A Curtain Falls (2 page)

The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street

It had begun snowing and the air was thick with oversized flakes. They transformed the sky into a mass of white, but melted the moment they reached the ground, creating a slush of mud and sand. A typical March snow. I shivered as a few flakes made their way underneath my scarf to the warmth of my neck, and I became conscious of the dull ache in my right arm, aggravated as always by the cold and damp. I’d learned to anticipate the pain in such weather— ever since the day two summers ago when I’d injured my arm aboard a rescue boat taking in survivors from the
Slocum
disaster. Though the injury should have been temporary, the poor skills of the doctor who treated me had rendered it permanent.

I thrust such thoughts out of my mind as I turned onto West Thirty-fifth Street, dodging a horse and carriage that careened
around the corner. It was trying to avoid a polished black automobile that monopolized the center of the street, occasionally sliding on the wet road. The streets were filled with horses and cars, bicyclists and pedestrians, creating a free-for-all of sorts. It was no wonder the daily papers were filled with accident reports.

As I approached the Garrick Theater, I was immediately struck by the fact that the sergeant was right: for what ever reason, the murder inside was being kept quiet. No police officer stood outside the theater, though it would have been standard protocol to post someone by the door to keep the public at bay and deflect the questions of reporters and curious onlookers. Where I would have expected a bustle of activity, today it was as deserted as the surrounding theaters.

At this hour of the morning— it was near eleven o’clock— the theater district slept. It would be late afternoon before ticket offices opened and actors arrived for makeup and rehearsals. Only come evening would the entire neighborhood light up with the electric billboards that adorned each theater’s marquee and gave Broadway its newest nickname: the Great White Way.

I entered the Garrick through its grand columned entrance into the red-velvet lobby, beyond a large, polished oak ticket booth, and went into the main house, where I finally observed small groups of policemen hard at work. The hysterical wail of a woman arose from somewhere backstage. Organization and chaos almost always existed side by side at a crime scene.

What commanded my attention, however, was the scene onstage— where a single spotlight centered on a woman. She reclined in a pose that stretched the complete length of a green-
and-gold settee, surrounded by a full set of props and scenery. Her hair, studded with glittering jewels, was piled atop her head in a mass of rich mahogany curls, some of which draped beguilingly upon a pillow above the armrest. She wore a frilled concoction of garnet satin, bordered by lace and ruby sequins that sparkled under the glare of the lights. Her face was fully made up, with rouged lips and cheeks, and she looked directly forward, not at all shy of the spotlight’s glare. And when I gathered myself and walked down the center aisle toward the stage, her eyes seemed to meet my own, their bright cornflower blue framed by a dark circle of mascara. She was more stunning than I could ever have imagined and looked every bit a majestic leading lady.

Except that she was dead.

As I made my way toward Mulvaney, whose broad, six-foot frame towered above his companion’s, I swallowed hard, for thick dust had caught in my throat. It always did in enclosed, windowless spaces. Today, in the spotlight’s glare, I could actually see the offending particles floating in the air.

Mulvaney’s voice was clear as it rose above the din of police activity, loud and determined. “Wilcox said to move nothing. So I’m moving nothing ’til he gets back.”

He referred, of course, to Max Wilcox— the new coroner’s physician who regularly worked cases here in the Tenderloin.

The shorter man’s voice sounded angry. “Did you tell the doctor she’s been here since late last night? We can’t leave her like this for much longer. It’s indecent. And Frohman’s man will have a fit if he can’t set up on schedule for tonight’s performance.”

“There’s been murder done in this theater, by God. His schedule will adapt.” Mulvaney roared the words, but the cadences of
his thick Irish brogue could not help but mute the sting they might otherwise have held. He crossed his arms defiantly.

The man arguing with Mulvaney was small and dark, with a compact body and narrow black eyes. He wore a drab brown suit, which made me suspect that he was a plainclothes detective. Whoever he was, he was not particularly intimidated by Mulvaney’s rank.

“Frohman’s got connections, you know. You make him cancel when he doesn’t want to, you’ll pay a steep price.”

I knew that Charles Frohman was the found er and manager of the Theater Syndicate, which ran more theaters than any company in the world. Well connected and not easily crossed, he ruled the Great White Way, which was so important to the city’s burgeoning economy, with a tight control that his detractors said was actually a stranglehold.

But Mulvaney was not one to be intimidated, either— though as a new precinct captain, he would do well to avoid making powerful political enemies. When he spoke next, it was with some restraint. “The world doesn’t revolve around Charles Frohman, what ever he and those who work for him may think. She stays ’til Wilcox comes. If tonight’s performance is canceled as a result, then so be it.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed.

Backstage, the woman’s hysterics rose to a high-pitched scream that made Mulvaney flinch, though he greeted me warmly as I approached.

I responded in turn before offering my hand to the man in the brown suit. Mulvaney introduced him as David Marwin, a senior detective under his command.

“I hear you’ve worked with Mulvaney before,” Marwin
said. “Why don’t
you
try to talk some sense into him?” He then excused himself to join the ongoing search backstage.

Mulvaney waited until the detective was no longer in sight. “Once you get around the fact that he’s too pleased with himself, he’s not a bad fellow.” Then he looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Lucky I knew you were in the city today for the Snyder case. The verdict came down, I assume?”

I nodded, my expression grim.

“She got off, then.” He shook his head. “Well, juries can be a wild card. And I heard your defendant was a real looker,” he added knowingly.

Another shrill cry was audible behind us.

“Who’s the screamer?” I asked.

“Miss Lily Bowen, the leading lady here. I understand she is upset about her dress.
That,
” Mulvaney motioned to the corpse onstage, “is her dress. We brought Miss Bowen in early today to determine if there was some connection.”

At the sound of another screeching wail, Mulvaney shuddered, then recovered himself. “Not that she’s been much use to us. I’m glad you came. I’ve got to admit, this is one of the more disturbing cases I’ve seen,” he said.

I gazed again at the dead woman, who now loomed large above us to the left. “Who is she?”

“Name’s Annie Germaine. She was a chorus girl in
The Shepherd’s Daughter,
which has played here the past three weeks. Of course, as a chorus girl, she looked nothing like this. She’s made up and dressed like the star.”

“Any idea why?” I asked.

“Not yet.” Mulvaney seemed distracted by thoughts of his own as he walked to center stage and paused, studying the
actress as though he were seeing her for the first time. “According to the stage manager— his name is Leon Iseman— everything she is wearing belongs to Miss Bowen, even the wig and jewels. It was all locked in Miss Bowen’s wardrobe closet. The key is missing, and there’s no sign the lock was tampered with.”

“The key wasn’t found near the victim?”

Mulvaney indicated that it was not, then said, “Miss Germaine normally looks very different. The question is: did she dress herself this way— or was it the work of her killer?”

I looked into her unseeing blue eyes.

“How did she die?”

“I don’t have a clue.” Mulvaney leaned against the edge of the stage and ran his right hand along the shaved stubble that surrounded his balding head. “There’s not a mark on her that I could find.”

He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “Almost noon. What the devil is taking Wilcox so long?”

The coroner’s physician was a professional who took his cases seriously, though his terse style of communication won him few friends. However, it was unlike him to leave a man of Mulvaney’s rank waiting without an explanation.

“Where is he?”

Mulvaney didn’t answer. Just then, a woman burst through the curtains, crying loudly, and a man I presumed to be the stage manager followed closely behind. He was a stout man in his forties with thick black hair and a stern face. She was frantic, and her words were largely unintelligible. I caught only phrases here and there:
my dress
and something about
her own fault.

At this last, Mr. Iseman caught up with the woman and
forcibly grabbed her. Her long brown hair, a mass of tangles, whipped around when she stopped.

“Listen,” he said, his words a sharp hiss of anger. “You’ve got to stop this. Imagine if word of your behavior got around!”

The rest of it was inaudible, but it had its desired effect: she immediately quieted, emitting only an occasional sob that sounded more like a hiccup.

“Do I have to speak with them now?” She looked pointedly in our direction.

Mr. Iseman’s reply was careful, but there was no mistaking his implicit warning. “You wouldn’t want Mr. Frohman to hear that you’d been uncooperative, now would you?”

“Miss Bowen,” Mulvaney said, walking toward her. “Come over here and take a seat.” He directed her offstage, just beyond the curtain, and indicated that she should sit in one of three metal chairs pushed to the side. Designed for actors awaiting their cues to go onstage, the small waiting area was cramped; Mulvaney and Miss Bowen sat with knees so close they almost touched, while the stage manager and I hovered above. But at least the dead woman onstage was no longer in view.

Lily Bowen looked at us, biting her lip.

“We won’t trouble you with many questions, as we understand this is a difficult time.” Mulvaney managed to inflect a note of sympathetic understanding into his voice. But he spoke fast, and I could tell he was eager to get this particular interview out of the way. “Did you know Miss Germaine well?”

A flash of annoyance crossed her face as she said, “Of course I did not! She was a chorus girl.” She seemed almost indignant, but then she caught Mr. Iseman’s disapproving look, swallowed hard, and reframed her answer. “Miss Germaine and I were not
especially friendly, but I have known her since rehearsals began and I’m very sorry about what’s happened to her.”

“When did you last see her?” Mulvaney asked, moving briskly through his questions.

“Last night around eleven o’clock. She was waiting by the stage door when I left.”

“Who else was in the theater?”

“I don’t know. I was among the last to leave— maybe even the last.” She dabbed a tissue at each puffy red eye.

“Do you know why Miss Germaine was waiting? Did she have a new beau, perhaps?”

She laughed harshly. “I can’t imagine. Any more than I can imagine why she went back inside and put on my clothes and my jewelry.”

“Or why she ended up dead?” I couldn’t help reminding her, for I disliked the contempt she wasn’t bothering to conceal.

I regretted my comment at once, however, as I watched her eyes fill with tears. She made a show of pulling a clean handkerchief out of her pocket, all the while appearing to stifle giant sobs.

After Mulvaney asked her a few more, brief questions, she retired to her dressing room.

Mr. Iseman turned to Mulvaney and spoke in a stage whisper meant to be confidential. “Mr. Frohman and I would like your men to remove Miss Germaine’s body to the basement as soon as possible. I’ve cleared ample space where it can be housed.”

Mulvaney interrupted him. “That’s kind of you, but don’t worry— it won’t be much longer ’til we have her out of here. The coroner’s wagon will be here shortly.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Leon Iseman said. “It’s late enough in the day that she may be seen. If word spreads of her death, people will assume tonight’s show is canceled. They may even be frightened and decide to stay away all this week— or even longer.”

Mulvaney’s ire was rising. “So what do you propose? Leaving her in your basement indefinitely? I can assure you, Mr. Iseman, that arrangement is one you’d quickly grow to dislike. Let’s just say that death’s odor is not something you want in your theater.”

“Mr. Frohman feels strongly that publicizing Miss Germaine’s death would destroy our reputation and jeopardize the future prospects for this show. We’d like to keep her corpse here, just for today, hidden in the basement. After tonight’s show is over and the crowd’s gone home, the coroner’s men would be welcome to claim her body.”

Mulvaney laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. “You want to remove her body late tonight after the show, when no one will see?”

“Exactly.” Leon Iseman gave Mulvaney an icy stare.

Mulvaney set his mouth in a firm line. “I’ve already explained that we’re following protocol on this one and taking the body downtown as soon as Dr. Wilcox clears it. It would be downright illegal to do otherwise— and the commissioner would have my job.”