The Listerdale Mystery
Swan Song
I
It was eleven o'clock on a May morning in London. Mr. Cowan was looking out of the window; behind him was the somewhat ornate splendour of a sitting room in a suite at the Ritz Hotel. The suite in question had been reserved for Mme. Paula Nazorkoff, the famous operatic star, who had just arrived in London. Mr. Cowan, who was Madame's principal man of business, was awaiting an interview with the lady. He turned his head suddenly as the door opened, but it was only Miss Read, Mme. Nazorkoff's secretary, a pale girl with an efficient manner.
"Oh, so it's you, my dear," said Mr. Cowan. "Madame not up yet, eh?"
Miss Read shook her head.
"She told me to come round at ten o'clock," Mr. Cowan said. "I have been waiting an hour."
He displayed neither resentment nor surprise. Mr. Cowan was indeed accustomed to the vagaries of the artistic temperament. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, with a frame rather too well covered, and clothes that were rather too faultless. His hair was very black and shining, and his teeth were aggressively white. When he spoke, he had a way of slurring his "s's" which was not quite a lisp, but came perilously near to it. At that minute a door at the other side of the room opened, and a trim French gift hurried through.
"Madame getting up?" inquired Cowan hopefully. "Tell us the news, Elise."
Elise immediately elevated both hands to heaven.
"Madame she is like seventeen devils this morning, nothing pleases her! The beautiful yellow roses which monsieur sent to her last night, she says they are all very well for New York, but that it is imbecile to send them to her in London. In London, she says, red roses are the only things possible, and straightaway she opens the door and precipitates the yellow roses into the passage, where they descend upon a monsieur, trés comme il faut, a military gentleman, I think, and he is justly indignant, that one!"
Cowan raised his eyebrows, but displayed no other signs of emotion. Then he took from his pocket a small memorandum book and pencilled in it the words "red roses."
Elise hurried out through the other door, and Cowan turned once more to the window. Vera Read sat down at the desk and began opening letters and sorting them. Ten minutes passed in silence, and then the door of the bedroom burst open, and Paula Nazorkoff flamed into the from. Her immediate effect upon it was to make it seem smaller; Vera Read appeared more colourless, and Cowan retreated into a-mere figure in the background.
"Ah, ha! My children," said the prima donna. "Am I not punctual?"
She was a tall woman, and for a singer not unduly fat. Her arms and legs were still slender, and her neck was a beautiful column. Her hair, which was coiled in a great roll halfway down her neck, was of a dark, glowing red. If it owed some at least of its colour to henna, the result was none the less effective. She was not a young woman, forty at least, but the lines of her face were still lovely, though the skin was loosened and wrinkled round the flashing, dark eyes. She had the laugh of a child, the digestion of an ostrich, and the temper of a fiend, and she was acknowledged to be the greatest dramatic soprano of her day. She turned directly upon Cowan.
"Have you done as I asked you? Have you taken that abominable English piano away and thrown it into the Thames?"
"I have got another for you," said Cowan, and gestured towards where it stood in the corner.
Nazorkoff rushed across to it and lifted the lid.
"An Erard," she said; "that is better. Now let us see."
The beautiful soprano voice rang out in an arpeggio, then it ran lightly up and down the scale twice, then took a soft little run up to a high note, held it, its volume, swelling louder and louder, then softened again till it died away in nothingness.
"Ah!" said Paula Nazorkoff in naive satisfaction. "What a beautiful voice I have! Even in London I have a beautiful voice."
"That is so," agreed Cowan in hearty congratulation. "And you bet London is going to fail for you all right, just as New York did."
"You think so?" queried the singer.
There was a slight smile on her lips, and it was evident that for her the question was a mere commonplace.
"Sure thing," said Cowan.
Paula Nazorkoff closed the piano lid down and walked across to the table with that slow undulating walk that proved so effective on the stage.
"Well, well," she said, "let us get to business. You have all the arrangements there, my friend?"
Cowan took some papers out of the portfolio he had laid on a chair.
"Nothing has been altered much," he remarked. "You will sing five times at Covent Garden, three times in Tosca, twice in Aida."
"Aida! Pah," said the prima donna, "it will be unutterable boredom. Tosca, that is different."
"Ah, yes," said Cowan. "Tosca is your part."
Paula Nazorkoff drew herself up.
"I am the greatest Tosca in the world," she said simply.
"That is so," agreed Cowan. "No one can touch you."
"Roscari will sing 'Scarpia,' I suppose?"
Cowan nodded.
"And Emile Lippi."
"What?" shrieked Nazorkoff. "Lippi - that hideous little barking frog, croak - croak - croak. I will not sing with him. I will bite him. I will scratch his face."
"Now, now," said Cowan soothingly.
"He does not sing, I tell you, he is a mongrel dog who barks."
"Well, we'll see, we'll see," said Cowan.
He was too wise ever to argue with temperamental singers.
"The Cavaradossi?" demanded Nazorkoff.
"The American tenor, Hensdale."
The other nodded.
"He is a nice little boy, he sings prettily."
"And Barrére is to sing it once, I believe."
"He is an artist," said Madame generously. "But to let that croaking frog Lippi be Scarpia! Bah - I'll not sing with him."
"You leave it to me," said Cowan soothingly.
He cleared his throat and took up a fresh set of papers.
"I am arranging for a special concert at the Albert Hall."
Nazorkoff made a grimace.
"I know, I know," said Cowan; "but everybody does it."
"I will be good," said Nazorkoff, "and it will be filled to the ceiling, and I shall have much money. Ecco!"
Again Cowan shuffled papers.
"Now here is quite a different proposition," he said, "from Lady Rustonbury. She wants you to go down and sing."
"Rustonbury?"
The prima donna's brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.
"I have read the name lately, very lately. It is a town - or a village, isn't it?"
"That's right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury's place, Rustonbury Castle, it's a real dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly."
"Butterfly?"
Cowan nodded.
"And they are prepared to pay. We'll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement."
Madame raised her still beautiful chin.
"Do I need advertisement?" she demanded proudly.
"You can't have too much of a good thing," said Cowan, unabashed.
"Rustonbury," murmured the singer; "where did I see - ?"
She sprang up suddenly and, running to the centre table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped, hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost austere.
"Make all arrangements for Rustonbury. I would like to sing there, but there is one con
dition - the opera must be Tosca."
Cowan looked doubtful.
"That will be rather difficult - for a private show, you know, scenery and all that."
"Tosca or nothing."
Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed to convince him, he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet.
"I will see what I can arrange," he said quietly.
Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.
"It is my greatest rôle, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it."
"It is a fine part," said Cowan. "Jeritza made a great hit in it last year."
"Jeritza?" cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of Jeritza.
Cowan, who was used to listening to singers' opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was over; he then said obstinately:
"Anyway, she sings 'Vissi D'Arte' lying on her stomach.''
"And why not?" demanded Nazorkoff. "What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving in the air."
Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness.
"I don't believe that would go down any," he informed her. "All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know."
"No one can sing 'Vissi D'Arte' as I can," said Nazorkoff confidently. "I sing it in the voice of the convent - as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion."
"I know," said Cowan heartily. "I have heard you; you are wonderful."
"That is art," said the prima donna, "to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child."
Cowan looked at her curiously. She was stating past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them.
"At last," she murmured. "At last - after all these years."
II
Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury's chief toy - she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school; all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house party for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.
Mme. Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing "Cavaradossi," and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours; she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.
After luncheon the company went out to the theatre and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr. Samuel Ridge, one of England's most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr. Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble; this unusual peace disturbed
him.
"Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly," murmured Mr. Cowan to himself. "Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream. It's too good to last; something is bound to happen."
Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr. Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o'clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.
"Ah, Mr. Cowan, come quickly, I beg of you come quickly."
"What's the matter?" demanded Cowan anxiously. "Madame got her back up about anything - ructions, eh, is that it?"
"No, no, it is not Madame, it is Signor Roscari. He is ill, he is dying!"
"Dying? Oh, come now."
Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian's bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.
"Ah! There you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something."
"I am dying," groaned the little man. "The pain - it is terrible. Ow!"
He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.
"We must send for a doctor," said Cowan.
Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.
"The doctor is already on his way; he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never never will Roscari be able to sing tonight."
"I shall never sing again, I am dying," groaned the Italian.
"No, no, you are not dying," said Paula. "It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing."
"I have been poisoned."
"Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt," said Paula. "Stay, with him, Elise, till the doctor comes."
The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.
"What are we to do?" she demanded.
Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari's place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest's illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff's, was the success of Tosca.
"If there were only someone near at hand," groaned the prima donna.
"Ah!" Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. "Of course! Bréon."
"Bréon?"
"Yes, Edouard Bréon, you know, the famous French baritone. He lives near here. There was a picture of his house in this week's Country Homes. He is the very man."
"It is an answer from heaven," cried Nazorkoff. "Bréon as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest rôles. But he has retired, has he not?"
"I will get him," said Lady Rustonbury. "Leave it to me."
And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouard Bréon's country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess. Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a very determined woman, and doubtless M. Bréon realized that there was nothing for it but to submit. Also, it must be confessed, he had a weakness for countesses. Himself a man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet, since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause, and the English county had not been as prompt to recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury's request.
"I will do my poor best," he said, smiling. "As you know, I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there - since Signor Roscari is unfortunately indisposed -
"It was a terrible blow," said Lady Rustonbury.
"Not that he is really a singer," said Bréon.
He told her at some length why this was so. There had been, it seemed, no baritone of dis
tinction since Edouard Bréon retired.
"Mme. Nazorkoff is singing 'Tosca,'" said Lady Rustonbury. "You know her, I dare say?"
"I have never met her," said Bréon. "I heard her sing once in New York. A great artist - she has a sense of drama."
Lady Rustonbury felt relieved - one never knew with these singers - they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.
She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes later waving a triumphant hand.
"I have got him," she cried, laughing. "Dear M. Bréon has really been too kind. I shall never forget it."
Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard Bréon, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.
"Let me see," said Lady Rustonbury. "Where is Madame - ? Oh! There she is."
Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.
"M. Bréon." She led him up to the singer. "You have never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say."
With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf, Paula Nazorkoff laid it down and stretched out her hand to the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a faint sigh escaped from the prima donna's lips.
"Madame," said Bréon, "we have never sung together. That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to me, and come to my rescue."
Paula laughed softly.
"You are too kind, M. Bréon. When I was still but a poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your 'Rigoletto' - what art, what perfection! No one could touch you."
"Alas!" said Bréon, pretending to sigh. "My day is over. Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radams, Sharpless, how many times have I not sung them, and now - no more!"
"Yes - tonight."
"True, madame - I forgot. Tonight."
"You have sung with many 'Tosca's," said Nazorkoff arrogantly, "but never with me!"
The Frenchman bowed.