“Of course,” he said.
Jeremy, Shelly, and I left the room.
We made it to the lobby just in time. Members of the orchestra were coming in, carrying instruments, talking, pointing out grotesque designs and rococo corners. Behind them, a light coat over his shoulders, came Stokowski, with Lorna and Miguelito at his side. Under his coat Stokowski wore a gray suit with a black shirt and white tie. He looked like a king going to a costume ball dressed like a movie gangster. He looked up at me as he entered.
“Ah, my detective,” he said. “What have you discovered?”
“Everyone has an alibi for everything,” I said.
“As is always true in detective fiction,” he said.
I introduced Shelly and Jeremy. Stokowski shook their hands.
“I am an admirer of your work,” Jeremy said.
Stokowski nodded, having heard it before, the polite response of someone who meets a celebrity.
“Exclusively of my work?” he asked with a wry smile.
“No,” said Jeremy. “Not exclusively. I enjoy the New York Philharmonic, though I find them a bit too formal under Bruno Walter, except when they are doing Beethoven. The London Philharmonic under Sir Thomas Beecham is suited for Debussy, although not for the more intense composers, and while Felix Weingartner and the London Symphony have a remarkable range, they have, in my opinion, no singular identity or strength. Admittedly, my familiarity with these orchestras is through recordings, the quality of which varies greatly. Your recordings, however, are consistently of the highest quality. In addition, I find your dedication to modern composers and your willingness to deal with the most difficult classics admirable. In my opinion, only your friend Artur Rodzinski, with the Cleveland Orchestra, approaches your virtuosity.”
Stokowski had stopped and was regarding the large bear-like bald man in front of him.
“You are a musician?” he asked.
“A poet,” Jeremy said.
“Used to wrestle,” said Shelly. “Pro. Broke Tiger Daniels’ arm in Pittsburgh in 1930.”
Stokowski looked at Jeremy and smiled. “I look forward to talking with you further.”
He pulled the coat around his shoulders and hurried into the building.
“Are you all right?” I asked Lorna. She wore a scarf around her neck. I had a flash image of her red neck from my dream.
“No,” she said, looking around at the workmen and up the stairway. “And Miguelito couldn’t sleep. He was traumatized.”
“Shelly, will you accompany Miss Bartholomew while she is in the building?” I said.
“Sure,” said Shelly, taking Lorna’s arm. Miguelito took a snap in his direction and Shelly let go.
We heard his voice as he led her away: “Little fellow has a nice smile there, but there’s just a slight underbite, and his teeth need cleaning.”
“Stay with Stokowski,” I told Jeremy.
Jeremy nodded and moved silently toward the auditorium.
Vera came in about two minutes later, but she wasn’t alone. A tall blond man was laughing at her side. She was smiling. The man wasn’t just tall. He was also muscular and handsome. Then Vera spotted me and the smile, disappeared.
The two of them moved toward me.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “Lorna’s much better.”
“I saw her,” I said. “Inside. Let’s try for those carrot sandwiches tonight.”
“Who is this?” asked the man with Vera.
“I’m sorry,” Vera said, clearly flustered. “This is Mr. Peters, the detective Maestro Stokowski has hired. Toby, this is Martin Passacaglia.”
I put out my hand. Passacaglia took it and gave it his best. He was about fifteen years younger than me and in good shape, but it was body-building shape, not scar tissue shape. I let him squeeze.
“Good to meet you, Peters,” he said. His voice sang-I liked that voice, reminded me of Robert Preston. “Let’s get inside, Vera. Stoki will be waiting,” he added.
“Go ahead, Martin,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Nice dress,” I said, trying my best smile. The dress was nice-yellow, plenty of room on top to breathe, with just enough flesh showing in the V-cut of the neck.
“Peters,” said Passacaglia sweetly, trying to lead Vera away. “We have work to do, and so have you.”
I reached over and put my hand on the hand holding Vera’s arm.
“Go inside, Mr. Passacaglia,” I said with a smile. “I’ve played scenes like this more than you have, and they never come out with a song. They come out with bloody noses and cracked teeth.”
“You are coming dangerously close to insolence and the loss of this employment,” said Passacaglia.
“What are you two fighting about?” asked Vera.
“You,” I explained.
She blushed. I thought it was cute.
“I’m giving you a warning, Peters,” Passacaglia hissed through perfect white teeth.
“Mr. Peters,” came a voice behind us. I turned to face Lundeen. “You have been hired to protect, not attack, the company. If you inflict bodily harm to Mr. Passacaglia, you will have to collect your fee from the Phantom.”
Passacaglia took this moment to sneer and make his exit. Vera followed him, giving me a quick, small wave of her hand.
“The man can’t act,” said Lundeen with a sigh. “Best we could get, however. And he can sing. He is obnoxious, I grant you, but we do need him for this opera.”
“He didn’t seem to be afraid of the Phantom,” I said.
“Martin is far too stupid to be afraid,” said Lundeen, looking into the theater lobby hallway into which Vera and Martin had disappeared. “He has been killed in so many operas that he thinks he is immortal. A strange malady peculiar to tenors and fools.”
A pair of women in work clothes, carrying paint buckets, moved quickly past us. Some paint sloshed out of one of their cans and Lundeen jumped back.
“What happened to professional pride?” he asked, loud enough for the two women to hear. They kept walking. He turned to me. He had something to say. We stood looking at each other.
“Think I should take in Mt. Lassen while I’m in town?” I asked.
“I am not impressed by your colleagues, Mr. Peters,” he said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.
“I thought we were Toby and John, drinking buddies.”
“Your colleagues are …”
“… cleverly disguised,” I said. “Gunther is trained in the use of Swiss weaponry and explosives. He’s taller than he looks. And Shelly is a hand-to-hand combat expert who lulls his opponents into complacency with his pretense of being a buffoon. Jeremy, I must admit, is along for the ride. Smart man, but can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“Amusing,” said Lundeen.
“I’ll make a deal with you, John,” I said. “I don’t think much of Passacaglia. You send him home and I’ll let you pick out one of my men to send home.”
Lundeen sighed deeply. “I’ve told you I need Martin.”
“And I need my team.”
“I give up,” he said dramatically, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, tears moistening his eyes. “Keep your clowns. You are the Maestro’s choice. It will be his responsibility. I wash my hands of it all. My life is total misery. I leave myself in the hands of the gods.”
“Very convincing, John,” I said. “That from an opera?”
The look of despair suddenly left Lundeen’s face. “I think so,” he said, “but I’ll be damned if I can remember which one. Toby, can I be honest?”
“Try,” I said.
“Leave Vera alone and please concentrate on the job. I need you. We need you.”
I was going to argue, but he was right. I nodded. He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“I was really convincing, eh?” he said, guiding me toward the auditorium.
“Beautiful performance,” I said.
“Acting, that’s a talent you never lose,” he said. “Martin is safe. He’s never had the talent. I’m invigorated. A few hours’ sleep and I’ll be ready to go out to lunches and sell tickets to the tone deaf and ancient who think of opera as a deadly responsibility. There are but a few, a precious few, in this country who really appreciate the art. I remember …”