A Curtain Falls (21 page)

“And that victim could have been anyone,” Isabella whispered.

“Exactly. He had no way of knowing who that person would be.” He gestured toward the part of the room where David Marwin was fighting for his life. “It could have been you in there,” he said to me. “Or Mulvaney. Or the janitor who found her— had he decided to try to free her, rather than call for the police.”

I shook my head. “But it doesn’t explain one aspect of it all that seems unlike him. His crime scenes are carefully planned and orchestrated. But these last elements leave a good deal to chance.”

“They incorporate the element of surprise, if you will,” Alistair said with a bemused smile. “Whoever this man is, his mind works in odd ways indeed.”

Beyond the curtain, Dr. Wilcox continued to work on his patient, and we overheard his sporadic commands for more hot compresses and different stimulants, including whiskey and sulfate of strychnine.

Mulvaney emerged from the makeshift sickroom, closing the curtain tightly behind.

“Are you all right?” I asked. His complexion had turned slightly green.

“They’re going to inject him with a saline solution to flush his bloodstream.” Mulvaney collapsed onto the sofa opposite me. “How his mother can take this, I don’t know. I surely can’t.”

Marwin’s mother, a stiff, gray-haired lady with a face of stone, had arrived within minutes of receiving Mulvaney’s message and immediately set to work as the doctor’s assistant.

“How is he doing?” Isabella asked.

“He’s still with us,” Mulvaney said. “It’s enough for now.” He paused for a moment. “What I can’t figure out is why this murderer also wanted to kill Detective Marwin.”

Alistair shook his head. “As I was saying, he didn’t specifically target Detective Marwin. He was indiscriminate, intending to hurt whoever came to her aid.”

“And that’s very different behavior from someone who specifically targets young female actresses,” I said flatly. “Should we consider that it may be someone else? A copycat, if you will? It’s not as though we’re unfamiliar with that sort of crime.”

Alistair gave me a steady look. “I’d say the coroner holds the key to answering that question. What we learned from Miss Germaine’s autopsy was that few killers possess sufficient skill to snuff out a life without leaving so much as a single mark on the body. If Miss Billings follows that pattern, then we can feel confident that this is a single killer who has simply chosen to vary his methods. Otherwise, yes, we’ll have to consider the possibility of a copycat.”

“Would any of you like a glass of water?” I got up and went to the pitcher on the side bar to help myself to a glass. To accommodate the doctor’s request for liquids, the officers had brought
in water, brandy, and other liquors they’d found in the wooden bar outside the lounge.

“I would,” Isabella said.

“How about something stronger?” Alistair cast a hopeful glance toward the brandy and scotch.

“No need to use their supplies. I’ve got something right here.” Mulvaney tapped his jacket pocket before pulling out a small bottle of Clonmel single-malt Irish whiskey. “Bring over a couple extra glasses, would you?”

After I obliged, he poured a dram of the whiskey into each of the two glasses. “Ireland’s finest. There’s no better.”

I knew Alistair’s taste ran to Scottish varieties, but to his credit, he refrained from mentioning it.

“Ziele?” Mulvaney offered to pour a third.

“No, thanks,” I said dryly. “Too early for me.”

And it was. The clock had just chimed two o’clock.

“So why does it matter that the killer varied his methods?” Mulvaney asked. “With this murder, I grant you that he became more diabolical. And smarter, I’d say; he picked an out-of-the-way venue where he wouldn’t be interrupted. So what? It still looks to me like the exact same guy who killed the other chorus girls.”

“But
why
?” Alistair said. “Three deaths, very nearly four, depending on whether Detective Marwin pulls through, and we’re no closer to understanding what motivates this killer than we were a few days ago.”

“Why do we need to understand him?” Mulvaney asked as he refilled his glass. “Some violence is just senseless, and some people are evil, pure and simple. In the end, isn’t our ability to stop them all that matters?”

“And how will you stop them if you can’t understand the nature of who or what you’re trying to stop?
Mens rea.
Mental state. A guilty mind. It’s the foundation of criminal law, and the essence of what we must understand to know the criminal impulse,” Alistair countered. “To say that senseless violence by its nature is too difficult to understand is ridiculous. Of course, it may never make sense to reasonable minds. But it has its own logic. And
that’s
what we must figure out.”

Mulvaney shot Alistair a dubious look. “I don’t know. . . .”

Isabella jumped in to smooth things over. “What do you have to lose by asking the questions Alistair is raising? Three women are dead, and a man’s life remains in jeopardy. If asking these questions enables us to stay just one step ahead . . . to save just one life . . . then why not?”

We were all silent for a moment, thinking.

“Okay,” I said, for the sake of argument. “Let’s assume it is the same killer. What bothers me is not the fact that he became ‘indiscriminate,’ as you mentioned before, in planting a poison that might have injured anyone. Why use the poison at all? Why escalate the attack in this manner? And why write all these damn letters— to us, to
The Times,
almost to anyone who will listen,” I continued. “What does he gain by doing that?”

Alistair’s response was automatic. “An audience. He wants others to see and appreciate what he’s doing. He is making a star— albeit of a different kind than Charles Frohman and his syndicate create. Or maybe he wants to be one himself; I’m not sure.”

“Then how does his attempt on Marwin’s life figure into it? With the two prior murders, it was all about the women: he dressed them up, made them pretty. He played Pygmalion,
right?” I leaned against a rose-patterned sofa. “What’s he playing this time? We talked earlier about how he made this crime scene even more theatrical. He dressed her up and killed her on-stage; so far, he fits into your star-making theory. But then he sets a cyanide trap for her eventual rescuer. What does that accomplish for him?”

“Even more attention?” Isabella ventured.

“Not the right sort,” Mulvaney groused.

But something about the comment caught Alistair’s imagination. “Or was it? Look at us. Normally, each of us would be outside, pursuing other leads. Instead he’s got us stonewalled, sitting at a detective’s bedside, praying for his recovery.”

I turned to face Alistair. “But what if he had died, then and there? The poison entered his bloodstream through injection. A deep prick . . . just a little more of the poison injected . . . he would already be dead.”

“And it would have stalled our investigation all the same, albeit in a different way. He’s one of your own. You’d have had department protocol to follow.” Alistair addressed Mulvaney directly.

“Yes, that’s true.”

“But what,” I interjected, “if it was the janitor? It could have been
anyone,
as you said earlier.”

“Anyone who might obscure the clear focus we might otherwise have had on Emmaline Billings,” Alistair said in conclusion. “I think there is something to the idea we talked about at first: he wanted to make the crime scene as theatrical and shocking as possible. And part of that involves scaring us in a tangible way.”

“And how does knowing that help?” I asked.

But before Alistair could answer, there was a knock at the door. Alistair crossed the room in large strides, opening the door to admit two officers who were among the dozen I had seen earlier at the Aerial Gardens. We had not formally met, so Mulvaney introduced us now: Ben Schneider was a stocky, older man in his fifties, and Paul Arnow was his lanky, freckled assistant.

“Captain.” They greeted Mulvaney formally, then nodded to me, Alistair, and Isabella.

Mulvaney motioned for them to sit. “What’s the update, lads?”

Paul, though he appeared to be the ju nior officer, spoke first. “We finished processing the crime scene, sir. And the victim— Miss Billings— was taken downtown to the morgue. She’s all set for Dr. Wilcox when he’s done here.”

Mulvaney nodded. “Were you able to confirm how long Miss Billings had been missing?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben answered. “We found where she lived, and talked a good deal with her flatmates. They last saw her right before she left for the theater last night.”

“Which show?” Mulvaney asked.

“
Beau Brummel.
It’s one of the repertory shows here at the New Amsterdam. She played a bit part.” He exchanged looks with Paul.

They both nodded, then Ben said, “There was apparently a gentleman she’d been seeing. He escorted her to the show last night, and she planned to be out late with him. That’s why her friends didn’t worry when they went to bed last night. But they worried the moment they woke up and she hadn’t come home.”

“Had they met him?” I asked.

“Very briefly,” Paul answered. “They disagree on his age. One said he was in his late twenties to midthirties, had light brown hair, and was quite handsome. The other claimed he was much older, probably in his midforties, with blond hair. In other words, nothing to help us identify him— compared to all the other men in this city who take a fancy to Broadway actresses.”

Mulvaney nodded. “Anything else important?”

He was concerned only with major details now; minor points could wait until he received their report and reviewed everything in light of Dr. Wilcox’s autopsy.

Paul cleared his throat. “Just one thing, sir. This same suitor had been causing her trouble at work. She was on the verge of being fired, they thought.”

“He caused her performance issues? Like being late?” I asked.

“Not exactly. Apparently the manager— he’s part of Frohman’s syndicate, of course— had got wind of an infraction that Frohman doesn’t tolerate. At least, that’s what her flatmates said.”

“And they wouldn’t say more than that?”

Ben looked me straight in the eye. “Only that it involved the attentions of this same man, sir.”

“All right. We’ll check it out,” Mulvaney said.

Ben nodded. “With your permission, Captain, after we finish our initial report.” He turned to go, then pivoted back, brow furrowed. “One more thing,” he said. “How is Detective Marwin?”

“He’s seriously ill, but he’s young and has a strong constitution. I’ll keep everyone informed as I learn more.” Mulvaney’s reply was stiff.

The moment they were out of the room, with the door closed behind them, I spoke. “A police detective is critically ill and another actress is dead. There’s no question about it now. One of us must pay an official visit to Charles Frohman. Three actresses associated with his syndicate are now dead.”

I watched Mulvaney closely for his reaction, but this time he offered no objection. “The gentleman suitor worries me just as much, if not more.”

“So you focus your efforts there, and I’ll talk with Frohman,” I said.

“Be careful.” His comment seemed a formality; he was already preoccupied with other thoughts. “You’d best do it sooner rather than later.”

“If you want to be discreet, there’s a theater gala this Saturday night, I know—” Alistair started to say.

“We can’t wait until Saturday— not with three murders to solve,” I said.

“His employees will know his home address,” Mulvaney said.

“Then take Isabella,” Alistair said curtly. “I trust you to look out for her. And from everything I know about Charles Frohman,” he added, “your meeting with him will go far more smoothly if you approach him with a pretty lady on your arm.”

It was good advice, but a pretty lady might not be enough— at least, not in this instance.

Because of Miss Billings’s murder and Detective Marwin’s continued treatment here at the New Amsterdam, performances of
Beau Brummel
and other repertory productions had been canceled by police order until further notice. From everything I’d
heard about Charles Frohman and his ambitions for his theater syndicate, I could not imagine this news would sit well.

And for this intensely private man to be questioned, on top of so much catastrophe at his theater today?

No, even with Isabella beside me, this was not going to be an easy conversation.

The Knickerbocker Hotel, 1466 Broadway

It took several hours and some investigative persistence— specifically numerous phone calls and Alistair’s discreet tip to a low-level Theater Syndicate employee— before we elicited any information about the reclusive Frohman. And when we finally found him, he was right next door— specifically, at the Knickerbocker Hotel. That was only a block from the New Amsterdam, where Detective Marwin continued to fight for his life.

Frohman’s primary residence was his well-appointed house in White Plains, north of the city, but whenever one of his plays demanded more of his time, he stayed at his regular home away from home, in the heart of the theater district— the pent house suite at the Knickerbocker. We timed our visit for dinnertime, when he was certain to make his usual room-service order, for he was apparently a creature of habit. A connoisseur of fine
cuisine, Frohman also was something of a recluse; as a result, he seldom dined in public. And, Alistair’s source told us, we had little chance of being admitted unannounced.