A Curtain Falls (16 page)

But of one thing I was certain: if I told Mulvaney any of this— and I didn’t see how I could in good faith keep it from him— then he would immediately consider Timothy Poe his prime suspect.

And maybe that was not without reason, I acknowledged. Though whether my newfound suspicion was the result of logic or unwarranted prejudice, I could not say.

Mama’s Restaurant, West Thirty-fourth Street

“In light of everything we learned yesterday, I don’t believe Timothy Poe to be a suspect. But what you say about him is sufficiently troubling; perhaps we ought to reconsider.” Alistair was uncharacteristically reflective once I’d finished telling him and Isabella about my excursion into the Black and Tan quarter.

We were having dinner at Mama’s— an “experimental” restaurant that little resembled a restaurant at all. We sat in Luisa Leone’s living room, in her apartment on West Thirty-fourth Street, enjoying a fifty-cent meal with about ten other patrons. The food was exceptional, and the decor was simple but bright, with red checked tablecloths covering the five tables in the room, and long red curtains separating the eating area from the kitchen.

“Because your analysis was flawed?” Isabella asked, with a teasing lilt in her voice. “Or because Timothy’s personal life is so all-important?”

A flash of discomfort crossed Alistair’s face before he shook his head. “Criminological analysis can only be as good as our understanding of its subject. In this case, the subject is Timothy— and he has committed a serious lie of omission.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” I said. “If he’s withheld information about this, then just imagine what else he has not told us.”

I sipped my glass of Chianti from Montepulciano— one Mama herself had highly recommended from her husband’s wine shop. I contemplated pouring another glass but decided against it. It was only five o’clock, and while we enjoyed an early dinner now, my night promised to be a long one.

Isabella sampled an appetizer of baked clams, a large plate of which had just been brought to the table.

“Both of you are being ridiculous,” she said between bites. “So Timothy Poe lied. He’s certainly not the first to do so— especially when the repercussions could easily cost him his career. It doesn’t make him a murderer.”

I would have preferred to avoid talking of such matters in front of Isabella, but in typical fashion, she’d had none of it when I attempted to speak with Alistair privately— reminding me I’d promised to include her fully in the case in return for her help. “Besides,” she had said, “you can’t think I don’t read the newspapers— though I know there are those who believe them to be inappropriate for ladies. All the papers report about the trials for gross indecency. It may not be suitable for polite conversation at a ladies’ luncheon. But then again, neither would most of my work with Alistair.”

And she was right. I still did not understand what compelled her to spend her days helping her father-in-law with his criminological research. For her own safety, Alistair did not allow Isabella into the interview room to speak with depraved criminals. But he did involve her closely in all other aspects of his research. It had been her choice, shortly after her husband’s unexpected death. But while I understood it had something to do with her grieving process, I knew that wasn’t the whole of it. She was genuinely interested in criminals and their crimes, for reasons Teddy’s death did not wholly explain.

But I couldn’t ask her that. Instead, I asked something that puzzled me a good deal less. “Why do you defend Timothy Poe so staunchly? You’ve never even met him.”

She drew herself up. “I should like to, then. In this particular case, I may be a better judge of character than either of you.”

Alistair’s face blanched. “Not until we can be positive he’s not a murderer.”

He was remembering, of course, the gunshot wound that had nearly killed Isabella just four months earlier. It had brought home to him the real risk of his research, and he had renewed his efforts to shield her from the more dangerous aspects of his work.

“Excuse me a moment.” Alistair folded his napkin, got up, and crossed the room to greet the large, heavyset man who had just entered the restaurant. The petite woman with him barely reached his shoulder. Alistair seemed to know them both, conspicuously helping the lady out of her fur coat and hanging it on the coat rack behind them.

“That’s Oscar Hammerstein and his wife,” Isabella said. Her eyes flashed mischievously to the portrait of the wildly popular tenor Enrico Caruso above our table. He held that place of honor because he had been Mama’s first patron— the devoted fan of her cooking who had persuaded her to open a restaurant over her own husband’s objections, and then encouraged his musician friends to become regular patrons. “Let’s hope it’s not a night that the Metropolitan Opera singers decide to come here, too. Otherwise, we may see fireworks!”

I glanced over at the Hammersteins. “Why? They don’t get along?”

She shook her head. “They’re fierce competitors. Mr. Hammerstein is a huge opera aficionado, but he’s been outspoken about recent disappointing Metropolitan efforts. In fact, he has begun building his own opera theater. It’s under construction just down the street; you must have walked past it on your way to meet us here.”

I had. But there was so much ongoing construction in this part of the city, I hadn’t given it a second thought.

Alistair returned to the table with a broad smile. “Now, where were we?”

“We were about to put aside your unwarranted suspicions of Mr. Poe,” Isabella said without missing a beat, “and discuss what Annie Germaine’s flatmates had to share with us.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

But then our “waiter”— Gene, Mama’s youngest son— brought out a heaping bowl of linguini topped with a spicy clam sauce. We waited until he was well out of earshot before we continued speaking.

“Annie shared a set of rooms on West Thirty-seventh Street with the same two actresses we saw briefly last night in the green room.” Alistair served Isabella’s plate first, his voice rough
with frustration. “They went out with Jack Bogarty last night— and apparently told him everything they knew over too many drinks at the Knickerbocker bar.”

I groaned inwardly as I thought of the two blondes who had hung on every word the reporter had uttered. Had one of them been the source who informed Bogarty and Riley about Poe’s carefully guarded secret?

“But they spoke with you as well?”

“They did. Though who’s to say they were as complete in their responses as they were with Bogarty after three bottles of champagne.” He frowned. “Most of what they shared involved the mundane details of their daily life. And it’s a miserable existence, by the sound of it. They barely make enough each week to subsist, much less save anything; it takes their entire paycheck to afford their weekly rent and food.”

“If Annie was in a similar position,” I said, thinking aloud, “then could she have owed someone money? Gotten in a spot of trouble over debts?”

Isabella shook her head. “We checked. Florence and Fannie denied it. Annie had simple tastes and normally spent little.”

“Normally?” I pushed back my plate of linguini and hoped the unending supply of dishes from the kitchen was exhausted. As flavorful as each dish had been, I was not accustomed to so much food at a single meal.

“About two and a half weeks ago, everything seemed to change,” she said. “New dresses found their way into her closet; new baubles decorated her wrists; there were fresh flowers every day beside her bed.”

“So from the sound of it, she had acquired a new beau,” I said.

“Exactly.” Alistair paused a moment to order more wine, then continued talking. “Unfortunately, they never exactly made his acquaintance.”

“So they didn’t know him well?”

“Not at all, in fact. Annie never brought him around, even to the theater.”

“But you got his name?”

Isabella and Alistair exchanged looks, then shook their heads.

“You at least learned what he looked like?” I looked at them each sharply.

Another negative reply.

“Were you able to discover anything about him at all?” My voice rose in frustration as I crumpled my napkin and shoved it aside; my appetite had vanished.

“Well—” Isabella smiled triumphantly as she reached into her deep, black leather bag and drew out a paper. “It seems Annie’s new beau enjoyed sending her letters. Florence remembered that, and at our request, she checked first Annie’s room, then their garbage— and she managed to recover one for us.”

She held it out to me and I took it. The paper was cheap, flimsy, and perfectly square— about five inches all around. Dog-eared and crinkled, it had been stained by an oily substance.

But none of that mattered— because in the faint, unmistakable spidery lines I had come to know so well these past twenty-four hours, I read:

“ ‘Meet me after the show. Our usual place. I’ll be waiting.’ ”

I shuddered and caught Alistair’s eye.

“Ah, you see the point.” Alistair tapped his chin. “Florence and Fannie did not know anything about his identity. But
we
do.”

“Now
you’re
being ridiculous,” I said, my words coming in a rush. “We’re a long way from knowing his identity; we don’t have a name or even a physical description.”

“No?” Alistair’s eyes lit up. “We have something that’s actually better. A name could be an alias. And appearances can be disguised. But we have learned a decent amount about something that he cannot change even if he wanted: his
behavior.
”

My frustration began to get the better of me. My voice was heated, though I kept it low for the benefit of the other patrons in the room. “Please. We’ve learned something about his handwriting; that is all. That is not behavior. And how, exactly, will any of it help us to identify him out of all the men in this city? We could be searching for
anyone.
”

“I think,” Alistair said lightly, “you are losing sight of all that we
do
know in your concern for everything that we
don’t.
”

There was a long, uncomfortable moment as young Gene brought out dessert— a small plate of fried pastries. “They’re called bugies,” he said, helpfully. “And Mama wants to know if you enjoyed your dinner?”

“Please tell her it was wonderful, as always,” Isabella said warmly, which earned her a quick smile before Gene scampered away again, promising coffee would soon arrive.

“I think I know where Alistair is headed with this,” she said. “The writer of this letter,” she touched it lightly with her fingers, “has wooed his victim: with dresses and baubles, flowers and dinners. He has spent time with her and gotten to know her. He has seduced her, in a way. I think we ought to speak with Eliza Downs’ friends to see if we can establish a behavioral pattern.”

“Exactly.” Alistair launched his fork vigorously into one of the bugies. “If we are lucky, then one of them may have information
you would very much like to have about his appearance or name. If not, then we still have better established his pattern of behavior. And we can use it to identify the next victim.”

I could only look at Alistair wearily. “I don’t pretend to know much about Broadway actresses,” I said. “But it strikes me that sending notes or flowers is not beyond the bounds of normal behavior for a young man who fancies a pretty chorus girl. And remember, Molly Hansen told me that Annie’s attachment to this man was driven by ambition. He’d promised to make her a star, not his sweetheart.”

“Since when are the two mutually exclusive, Simon?” Isabella asked with an indulgent smile.

“And,” Alistair added, “it gives a specificity to our man’s behavior. He isn’t simply wooing his victims. He’s
improving
them in some way: how they dress, where they go, how they live. That’s what we can keep our eyes open for in hopes of identifying the next victim.”

“How they dress and where they go . . .” I repeated the words automatically, for they sounded familiar. And then it came to me. “That sounds exactly like what you told me about Charles Frohman last night. That he hadn’t even wanted his leading ladies to walk on Broadway. It had to be Fifth Avenue, because image was everything. And Timothy Poe may have intimated something very similar this afternoon—”

Alistair looked worried. “Surely you’re not suggesting . . .”

“I’m suggesting nothing except a possibility to look into.” I kept my voice even. “Part of keeping our eyes open, as you said.”

He nodded mutely as I accepted the hot pot of coffee Mama brought out to our table. I poured myself a large cup, though I had no appetite for the pastry Alistair had already devoured.

Because in one respect at least, I knew Alistair was right: a killer who had gone to such elaborate lengths— not just once, but twice— was not prepared to stop.

He would do it again. The only question was when.

And whether we had enough time to stop him.

Nineteenth Precinct Station House

“Commissioner Bingham will not stand for it.” Mulvaney was grim-faced and stern. He sat behind his desk, arms crossed in displeasure.

Still, I was per sis tent. “But you see why I need to speak with him. I’m not suggesting we bring him here for questioning. Rather, a friendly chat— at his office, or even his home.”