A Curtain Falls (18 page)

I stared at him in disbelief. “
That’s
why you came back. To make things all right with me?”

“Yes, if I can.” Another cough into his handkerchief. “Your mother’s gone, God rest her soul. I’m too late, in her case. But I know I did you wrong too, though you’re enough of a man not to berate me for it. I guess you’d have been some bigwig lawyer or banker by now if you’d been able to keep your scholarship at Columbia. As you would’ve done, if not for my leaving.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” I breathed in deeply. “So what— you’re here to apologize? Ten years later?”

“I suppose.” But he sounded uncertain and looked at me curiously.

“All right. Is there anything more?”

He stared at me with an unreadable expression. “I suppose . . .” He waited for several moments before concluding, “There’s not. That’s all.”

“Well, then, I should catch my train,” I said, glancing at my watch and realizing I’d missed it entirely. There wouldn’t be another for a half hour.

“All right. Good seeing you, son.” He stood awkwardly, dropping his handkerchief as he got up.

I stooped to pick it up, but stopped short before my fingers touched it. He’d hidden it well when it was in his palm, but there was no disguising the truth laid out on the tiled floor of Grand Central Station. The white handkerchief was heavily stained with blood.

I drew back in alarm, sinking onto the bench once again. Embarrassed, he bent over and picked up the piece of cloth, shoving it into his pocket. Then he sat, too.

I’d not seen it at first. I hadn’t been looking for it. But now I could see the telltale signs: the swelling around the neck, the unnatural brightness in his eyes, and the wasting away that first led people to label the disease “consumption.”

“I’m guessing this is the true reason you’re back.” It was all I could say.

“I’m dying, Simon.” He spread his hands. “I’ve tried all the more temperate climates the doctors recommended. Not one of them slows the progress of this disease.”

“You’ve tried Florida? You’ve been down South?”

“I have. And,” he added, “I’ve even sampled the clean air of Minnesota, which some people swear by.” But he shook his head. “It’s no use. Consumption’s got its grip on me. It’s no longer a question of if, but when. But that’s true for all of us, isn’t it?” He pulled a small packet of lozenges out of his pocket. “Don’t know what I’d do without these. Blaudett’s Cathedral Pastilles. Little brown gummies of benzoin. What ever they’re
called, to me, they’re pure relief.” He popped one into his mouth.

“How much time do you have?” I asked awkwardly.

He shrugged. “Likely not much, though no doctor can tell me for sure. I recognize the signs, though. I cough almost continuously now. And I tire so much more easily than ever before. I’d say this is my last spring. I intend to enjoy it.” His eyes glimmered— but whether that was from the disease or his irrepressible spirit, I couldn’t say.

“But it needn’t be a death sentence,” I burst out roughly. “There are sanatoriums now, staffed with doctors to help you get better.”

He made a face of disgust. “What, so I can sit in a chair and learn to knit? Play chess and take the sulfa drugs they give you? No, thank you,” he said with vehemence.

“You always did like chess . . .” I said. In fact, he had loved any game where money could be won— and lost.

“Hmmph.”

“You’re also contagious,” I warned. “There are laws about compliance. . . .”

“I’m careful to manage my contagion,” he said proudly. “I always cough into my handkerchief.”

“And your doctor?”

“Thinks the compliance requirements are nothing but bunk and nonsense.”

Recent laws wanted the medical profession to report all cases of tuberculosis— yet, most private doctors strenuously objected and ignored the requirement, believing it to be an invasion of privacy. So I wasn’t surprised. But it wasn’t what I’d meant.

“What is your doctor’s opinion of your prognosis?” I rephrased my question gently.

He shrugged. “Never get a clear answer out of these medical types.”

That meant he’d not seen a doctor recently. He never had taken care of himself.

“You’ll let me know if you need anything,” I said, my words stiff and awkward.

He sidestepped the offer. “I’m fine. I stay with a friend here. A hotel there. I see what each day brings. You know me, Simon.”

And I did.

I reached into my pocket and handed him my card. “You found me easily enough, but I can always be reached here.”

He took it, smiled, and coughed before saying, “I’ll be in touch. You’ll see the last of me soon enough. But not yet.”

I watched him walk away, past tracks 21 and 20— then pausing for a moment at the flower stall to buy a single yellow rose, presumably for his companion of the moment.

I would have expected any number of emotions to overtake me— anger, most likely of all. Never mind the opportunities his leaving had cost me, I’d never forgive him for the way he had hurt my mother; I was convinced he’d hastened her path to an early grave.

I didn’t feel sorry for him— though I knew he had spoken the truth when he said he was dying.

This night I was conscious of one emotion only.

Emptiness.

All deception in the course of life

is indeed nothing else

but a lie reduced to practice,

and falsehood passing from words into things.

—Robert South

Sunday

March 18, 1906

Dobson, New York

“There’s been another murder.” Mulvaney’s clipped voice was loud over the crackle of the telephone line.

I had just finished grinding my coffee beans when the jangling of the telephone— at not yet eight o’clock— sent me racing for the receiver before my landlady was disturbed. She would not appreciate being roused at this hour on a Sunday morning.

“Can you get here as soon as possible?” Now Mulvaney’s voice receded to a hollow echo.

I pulled at the black cord, straining to hear. It was a new black and brass Strowger dial telephone, but the quality of its connection left much to be desired— even on its better days.

“Where?” I assumed the murder had happened at yet another theater. I leaned in close to the speaker. Chances were, he was having just as difficult a time hearing me. I switched the
ear receiver to my right hand and grabbed the pencil and pad of paper that lay next to the telephone with my left.

“The Aerial Gardens.”

“What’s that?” I was certain I’d heard something wrong. It didn’t sound like a theater.

But I hadn’t. When his answer came again, it was clear. In fact, he practically shouted, assuming I had not heard his first response at all.

“The Aerial Gardens. It’s the rooftop theater of the New Amsterdam on the south side of Forty-second Street off Seventh Avenue. They have shows there during the summer months. The janitor found another actress dead there this morning.”

So the killer had struck again, taking only two days to target a new victim. And Alistair— who had been convinced this murderer would act again quickly— was now proven right.

“We ought to have posted a policeman at every theater until this case was solved— as we talked about. You had enough resources,” I said, my bitter frustration growing. “Now another woman is dead.”

There was a long moment where I heard only the rhythmic crackle of the telephone.

“Frohman actually put into place a plainclothes security man— at his own expense— to protect his theaters,” Mulvaney finally said.

It was information he normally would not have kept from me. But even as I felt a flash of anger that he had not told me earlier, I was also keenly aware of my guilt in keeping secrets from him: I had not told him about Timothy Poe.

“Frohman’s solution didn’t work,” I said flatly.

Mulvaney made a noise of displeasure. “You’re still stuck on
the idea that Charles Frohman is somehow involved in this, aren’t you? Well, the New Amsterdam isn’t even a Frohman theater.”

He paused, then grudgingly went on to admit, “Though my sources tell me it’s run by Klaw and Erlanger. And they’re part of Frohman’s syndicate.”

Part of Frohman’s syndicate
. . . Mulvaney’s words seemed to echo long after I had rung off the telephone.

Eliza Downs . . . killed at the Empire.

Annie Germaine . . . killed at the Garrick.

Now a third victim, killed at the New Amsterdam. The coincidence was too striking. If their killer wasn’t Frohman himself, then he was somehow related to the syndicate. He could be someone from within the organization. Or perhaps he was a competitor from outside. But either way, the killer we sought knew Frohman’s business and knew it well.

The theaters.

The actresses.

And exactly where to strike.

After profusely apologizing to my landlady for the early-morning call, I had just enough time to gather my things and catch the 8:32 train into the city. It was almost empty this Sunday morning, so I took a seat by the window and settled in with my thoughts.

The Hudson branch of the New York Central and Hudson train line ran less frequently than other lines, but it was by far the most scenic. Normally I appreciated the sweeping views of the Hudson River and Palisades that marked the beginning of my half-hour journey to the city from the quiet town of Dobson. But
today, everything out my window was dull and colorless— the spiky trees, murky water, even the gray skyscrapers of Manhattan, ghostlike in the distance. The landscape had been thoroughly ravaged by winter.

Perhaps it was my mood more than the actual scenery. The shock of seeing my father last night and learning of his illness had worn off, but one thing remained unchanged: I still felt empty. Ten years since I had seen him, and I was struck by how little he had changed. Then again, most things didn’t— so why should he?

The city never changed. The violent crimes and murders continued, unrelenting in their pace, despite our best efforts. No, not the private resources of Frohman, or the legwork done by the men whom Mulvaney commanded; not Alistair’s learning or even my own well-intentioned efforts to help. It all seemed futile— especially in the aftermath of another woman’s death.

I turned my attention to the interview reports Mulvaney had given me last night to review, hoping his officers had uncovered some lead to move this investigation forward. His senior detectives had spoken extensively with the families of both Eliza Downs and Annie Germaine and met with numerous people associated with both the Garrick and the Empire— from janitors to ticket takers to ushers. They had analyzed the finger-print evidence gathered and even telephoned
The Times
to clear up their remaining questions. But by the time I finished reading, it became clear: each avenue they’d explored had failed to pan out.

It was half past ten by the time I made it to the New Amsterdam. Unlike last time, there was a police officer by the front door to check my name against his list, as was customary before
permitting anyone to enter what was now a crime scene. This was not Leon Iseman’s theater: the manager here was eager to accommodate police protocol.

A wizened, frail man who seemed to disappear behind his thick black-rimmed glasses met me just inside the lobby and introduced himself as Al Straus. “I’ve worked in the theater business for most of my sixty years,” he said, adding with pride, “and I’ve worked for Mr. Erlanger in some capacity for over fifteen years.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Who was she?” I asked, accepting his offer to take my hat and coat.

He beckoned with one finger. “Come. You’ll see soon enough.”

I had no choice but to follow him, passing through one of the larger and more luxurious theaters I’d ever seen, though there was no time to register more than a quick impression of its art nouveau opulence. I made my way to the two small elevators on the eastern side of a long, dark corridor, almost tripping over a black cat who raced across my path in a panic. Al Straus explained that the cat had been given a permanent home there in exchange for his ser vices controlling the vermin population. In fact, I detected an unpleasant musky odor that was likely the product of several cats— or decomposing rodents— or both.

Al turned the elevator crank once the door closed, and we ascended to the rooftop, which was actually a theater enclosed within a wall of windows. It overlooked the gardens that gave the space its name— and looking upward, I saw how the roof was designed to retract in warm weather. In the brutal heat of a New York summer, I could see how the space would lend itself to a comfortable evening of entertainment.

“You go,” Al said, easing himself into a chair near the elevator. “I don’t want to see her again.” He nodded toward the stage, which now swarmed with men in blue and brown. I recognized Mulvaney’s tall frame immediately, as well as that of the senior detective he’d introduced me to at the Garrick Theater. David Marwin stretched out his hand in greeting, and several others nodded to me as I approached.