A Cadenza for Caruso by Barbara Paul Read Free Book Online Page B

would never reveal to anyone.
    Amato swore. “No wonder he has been distracted. How can a man concentrate on work with something like that hanging over his head?”
    Caruso cast a quick glance around the small bathroom to make sure no one had sneaked in when he wasn’t looking. “Do you know what I think it is?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think it is the Black Hand!”
    â€œAh, not again!”
    â€œWhy not again? Because they fail to extort money from me? That does not mean they are going to stop! The Black Hand never stops.”
    â€œRico, that is the first thing you think of, naturally enough. But to assume this man who is blackmailing Puccini—”
    â€œIt is the Black Hand, I feel it!” Caruso was sweating, and not just from the heat of the bath. The last time he’d been in New York, the Black Hand had threatened his life. The price for his safety had been fifteen thousand dollars, to be delivered to an address in Brooklyn. Caruso had summoned the police, who’d provided the terrified tenor with an armed guard, even in the opera house. Then Martino had taken a dummy package to the Brooklyn address, where police were watching. Two men were captured; a third escaped. That had all been earlier in the year, in February, but Caruso still couldn’t think about it without breaking into a sweat.
    Amato was watching his friend carefully. “Rico, are you still afraid of them?”
    â€œYes,” Caruso admitted without hesitation. “What of reprisals? One of the men escaped, remember. And they must have friends.” Caruso scowled. “And now they are after Puccini.”
    â€œDo not be so sure of that,” the baritone mused. “The Black Hand is made up of thugs and hoodlums, Rico. I can believe they’d go to Puccini and threaten to break his arms or put out his eyes if he doesn’t pay them off—that is their style. No finesse. But think a moment. Can you really see these thugs going to the trouble of locating a sample of Elvira Puccini’s handwriting, and then sitting down and forging those letters? And doing a good enough job of it that most people would be fooled? Rico, a lot of those Black Handers cannot even read and write! This is just not their kind of crime. It is too calculated.”
    A glimmer of hope appeared in Caruso’s face. “Do you really think so?”
    â€œI really think so. In fact, I am willing to lay a small wager that Puccini’s blackmailer is one man acting on his own. You did say the man is a small-time impresario, did you not? Does that sound like the Black Hand to you?”
    Caruso splashed his tub water happily; he was willing to be convinced. “So we have only one man to worry about. But what do I do? I sent Ugo to find out his address—I think I may sign a contract with Luigi Davila after all. A few extra concerts will not hurt me. I just might do it.”
    â€œ Cielo! Why?”
    â€œWell, perhaps if that nasty pink man can make a little success, be a real impresario … you see? If he makes money from me, legitimately—he may leave Puccini alone!”
    Amato threw back his head and laughed. “Sometimes you can be so wonderfully innocent, Rico! That is not the answer. Don’t you see, then he would just have his hooks into both of you. A man like that has no honor. It is a generous impulse, Rico, but a bad idea. I suggest you forget it.”
    Caruso agreed readily, since he hadn’t thought too much of the idea in the first place. “By the way, you understand you are to repeat all this to no one,” he cautioned belatedly. “If anyone asks, you do not know anything about it. I gave Puccini my solemn word I do not tell his secret. But I am at my wit’s end trying to figure out how to help. You always know what to do, Pasquale. Suggest something.”
    Amato was silent a moment. Then: “You are asking my