A Curtain Falls (28 page)

He passed the letters back to us, explaining more about his analysis of the writer’s pressure. It was a relief to hear Dr. Vollman confirm what we instinctually believed. Even if this sort of
evidence wouldn’t prove conclusive in a court of law, it was essential to our theory.

“And what about the Frohman signature? And the flower card?” I asked.

“Inconclusive,” he said without hesitation. “You’ve given me two words in one sample,” he gestured to Frohman’s signature, “and three in the other,” he nodded to the card. “There is simply not enough material for me to compare consistency of loops, pen lifts, and letter heights.”

So we had ruled out one suspect, Timothy Poe. But we could not narrow our suspicions among the others. I was desperate for more.

“When we first met, you said that because of the regular cycle of pen lifts and movements you observed, you believe this killer is still in the prime of his life,” I said, thinking we at least could divide our primary suspects by age range: Charles Frohman was about fifty, Leon Iseman was in his midforties, and the admirers who had pursued each of these actresses had been variously described as in their late twenties or thirties. “Can you be more specific?” I asked Dr. Vollman. “Are there any characteristics that you can decipher?”

Dr. Vollman gave each of us a severe look, as though he was offended by the question— lingering longest on me. Then he stood up, slowly and with great effort, grasping on to his cane.

He coughed, then spoke deliberately. “When I first met with you, I was careful to say I was not a graphologist. In other words, I refrain from speculating on the personality traits of any writer whose penmanship I study. I am at ease,” he coughed again and thumped his chest, “working with more scientifically recognized specifics that are valuable to know in forensic-identification
cases.” He noted Isabella’s puzzled look. “That means I tell the judge in a court of law whether a document is a forgery or not.”

He circled the table, walking slowly to the chalkboard. “But when Alistair called me last night and impressed upon me the grave nature of this case . . . and when I see evidence of the evil this killer has wrought,” he motioned to the photographs of the tattoo on Miss Billings’s body, “I see now that, despite my misgivings, I must help you in all the ways I can.”

“You never told me that you actively practiced graphology,” Alistair said, looking at his colleague in a new light.

Dr. Vollman hooked his cane on the back of his chair. “I don’t advertise the skills I prefer not to use. But see here. You want to know what kind of man you’re dealing with? Let me help you find out.”

I well remembered what he had said during our first meeting— that the field of graphology was filled with charlatans. Presumably he didn’t count himself as one, but— interested as I was in his input— I remained highly skeptical.

He smiled as though he understood my skepticism when he picked up a piece of chalk. “Graphology is controversial, yes, but it has its experts and adherents, just like any other field of study. It’s actually one of our oldest fields: the Chinese invented it, thousands of years ago. And the better practitioners today uphold fixed standards, particularly the ‘rule of three’ developed by French graphologists. That means,” he explained, “that a valid interpretation of someone’s writing requires three separate elements that each point to a similar meaning. One alone will not do.”

“So you trust the information it yields?” I was still suspicious.

“When it’s done well— then yes. Let me explain. When we were children, each one of us went to school and learned a standard method of handwriting. Here in America, certainly in New York, that is typically the Palmer method, which relies on repetitive drills. But despite the fact that we all begin with Palmer, learning the same drills, consider how we each end up with unique penmanship. Not one of us has the same writing as an adult as we were taught as a child.”

We all nodded in agreement. Certainly my writing little resembled what I had learned in grade school.

He cleared his throat. “Graphology maintains that the writer’s personality begins to manifest itself in the writing as he or she matures, because writing is inherently expressive. That means we can read it as surely as we can read human expressions. It functions as a symbol, just as a woman’s tears signify sadness or a child’s smile shows pure happiness.”

“So, if I understand you,” Alistair said, clarifying, “graphology assumes that our emotions of the moment— in addition to our personality traits— are manifest in our writing.”

“Yes,” the expert replied firmly. “To do so, graphology examines the same relevant markers that I examine in my forgery cases— the elements of size and spacing, pressure and lifts, and of course slant— but with an explanation that goes beyond simple consistency.”

Dr. Vollman drew a leftward slant on the board, followed by a rightward slant. “The killer’s letters always began leftward, an attempt to disguise his natural tendencies. By letter’s end, he cannot help but revert to his natural tendency and slant rightward with heavier pressure. I find three indications in his
writing— using the ‘rule of three’ that I mentioned before— that inform me that you seek a person who is unusually excitable or energetic.”

He encouraged us to look at the eggshell-blue letter before us. “Generally, he has a light script. I like Detective Ziele’s description of it as ‘spidery.’ But despite his feathery penmanship, I see characteristics indicative of aggression. Look at the way he forms his
g, p,
and
y.
There’s greater pressure in these down-strokes. We also see closed ovals, which indicate that he is a private person, quite adept at keeping his own secrets.” He looked at me specifically. “We also see aggression in that same characteristic.”

“He has killed three victims that we know of, and a fourth may yet die as a result,” I said, thinking again of the intensely private Charles Frohman. “I don’t think we need a heavy down-stroke to tell us this killer is aggressive.”

“No? But maybe what I tell you next will help slightly more,” Dr. Vollman added, unperturbed by my skepticism. “Notice how he doesn’t connect his letters in quite the same way from sentence to sentence, word to word. That suggests he’s a man with different, conflicting aspects to his personality. To one person, he may be a loyal friend. To another, he may be a backstabbing competitor.”

“So, to put it another way,” Alistair said, “the fractures in his writing suggest a splintered life.”

“Yes.” The handwriting expert nodded excitedly. “But he’s practical-minded; I see that evidenced in the short upper reach of his
l
and
b
. Not like you, Alistair.” Dr. Vollman chuckled, but the sound was another hoarse cackle. “Your long
l
s and
b
s signify your desire to reach intellectual heights.” The professor sat
again in the nearest chair, exhausted by his efforts. “One more thing. The man is cautious, evidenced by the wide spacing between words as well as the generally small size of his words. He knows how to keep his distance. You’ll not catch him easily. Not without a fight, I’d guess.”

“I’m not sure we’ve really learned anything that will help us to identify the killer— specifically, that is,” I said, still skeptical. “The character traits you’ve mentioned can’t even help us narrow down our list of suspects . . .” I broke off in frustration, got up, and began pacing the length of the room.

After a few moments I returned to the table and addressed the three of them. “We need to refocus on one important question. It’s safe to say that if the killer is not Timothy Poe, then our killer set him up to take the fall. But why? And more importantly, who would have the means to do so?”

“Well, other than Poe, whom were you getting close to?” Alistair asked, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Charles Frohman.” I went on to explain all that Isabella and I had learned from our interview with him the other night, including what was most troubling: the fact that all the victims worked for his syndicate, that he had held each of them to high standards, and each— by his own admission— had fallen short. “My only concern with Frohman is that he may not have had the means to frame Poe,” I acknowledged.

“You’ve mentioned his associates before. He seems to have minions and political allies everywhere,” Alistair responded, one eyebrow raised.

“True. And I’ve told you that I’ve come to believe that Leon Iseman merits a close look. He has as much knowledge of the theater as Frohman— and I’ve seen firsthand an example of his
temper. But would he have had the skill to forge fingerprints, as the person who framed Poe seems to have successfully done?” I went on to tell them what I had learned from my father about the application of candle wax in copying a print— and the considerable skill it required. If Poe had been out cold for a period of time, then it would have been easy enough to get his real prints on the hypodermic needles. But transferring his thumb-print to the elevator at the Aerial Gardens would involve the kind of talent only men like my father possessed.

“If Frohman is as well connected to the political elite of this city as you say,” Alistair said, his face grim, “then he— and his associates— would know how to find what ever help they might need.”

He didn’t have to say it. Such people always knew how to find a man with skills like my father’s— and employ them, if necessary.

“Then there is our wild-card suspect,” I said, “the man who seems to have courted each of these actresses before killing them. He has been described differently— and we still know next to nothing about him, despite all interviews and best efforts.”

“Could Frohman or Iseman have pulled that off, without being recognized?” Alistair asked.

“If a man like Frohman courted an actress,” I said, thinking aloud, “then he would have been discreet. He might have engaged help— meaning different men— which would explain why there is no consistent description of the man who brought flowers and messages to each victim.”

“The same could be said of Leon Iseman,” Isabella offered.

“Or, the stage-door hanger-on others have mentioned could be our killer,” I said.

“The more perplexing question is, why?” Alistair continued to follow my train of thought. “Whether it is Frohman, Iseman, or a separate hanger-on who wooed each actress, there was a motivation at play. And
that
is what we can use to draw him out.”

“Well,” I replied soberly, “then we need to focus more on his motive.”

“Go on,” Alistair urged.

“It’s possible the killer has now completed his goal— whatever that was— and simply plans to scapegoat Poe and be done.”

“It’s certainly possible.” Alistair gave me a dubious look.

“But you’re not convinced,” I said, “and I agree with you. The problem as I see it is this: if he’s done, he has accomplished nothing. Yes, he has killed three actresses in increasingly theatrical fashion. But what does that do for him?”

“Perhaps only one of the women was a specific target and the others were killed to confuse us,” Isabella said.

Alistair’s eyes twinkled. “Now that’s a capital idea. And it makes sense, except we’ve no indication any one was targeted other than for reasons of opportunity.”

“And the three of them are so alike, they seem virtually interchangeable,” I added.

To keep our ideas straight, I began writing the various possibilities on the chalkboard as the others watched. “Charles Frohman” was front and center— but annotated with the troublesome question: “what would killing three of his own actresses accomplish?”

“In fact, their deaths have brought about just the opposite of what Frohman desires. Now at least one of his theaters is temporarily shut,” Isabella said.

“True. But Frohman owns many theaters, and his pockets are deep enough to withstand the closure of just one,” Alistair replied.

“He gains press coverage in all the papers,” Isabella suggested again.

Dr. Vollman made a noise of agreement. “Especially now that Poe is safely imprisoned at the Tombs, there will be even more interest in Frohman’s shows. But it hardly seems the sort of publicity worth killing for.”

Alistair shook his head. “No. From what you’ve told me, Ziele, Frohman can get publicity through other, legitimate means. I just can’t see it.”

“Leon Iseman is temperamental, plus he possesses the right kind of knowledge,” Isabella added. “We simply don’t know enough about him yet.”

“And if it’s the backstage admirer,” I said, “then that person had to have access to Poe.”

I stepped back and surveyed the board. That left the case wide open. In fact, virtually any man working in Mulvaney’s precinct— or anyone connected with the theater— would have known about Poe. Something was missing.

“There is one other possibility,” Alastair said, appearing pleased. “It’s an idea I call distraction.” He leaned back in his chair, hands flexed behind his head. “He wants to misdirect us, and in the process, gain additional time for himself.”

I stared at him, and felt a flash of annoyance that he looked so pleased with himself at the moment. “Distraction,” I said flatly.

Isabella simply laughed. “Stop being so mysterious, Alistair, and tell us what you mean.”

“If the killer is— as I strongly believe— not yet done with murder, then I have to ask myself: why frame Poe? With the next death that follows, it will be obvious to all that Poe is innocent. He’ll have the perfect alibi, in fact, by virtue of being incarcerated in the Tombs. So what would be the point?” He looked at each of us.