caught him on the neck. He went down gasping.
“I told you no face, no diaphragm,” he moaned. “Are you deaf?”
I helped him to his feet and looked at Vera. The chauffeur’s cap sat at a rakish angle on her head. She looked cute as hell. I told her. She touched my cheek.
“My throat,” croaked Passacaglia. “I … you fool. I won’t be able to sing tonight.”
“You’ll recover,” I said.
“Not in time,” he said, “You’ve damaged a delicate instrument.”
His voice did have a sandpaper rasp.
“You sound better,” I said.
“I’ll sue you,” he said, pointing a finger at me.
“Fear is striking my very soul,” I said. “The police are looking for me for murder and you threaten me for temporarily cancelling a tenor?”
“Remorse,” he tried, looking at himself in Vera’s mirror. “Contrition. Apology. Is this too much to ask?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to hit you.”
“The shoulder,” he said, voice going quickly, pointing to his shoulder. “Or you could have kicked me in the ass. Peters, you may be assured that this incident ensures that there is no way we can ever be friends or that I can even be cordial to you. I am leaving.”
His voice was just about gone now.
“Martin,” Vera said. “I’m sorry, but you did …”
Passacaglia had one hand on the doorknob, the other at his neck. I knew where he was heading.
“Martin,” I said. “We may not be friends, but we are going to make a deal. You don’t tell the cops I’m here, and I don’t make a call to your wife and tell her you’ve been trying to do some extra rehearsals with Vera.”
Passacaglia sneered in my direction.
“Traitor. Robber. Scoundrel. Imposter,” he rasped and left, slamming the door.
“I think the exit line was from the chorus of
“Puccini?”
“Yes.”
I kissed her. She tasted like the memory of lilacs.
“Maestro Stokowski will be upset,” Vera said, in my arms. “We have no understudies.”
“Let’s see what we can do about it,” I said, leading her to the door, taking my cap back and planting it on my head.
“Which way did he go?” I asked Jeremy.
Jeremy nodded to the left, down the corridor toward an exit sign.
“Let’s find big John,” I said, and led the way to the stairway just outside the backstage door leading inside the auditorium. There was no one in the darkened corridor. The three of us went up the stairs and made our way to Lundeen’s office. We didn’t hear anything inside.
I stepped back and Vera knocked.
“Come in,” Lundeen boomed, the weight of the opera on his broad shoulders.
He was not alone in the room. The Reverend Souvaine stood next to the broad desk facing Lundeen, who stood behind it. They were almost eyeball to eyeball-teeth, fists, and stomachs clenched.
“Now get out,” Lundeen shouted at Souvaine, who had the best of the moment sartorially. The reverend was wearing a near-white Palm Beach suit with a ruffled white shirt and a powder blue tie. Lundeen was wearing baggy slacks and a sloppy brown wool sweater too large even for him.
“I came in peace to talk reason and righteousness,” bellowed Souvaine, without looking back at us.
I hid behind Jeremy, which was easy to do.
“You came to dictate pious lies!” shouted Lundeen. “You came like a Wagnerian Nazi in the night to stifle art.”
“At least,” said Souvaine, “we agree about Wagner.”
“Out,” Lundeen said, his hand sending a pile of charts flying across the room.
“If you try to open,” said Souvaine, standing erect, “God will surely strike you with the lightning staff of the flag of the nation which he loves above all others.”
“Fool!” bellowed Lundeen, coming around the table. “Mixer of metaphors!”
“Overweight blasphemer,” said Souvaine softly.
Jeremy stepped between the two men, leaving me exposed. I pulled the cap farther over my eyes and moved behind Vera. Lundeen tried to reach past Jeremy to get at Souvaine, who stood his ground.
“Pompous swindler!” cried Lundeen.
“Cartoon,” said Souvaine.
“Fart!” screamed Lundeen.
“Fart?” echoed Souvaine. “Is that the height of your creativity?”
Lundeen growled and pleaded with Jeremy. “Let me kill him. Just a little.”
“You have my prayers, my pity, and my warning,” said Souvaine, who paused at the door and turned to Jeremy. “And you will suffer both the wrath of the Lord and the law for the unprovoked attack you made on the Reverend Ortiz. ‘The Lord is far from the wicked; but he heareth the prayer of the righteous.’ Proverbs Fifteen, Verse Twenty-eight.”
“It’s Verse Twenty-nine,” Jeremy corrected. “Verse Twenty-eight is ‘The heart of the righteous studieth to answer, but the mouth of the wicked poureth out evil.’”
“You are wrong about the verse,” said Souvaine, his face turning pink.
I wanted to put up the forty bucks in my pocket on Jeremy’s being right, but I kept my mouth shut and Souvaine went out, slamming the door. Lundeen moved back behind his desk and sat with his head in his hands.
“Peters,” he said without looking up. “What are you doing here? The police are fluttering around the place like bats.”
“Great disguise I’ve got here,” I said, taking off my cap. “Only the police don’t recognize me.”
“I’m an actor,’’ said Lundeen. “Or I was. I can see through a costume, a mask.”
With that he looked up at the three of us and swept his hand in an arc. “All these papers,” he said. “That little man and Gwen spent the night. And what was the result? Everyone still has an alibi.… Listen to me. I’m using dialogue from cheap radio shows. That’s what my life has come to. Everyone has an alibi for either the workman’s death or the attacks on Lorna. No one was unseen by someone else for at least one of the incidents. The more incidents we get, the more charts we do and the less sense it makes.”
“Maybe it was more than one person,” Vera said.
“Ah,” sighed Lundeen, pointing at her. “Suddenly sopranos can think. Yes, it’s a conspiracy. I’m beginning to agree with you.”
He laughed without enthusiasm.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Souvaine, Raymond, and I have conspired with the police. Everyone is in on it, perhaps even Lorna, who was not killed by our Mr. Peters but committed suicide because she couldn’t stand the guilt and the complication.”
“Lundeen,” I said.
“And,” Lundeen went on, “Gwen tells me she is leaving after
“Gunther’s Swiss,” I corrected.
“Swiss,” sighed Lundeen. “This is as bizarre as a Mozart opera.”
“It gets worse,” I said.
Lundeen looked at me and went silent.
“There is nothing worse,” he said after a moment.
“Martin Passacaglia can’t sing Pinkerton tonight,” I said.
“They killed him, too?” Lundeen’s mouth fell open to reveal a limp red tongue.
“I hit him in the neck,” I admitted.
“You …” he began.
“… hit him in the neck. He was mauling Vera,” I said.