stepped into the street.
I waved my hands and the limo stopped. The back door opened and I scrambled in, tripping over Gunther’s feet and landing on my face on the floor. The door closed and the limo pulled away down the street.
I rolled over on my back and found myself looking up at Stokowski. “There is something appropriately operatic about you and your entourage, Mr. Peters.”
He reached down to help me to a sitting position and Shelly, sitting in the front seat next to the driver, peered down on me excitedly.
“You should have seen it, Toby,” he said. “I just saved a woman’s life.”
“I’m proud of you, Shel,” I said.
“Are you all right, Toby?” Gunther asked.
Even by his usual standards, Gunther was resplendent. His three-piece gray suit was neatly pressed, his tie new and silk, his face cleanly shaven, and there was a distinct smell of cologne in the air.
“I’m alive,” I said. “How are you and Gwen getting along?”
I think Gunther blushed.
“A most accomplished young woman and a researcher of the finest quality,” he said. “We spent much of the night putting together the charts.”
“Blammed her right above the heart,” Shelly said to the driver, demonstrating a solid bang with his open palm. “Started to breathe right away.”
“Can you ask your driver to pull over for a second?” I asked Stokowski.
Stokowski nodded and reached over me to touch the driver’s shoulder. The car pulled over.
“I didn’t kill her,” I said.
“I did not think that you had,” Stokowski said. “I’ve so informed the police. They are polite but not inclined to consider possibilities which will complicate their lives. It is easiest for them if you killed Miss Bartholomew.”
“How long did she work for you?” I asked.
“A few weeks,” he said. “Mr. Lundeen hired her to serve as my liaison for this engagement. Her work was adequate and her temperament erratic, which is not unusual for a former soprano.”
“What do you know about her?” I went on.
Stokowski shrugged.
“Very little. As I said, she informed me that she had left a career, apparently not a greatly successful one, as a singer. She wished to remain close to musical life and because of her knowledge of opera had taken a variety of jobs in the area as they became available. I am very sorry, but I can’t say that I am deeply grieved by what has happened to Miss Bartholomew. I am, however, deeply offended. The guilty must be punished.”
“Like in an opera,” Shelly offered.
“In opera, everyone is punished,” said Stokowski.
I got off the floor, pulled down the jump seat, and sat facing Stokowski so I could see through the back window in case a patrol car headed our way.
“It might be a good idea to cancel the opening tonight,” I said.
“That,” he said, “I cannot do. It would be an act of cowardice. There is destruction, horror, going on in Europe in this war. It cannot be forgotten. The feeling in our hearts must be respected. Music can play a part. I know it’s only a small part, but it’s a very important one because music can bring consolation, respite. It can remind us that with human life something exists of beauty to comfort and look forward to.”
“Right,” said Shelly excitedly. “It’s like good dental hygiene.”
“It is
“Matter of opinion,” Shelly said, beaming at us all.
“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, “I assume you have joined us for a purpose. What can we do for you?”
“Short list,” I said. “First, I need some money. The cops took my wallet.”
“I am, unfortunately, carrying no cash,” Stokowski said, turning up the cleanest palms I have ever seen.
Gunther came up with his wallet and handed me a pair of twenties.
“Next,” I said, turning to Shelly, “I need to find a guy named Farkas, Snick Farkas. Skinny, about forty, carrying a blue shoulder bag. He’s got a beard and should be wandering the streets around here. He’s an opera buff. But he doesn’t make much sense. I think he saw the person who killed Lorna Bartholomew.”
“I’ll find him,” Shelly promised, clamping his unlit cigar in his teeth.
“He does not sound like an ideal witness,” said Stokowski, with a sigh.
“Gunther, I’ve got some research for you.”
I handed him the sheet of paper on which I’d written the message Lorna Bartholomew had painted on Miguelito. Gunther looked at it.
“Rance, Johnson, and Minnie,” he read. “Cherokee, Texas. March 15, 1936. Those are characters in …”
“
“With Miss Tenatti,” replied Gunther.
“Anything else?” asked Stokowski. “I must eat and get back to rehearsal.”
“I’ve got to get back and into the building,” I said.
“You have a plan,” said Stokowski.
“Your chauffeur and I are about the same size,” I said.
“Ah,” said Stokowski. “Charles, do you hear all this?”
“I hear,” said the driver with a definite English accent.
“And …?” Stokowski asked gently.
“There’s an extra uniform in the trunk,” said Charles.
“Good,” I said. “I’ll put it on. Charles, you get out here. I’ll drive back, walk in as if the Maestro forgot something. Shelly, you wait till I’ve been inside for two minutes, and then drive back and pick up Charles. I’ll get the uniform back later.”
Charles nodded.
“Anything else?” Stokowski asked.
“I could use something to eat,” I said.
“Take my lunch,” said Charles, handing me a paper bag. “I’ll pick up a hot dog.”
