A Curtain Falls (5 page)

“You met with Poe?” He regarded me soberly.

“You can’t possibly think Timothy Poe is the man responsible,” I said, challenging him immediately. “If you’ve spent even five minutes talking with him, you must realize that. And you’ve no hard evidence against him. You’ve detained him only because he was in a play that was mentioned in a crazy note left at the crime scene.”

“A crazy note left by the
murderer,
Ziele. Don’t forget that, before you start telling me you’re certain he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” His brogue was thick as the cliché rolled off his tongue.

I dragged a wooden chair from the corner into the space opposite his desk and sat down.

Mulvaney mouthed an expression of disgust. “What am I to do, Ziele? I’ve got two dead chorus girls. I want to find their killer, but I’m getting no help at all from the people at Frohman’s theaters. They’d like me to solve the murders, sure. But they’re scared that a proper investigation will spread news of the killings and frighten away the audience. They’re that worried about their box-office take.”

“Understood,” I said. “But you were explaining why you took Poe into custody. After all, you want the killer, not just a scapegoat— right?”

I eyed him warily. Mulvaney had been my friend even before we had partnered together for eight years on the Lower East Side. But he was a precinct captain now. Had new political pressures changed his typically deliberate and impartial approach to police work? While I hoped not, this leap to judgment was unlike him.

“I’ll not have you think I arrested an innocent man just because he was an easy target. These letters give me valid concerns
about Poe. Here, you should see the other letter.” Mulvaney’s thick fingers shuffled through scattered papers until he found the item he wanted, secured in a protective wrapper.

He handed it to me. “It’s the original found beside Miss Downs. Take a look and then tell me you don’t share my concern.”

I quickly read through the letter, noting that it was written in the same light, spidery handwriting as the letter found at the Garrick.

What beauty I have given her by playing Pygmalion to her

Galatea! As a wise poet has said:

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily ope’d her lids: again

Laugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.

Mulvaney had been right. The references to Pygmalion and Galatea were similar, but the lines of poetry differed substantially.

My old partner busied himself pouring milk and sugar into the fresh cup of coffee his assistant had just brought in. He politely offered me a mug as well, feigning shock when I accepted.

“Thought you were choosy about your coffee,” he said, his tone chiding.

“You mean this swill you drink?” I said good-naturedly. Mulvaney was right: my normal taste ran toward the stronger brew offered at various coffee houses around the city. Precinct-house coffee was a weak, watery concoction that I normally considered undrinkable. But this morning’s events, which had left no time for lunch, had created a pounding in my head that I hoped the caffeine would alleviate.

After he took another gulp from his cup, he summarized his observations. “The Downs letter has the same handwriting as the one found this morning at the Garrick. It’s written on the same blue paper. And we’ve got two references to ‘playing Pygmalion.’ Who else has played Pygmalion in this city other than Timothy Poe? In recent years, of course. I’ve confirmed that he had the title role the entirety of the play’s run last fall.” Pleased with his research, he then added, “All the other actors from last year’s revival are out of the area. Only Mr. Poe remains here in New York.”

“But look,” I said, pulling out my notebook to show him where Timothy Poe had written his name and address. “Their handwriting is nothing alike. It’s a dissimilar size and shape, and they make their
p
s and
y
s differently.”

Mulvaney considered the lines for a moment.

“It means nothing,” he decided. “He has disguised it, that’s all. And in both cases, the handwriting is light, with neat, formal penmanship.”

He was right about that, but I still disagreed. “There’s also no slant to what Poe wrote. And his letters are tiny and curled, not elongated. That would be hard to fake for an entire letter.”

Our mutual silence was unbroken for several minutes.

“To return to
Pygmalion,
” I said, “how many people saw the play during its run? It must have been thousands, assuming a normal run of several weeks. There’s no reason to suspect its star more than anyone else. Any member of the audience would be familiar enough with the story to write these letters and kill these women.” I put it as plainly as I could, once again turning the letter on Mulvaney’s desk to face him.

“ ‘What beauty I have given her by playing Pygmalion.’ What does it mean?” I flicked my fingers against the paper in frustration.

“Bloody hell if I know!” Mulvaney looked at me with indulgence. “It’s early yet, Ziele. Can’t expect to know everything at once. Here, take a look at the photographs of Eliza Downs, such as they are.”

He flipped through yet another huge folder on his desk and handed me three pictures.

“They’re not our typical postmortem photos, as you can see. Apparently the family requested them before her body was removed from the theater.” His nose wrinkled in mild disgust. “Maudlin practice, isn’t it, photographing the dead in their final pose? I think it’s falling out of fashion, but there’s still families that want it as an enduring memory.” He grimaced. “I’m lucky my Bridget’s not the sentimental type. Certainly wouldn’t want anyone remembering me that way when I’m gone.”

I agreed as I began to examine each photograph. While I knew it was not an uncommon practice, I always found it discomfiting to view death poses. Eliza Downs, at least, looked as though she had merely fallen asleep while reclining on a large, overstuffed armchair.

“Just like Annie Germaine,” Mulvaney said. “She was a chorus girl, but they found her wearing the leading lady’s garb. Nothing on that stage had been left to chance. Not her outfit. Not the way she was placed front and center stage. And not that letter.”

He was right. The young woman pictured in the photographs was beautiful: posed in a graceful recline, she was elegantly clad in jewels and silks.

“You don’t have close-ups?” I asked.

Mulvaney answered in the negative. “Like I said, these were done for the family to remember her by. At the time, no one thought her death was anything other than a tragic suicide.”

I held up the last picture to the light; it offered the closest view of the woman’s face and neck. While the photograph’s black-and-white tones made it difficult to tell, I did not notice any bruising— an observation I mentioned at once to Mulvaney.

“Whoever he is, he wants them to die pretty, that’s for sure. I should have Wilcox’s autopsy report by tomorrow and I’ll know more.”

“You’ll have to get an exhumation order for Eliza Downs,” I reminded him.

He nodded mutely and placed the letter back in his files.

“And what about Timothy Poe?” I asked. “The fact that he starred in a play called
Pygmalion,
and that it’s mentioned in these letters, doesn’t give you enough to keep him. It doesn’t give him a motive to kill; it’s just a coincidence. You’re missing all the elements of motive, means, and opportunity.”

“What are you, his lawyer?” Mulvaney seemed amused. After a pause, he finally said, “You’re right. Of course we’ll let him go this afternoon, with a warning not to leave the area. But I do intend to investigate him more thoroughly.”

He pushed aside his empty coffee mug, got up, and began to put on his coat and scarf. “Come with me to
The Times
’ offices. I want you there when I see the new letter and talk with the reporter who received it.”

But I stayed in my chair and looked up at Mulvaney. “There is one more thing.”

“What?” He was halfway out the door.

“You can’t make real sense of these letters. Neither can I. They seem to be all poetry and nonsense. But I agree with you that they are our first key to solving this crime.”

Then I took a deep breath and said it. “I think I know the person who can help.”

The thought had been in my head all afternoon, and I had become increasingly certain of both the necessity and the awkwardness of contacting him. It had been more than three months since I’d last spoken with him. And after I had made my excuses for two or three dinner invitations, further efforts on his part had ceased. Which was exactly what I had wanted.

“Out with it, lad!” Mulvaney’s coat was on, and he was bursting with impatience to get to
The Times
’ offices.

“Remember Alistair Sinclair?”

I watched as a medley of emotions— disbelief and surprise, then concern, and finally disapproval— played in succession across Mulvaney’s face. Alistair was the law professor and criminologist who had involved himself in the murder investigation I’d led last fall. Despite our many disagreements, he had opened my eyes to new and unorthodox ways of understanding criminal behavior. In terms of learning and intellectual acumen, he had no peer. But Alistair was not without flaws, and
his selfish grandstanding had nearly kept us from solving that case.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mulvaney said, his voice flat. “If you want help with the letters, why not contact a literature professor from any college in this city? An ordinary professor could help us figure out the poetry. We don’t need your Professor Sinclair.”

But we did.

I was certain of it, and I did my best to explain why. “This isn’t just a matter of understanding a few lines of poetry. We’re dealing with someone— a criminal— who is using those lines to create a dangerous message. Alistair has made it his life’s work to figure out the elusive connection between criminal motivation and behavior. He believes that if you understand how the mind works, then you can better predict the behavior that follows.”

We stared at each other in silence.

I took a deep breath and put the matter a different way. “Two actresses have died. And their killer has written at least three letters already that we know of: two here in our possession and one sent to
The Times
. There’s simply too much at stake.”

Mulvaney yielded with the grudging acceptance I had anticipated. “Well, we’d best talk with him and get it over with. Maybe he can be of help with
The Times
. Though I’ll not bet on it.”

He walked over to his secretary’s desk. “Danny, can you check the directory and find out where a man named Alistair Sinclair lives. And call ahead, would you? See if he’s home.”

“No need.” I cleared my throat as I wrapped my scarf tightly
around my neck, bracing myself for the cold March snow, if not the confrontation to come. “In this weather on a Friday afternoon, he won’t be at his office at Columbia. We’ll find him at his apartment uptown, on Seventy-second Street. I know the place.”

And I did. I only hoped I knew the man half as well.

The Dakota, One West Seventy-second Street

Alistair lived in the Dakota building, at the western edge of Central Park and Seventy-second Street. It stood almost alone at the edge of the park, a Gothic structure that towered over its smaller neighbors. I’d heard the building got its name because it was so far from the heart of the city, it might as well be in the Dakotas. But Alistair insisted the Wild West motifs were responsible— for ears of corn and arrowheads adorned the walls of the brick-and-sandstone building. And I tended to think he would know, for Alistair considered it a point of pride to have been one of the building’s original tenants. He had moved in nearly twenty years ago, when this area of the city was uninhabited, and Alistair’s adventurous— not to mention rebellious— spirit had led him to stake his home here.

It had been almost four months since I’d last seen him. Or
Isabella. I had thought of her often, despite my resolution to see her no more. My gaze shifted uneasily to the door across the landing, opposite Alistair’s. It was the apartment Alistair had procured as a wedding gift for his son Teddy following his marriage to Isabella. But Isabella had found herself widowed after only two years, when Teddy was murdered while on an archaeological expedition— the details of which I’d never learned. Now, in an unconventional arrangement, Isabella remained in the apartment, maintaining a close relationship with Alistair and assisting him with the criminological research that had become his all-consuming passion. Meanwhile, he had separated from his wife, who lived permanently abroad.