familiarity. We moved up the tight, angular main staircase at a quick pace, and were among the last people to enter the auditorium. Kreizler’s box was on the left-hand side of the second tier of the “Diamond Horseshoe” (as the boxes were known), and we rushed through the red velvet saloon to get to our seats. As we settled in, the houselights began to fade. I pulled out a small set of foldable glasses, and just had time to check the boxes around and across from us for familiar faces. I got a quick glimpse of Theodore and Mayor Strong having what seemed a very grave conversation in the Roosevelt box, and then I cast my eyes on the dead center of the horseshoe, box 35, where that formidable financial octopus with the malignant nose—J. Pierpont Morgan—sat amid shadows. There were several ladies with him, but before I could ascertain who they were, the house went black.
Victor Maurel, the great Gascon baritone and actor for whom Verdi had written some of his most memorable parts, was in rare form that night, though I fear that we in Kreizler’s box—with the possible exception of Cyrus— were too preoccupied with other matters to fully appreciate the performance. During the first intermission our conversation turned quickly from music back to the Santorelli case. Sara wondered at the fact that the beatings Giorgio received from his father actually seemed to increase the boy’s desire to pursue his sexual irregularities. Kreizler, too, remarked on this irony, saying that if Santorelli had only been able to talk to his son and explore the roots of his peculiar behavior, he might have been able to change it. But by employing violence he turned the affair into a battle, one in which Giorgio’s very psychic survival became associated, in the boy’s mind, with the actions his father objected to. Sara and I puzzled with
The same thing could in all probability have been said of the Zweig children, Kreizler remarked, vindicating my assumption that he would not write off to coincidence the similarity between those two victims and Giorgio Santorelli. Laszlo went on to say that we could not overemphasize the importance of this new information: we now had the beginnings of a pattern, something on which to build a general picture of what qualities inspired violence in our killer. We owed that knowledge to Sara’s determination to visit the Santorellis, as well as to her ability to make Mrs. Santorelli trust her. Laszlo expressed his indebtedness somewhat awkwardly, but nonetheless genuinely; and the look of fulfillment on Sara’s face was worth all the trials of the day.
Things were fairly chummy, in other words, when Theodore entered our box with Mayor Strong during that same intermission. In an instant the atmosphere in the little enclosure was transformed. For all his use of the rank “colonel” and his reputation as a reformer, William L. Strong was much like any other well-to-do, middle-aged New York businessman—meaning that he had no use for Kreizler. His Honor said nothing in reply to our greetings, just sat in one of the free seats in the box and waited for the lights to go down. It was left to Theodore to awkwardly explain that Strong had something important he wished to say. Talking during a performance at the Metropolitan was not generally considered a barbarity—indeed, some of the city’s most noteworthy personal and business affairs were conducted at such times—but neither Kreizler nor I shared this disrespect for the efforts of those onstage. We did not, in other words, provide a friendly audience when Strong began his lecture during the ominous opening of Act III.
“Doctor,” the mayor said without looking at him, “Commissioner Roosevelt assures me that your recent visit to Police Headquarters was entirely social. I trust that is true.” Kreizler didn’t answer, which irked Strong a bit. “I am surprised, however, to see you attending the opera with an employee of the Police Department.” He nodded rather rudely in Sara’s direction.
“If you’d like to see my
Theodore clutched his forehead quietly but vigorously, and Strong’s anger grew, though he did not acknowledge Sara’s remark. “Doctor, you are perhaps unaware that we are engaged in a great crusade to root out corruption and degeneracy in our city.” Again, Kreizler would not reply, but kept his eyes on Victor Maurel and Frances Saville as they sang together. “In this battle we have many enemies,” Strong continued. “If they can find any way to embarrass or discredit us, they will use it. Am I clear, sir?”
“Clear, sir?” Kreizler finally answered, still not looking at Strong. “Certainly you are ill-mannered, but as to clear…” He shrugged.
Strong stood up. “Then let me be plain. If you were to associate yourself with the Police Department in any capacity, Doctor, it would constitute just such a way for our enemies to discredit us. Decent people have no use for your work, sir, for your abominable opinions of the American family, or for your obscene probing into the minds of American children. Such matters are the province of parents and their spiritual advisors. If I were you, I should limit my work to the lunatic asylums, where it belongs. At any rate, no one associated with this administration has any use for such filth. Kindly remember that.” The mayor stood up and made for the exit, pausing to turn briefly on Sara. “And you, young lady, would do well to remember that hiring women to work at headquarters was an
With that, Strong disappeared. Theodore lingered behind just long enough to whisper that future public appearances by the three of us might not be wise, and then he took off after the mayor. It was an outrageous but nonetheless typical incident: there were undoubtedly many people in the audience that night who would have said very similar things to Kreizler, given the chance. Laszlo, Cyrus, and I, having heard it all before, didn’t take it as hard as Sara, who was a newcomer to this kind of intolerance. For much of the remaining performance, she looked as though she might be preparing to blow Strong’s brains out with her derringer; but Maurel and Saville’s final duet was so superbly heartrending that even angry Sara put the real world aside. When the lights went up for the last time we all stood and bellowed bravos and bravas, getting a small wave from Maurel in return. As soon as Sara caught a glimpse of Theodore and Strong in their box, however, her indignation was back in force.
“Honestly, Doctor, how can you tolerate it?” she said, as we made our way out. “The man is an idiot!”
“As you will soon discover, Sara,” Kreizler said calmly, “one cannot afford to pay the slightest attention to such statements. Although there is one aspect of the mayor’s interest in this matter that does concern me.”
I didn’t even have to think about it—the idea had occurred to me while Strong was talking: “The two priests,” I said.
Laszlo nodded to me. “Indeed, Moore. Those two troublesome priests—one wonders who arranged for such ‘spiritual advisors’ to accompany the detectives today. For the moment, however, that must remain a mystery.” He checked his silver watch. “Good. We should arrive exactly on time. I hope our guests will do the same.”
“Guests?” Sara said. “But where are we going?”
“To dinner,” Kreizler answered simply. “And to what I hope will be a most illuminating conference.”
CHAPTER 10
It is often difficult, I find, for people today to grasp the notion that one family, working through several restaurants, could change the eating habits of an entire country. But such was the achievement of the Delmonicos in the United States of the last century. Before they opened their first small cafe on William Street in 1823, catering to the business and financial communities of Lower Manhattan, American food could generally be described as things boiled or fried whose purpose was to sustain hard work and hold down alcohol—usually bad alcohol. The Delmonicos, though Swiss, had brought the French method to America, and each generation of their family refined and expanded the experience. Their menu, from the first, contained dozens of dishes both delectable and healthy, all offered at what, considering the preparation that went into them, were reasonable prices. Their wine cellar was as expansive and as excellent as any in Paris. So great was their success that within decades they had two downtown restaurants, and one uptown; and by the time of the Civil War, travelers from all over the country who had eaten at Delmonico’s and taken news of the experience home with them were demanding that the owners of restaurants everywhere give them not only pleasant surroundings, but food that was nutritious and expertly prepared. The craving for first-rate dining became a kind of national fever in the latter decades of the century—and Delmonico’s was responsible.
