A Curtain Falls (23 page)

“Eliza Downs was the first victim, so let’s begin by discussing her. Did she ever merit your personal attention?” I asked.

He brought his fingers together slowly. “How to put this? She was a sweet girl. And she did her part well enough. But she was a short-timer.”

“What does that mean?”

He looked at Isabella and me as though trying to size up whether we’d understand what he was about to say. “There are two kinds of women in the theater— men too, of course, but I see it less frequently. One kind is motivated by nothing other than love for the stage. They would follow each production, attend every play, even if they never had a chance to act themselves. But when given the chance— assuming they’ve some natural talent— their ambition knows no bounds. They aren’t driven by the desire for fame or fortune. They’re driven by the need for
artistic perfection— or as close as any of us can come to it. The woman in my living room is like that. The incomparable Maude Adams is like that. But Miss Downs and her ilk?” He shook his head sadly. “They’re in it because they hope to become famous, or maybe they’re attracted to the glamour of it all— until they find out how much work is truly involved. And maybe one or two with that attitude will become famous, despite their attitude. They may offer a particular look that appeals. Or pure chance may land them a role perfectly suited to their abilities, such as they are. But most,” he emphasized the word, “won’t last for long. A few years’ interlude, maybe, before they make a different sort of life for themselves.”

“And how did you know all this about Miss Downs? You can’t have been well acquainted with her. After all, there are hundreds of actors in your syndicate, no?”

Frohman looked me hard in the eye. “I screen every actor I hire personally. No exceptions. I look into their background. And I entrust my managers to oversee their progress and assess their commitment and ambitions. You’ve met Leon Iseman. He’s my right-hand man and helps me with all my hiring decisions.”

“And no manager is ever mistaken?” I eyed him suspiciously.

But he only shrugged. “It’s a simple enough judgment to make. I have rules I ask all my players to abide by. Either the actor in question has the discipline to do what I ask— or they don’t. It’s pretty simple. It’s all a matter of commitment and how much they want a life in the theater.”

“What kind of rules?”

“Simple ones.” He held up his fingers and began ticking them off, one by one. “Actors should always be prepared to perform, having learned their lines and musical numbers. They
should never be late— for performance or rehearsal. They’re not permitted to stay out past midnight when they’ve a show the next day. And they must understand,” he said, putting his words carefully, “how important their personal reputation is to their success. Any offstage gossip can affect an actor’s onstage reputation, so I’m insistent upon sterling behavior in every area of their lives. I tolerate no loose comportment with members of the opposite sex. And naturally, it’s better if my greatest stars have no serious personal attachments that might interfere with their devotion to their art— or their fans’ ability to worship them. To work in the theater is to manage the dreams and imaginations of the public— in every way possible, onstage and off.”

I thought briefly of Alistair’s comment about what had sounded like a brief flirtation with Maude Adams— and how quickly she had terminated it. Perhaps I now understood why.

“What about those who are not stars, but simply reliable actors playing smaller roles?” I asked.

“Other players may form personal attachments, so long as they are suitable and practiced with discretion.”

“So I gather Miss Downs was not one of your more-committed actresses?”

His response was short. “No.”

“And how is that viewed within the syndicate?”

Now his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Is there room for a casual player like Miss Downs? Or was she at risk of being let go?”

For a long time he would not look at me. I watched him closely: he was a difficult man to read. On the surface, Frohman appeared to be a simple yet intensely ambitious man— devoted to his work and all that surrounded it. But how far did that driving
ambition lead him to go? And this time, could it have led him— or someone within his organization— to murder?

Finally, in a low voice, he admitted it. “She was about to be fired.” When his eyes met my own, they seemed to plead for understanding. “It’s a hard business I’m in, Detective. The money I earn, I immediately reinvest in my productions. I want to make a real difference in the theater, but competitors are always trying to undercut me, everywhere I turn. The Shuberts, in particular.” His voice turned bitter. “Miss Downs was fine enough, but she wasn’t committed. And if there weren’t a dozen actresses in this town ready and willing to take her place, then she might have drifted along for years before I let her go. But there
are
dozens willing to take her role. I’d rather take a chance on one of them than stay with an actress who’s not working to fulfill her potential. My shows can only achieve greatness through the efforts of the very best people.”

“Did Miss Downs know?” Isabella asked softly.

“We planned to tell her at the end of the month.”

“But those in your organization knew?” I asked.

“Leon Iseman, my most trusted associate. All the stage managers, the clerks in payroll, and my organization associates. Basically, everyone except the players themselves. Although it should not have been a surprise to Miss Downs. She had been late to rehearsal eight times this month. And my actors and actresses know that tardiness is never tolerated.”

“What about Annie Germaine and Emmaline Billings?”

A quizzical expression passed over his face. “You mean, did they know Miss Downs was to be fired? Or did they know they were about to lose their own jobs?”

“The latter.”

“No formal decision had been made yet for Miss Billings, but yes, she was struggling. She was slow to learn her lines— and in repertory work, it’s an important skill to memorize quickly.” He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Miss Germaine was on the verge of being let go as well.”

“Why? Also attendance issues?”

He shook his head. “In her case, we simply found someone better, with experience within my organization, who was ready to play the role. We delayed firing Miss Germaine to allow her replacement time to understudy and learn the part.”

I realized with a start that he meant Molly Hansen. I was matter-of-fact. “The bottom line is: three actresses in your theater syndicate have been killed. Other than working for you— and not being particularly successful in their work— is there any link you can think of to connect them?”

“I don’t know.” He set his jaw stubbornly. “Isn’t that your job to find out?”

“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Frohman?”

“I have my share. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Perhaps more to the point,” Isabella suggested, “did these three actresses have any enemies?”

“I have no idea.”

“One of them, Miss Germaine, apparently had a new suitor. Her roommates report that he took her out most nights in recent weeks,” I said. “And Miss Billings as well. In fact, her flatmates believe she was on the verge of losing her job because of the young man’s attentions—not because she had trouble with her lines.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Given your ‘rules,’ I can’t see how you would not have
known— or how those working for you, like Mr. Iseman, didn’t know.”

“If anyone did, they didn’t tell me.” His reply was like steel.

“Yes, Mr. Frohman,” I said lightly, “but you make it your business to know
everything
about your employees. So you’ll understand if I now have trouble believing these are things you don’t know. Unless there’s someone you feel the need to protect?”

He bristled. “So now you’re suspecting one of my employees was involved.”

I was noncommittal in my reply. “Right now, it’s my job to suspect everyone. And no doubt you know the expression, ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’ ”

I stood, and Isabella followed suit. “I’m sorry, Mr. Frohman, but your theater organization is filled with smoke. I’m afraid tomorrow morning, we’ll need to have some officers look more closely into the syndicate’s operations.”

“That’s utter hogwash,” he sputtered. “I assure you not one of my people is involved in this. Why, this last murder— of Miss Billings— was at a deserted theater. My employees don’t use the Aerial Gardens Theater before summertime.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s what made it the perfect setting. No one is up there, not this time of year. And the killer knew that.”

“But no one . . .” he tried to finish, but stopped himself.

“No one you know would do such a thing? I’m afraid that’s what we must reconsider, Mr. Frohman. A couple of detectives from the precinct will be by your offices at the Empire first thing tomorrow to examine your records and speak with your employees.”

“Over my dead body.”

“A poor choice of words, I’m afraid. Good evening, Mr. Frohman. We’ll see ourselves out.”

And so we left him fuming, sputtering, and no doubt displeased about eating a cold dinner.

And we were left to decide: was he a man wrongly placed under suspicion by circumstantial evidence? Or was he himself the murderer we sought? If he was, he wouldn’t be the first man whose driving ambition had led to terrible things.

“I don’t think you made a friend of Charles Frohman, Simon,” Isabella said soberly. “That may have been unwise.”

“Be that as it may, I needed to see what the man was like. He’s certainly protective enough of his theater empire that he will go to great lengths to preserve it. The question is: do those lengths include murder?”

“True. But it’s hard to see how three minor actresses could possibly have threatened his success. After all, it seemed he could terminate their arrangements easily enough by firing them. Why would he— or anyone working for him— resort to murder?”

“Good point.” I smiled at her. “But these murders are unique in the ways they have been staged. The killer responsible makes a statement with each victim, perhaps hoping to interest the press. . . .”

“But Charles Frohman seems a private man. I can’t see him tolerating— much less doing— anything that would attract the wrong sort of publicity for his shows.”

“And there are some, you know, who say all publicity is good. If the press covers these murders, numerous articles will
comment on each of these plays— not to mention Charles Frohman’s name. Even if the main topic is murder, it amounts to free advertising for syndicate productions.”

“Hmm.” She wrinkled her forehead as she thought. “And one other thing—why didn’t you mention Detective Marwin’s injuries or the hypodermic needle found at today’s murder scene?”

“Because tomorrow, a set of officers will search his home and offices. I don’t want him— or his associates— to hide anything.”

She turned to me abruptly. “I don’t think it’s Charles Frohman, Simon.”

I looked at her with some amusement. “You sound convinced. Why?”

She shrugged. “Part instinct. But I just don’t think he’d do anything to jeopardize his theaters. And if these murders continue . . .”

She didn’t have to finish saying it. We both knew, based on what we’d seen this morning, that these killings showed no signs of stopping. In fact, this morning’s murder had escalated matters in a way that was quite disturbing.

I didn’t say anything to Isabella, but our conversation just now made me think more seriously about Leon Iseman as well. I would ask Alistair and Mulvaney for their thoughts, but the more I considered Iseman as a potential suspect, the more troubled I became.

He had the same knowledge of the different theaters and actresses as had Frohman himself.

He was someone each actress would have trusted implicitly.

And one question disturbed me most: why had he had kept
the note found near Eliza Downs, the first victim? Everyone had assumed it was a suicide note.

It was a small fact. But I’d learned time and again that in a murder investigation, such details are often what matter most.

The Knickerbocker Hotel, 1466 Broadway

Mulvaney found me in the lobby of the Knickerbocker after I had seen Isabella safely into a cab home. He was so agitated that I feared David Marwin had taken a turn for the worst.

“Marwin . . . ?” I paused, with bated breath.

“He’s holding his own. But something new has come up.” As Mulvaney hustled me out the door, he looked at me oddly. “Turns out the killer left a note for us after all.”

I stopped short. “We searched up and down when we were at the Aerial Gardens. How did we miss it?” My voice was hoarse with frustration. We had examined the crime scene thoroughly— or so I had thought.

I took a seat in a waiting horse cab and Mulvaney clambered in beside me.

“I suppose we were distracted when Marwin was hurt. We didn’t even manage to move Miss Billings from her position onstage, pinned to the curtain,” I said, trying to rationalize how we had missed such a critical piece of evidence.