A Curtain Falls (29 page)

We waited for him to explain more.

“A killer,” he said, “who has consistently raised the stakes with each murder is building up to something, not walking away quietly. I believe he has something big in mind planned next. His own ‘gala night.’ The question remains, what?”

“It has to be a show,” I said, my excitement rising as we finally seemed to make progress in our thinking. “Every killing has happened at a theater. We’d stand a chance of stopping him just by adding protection at every theater in the city.”

“Yes,” Alistair said indulgently, “but I think our man would be smart enough to work around that somehow. I also think he’s someone who fits in at these theaters. He doesn’t attract attention.”

“Yet it’s of critical importance for
us
to identify him— and stop him before he kills again.”

“Of course,” Alistair agreed. “But— especially given how adept I believe his social functioning to be— to look among Frohman’s employees or Poe’s neighbors or even Mulvaney’s men would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Whereas if we look to this killer’s predicted behavior, we force him to show himself to us. We have no idea who he is. But we know exactly how he behaves when he kills.” Alistair paused to catch his breath. “First, we have to try to hypothesize some
ideas for his next move. We should find out if any new shows are opening in the next couple weeks—”

Isabella bolted straight up in her chair and interrupted him. “
Romeo and Juliet.
It’s going to be
Romeo and Juliet.
”

It took a moment for me to understand what she was saying, but the moment I did, it made perfect sense.

“Of course. When Isabella and I met with Frohman night before last,” I said excitedly, “he was rehearsing the role of Juliet with one of his actresses. I’m willing to bet it opens in the next few weeks.”

Alistair leaned over to his briefcase and pulled out his newspaper. It took him little time to scan the arts section and find the answer. “Several shows premiere in the next two or three weeks:
It’s All Your Fault
at the Savoy opens April second, a Shubert musical called
The Social Whirl
opens the ninth at the Casino,
Arms and the Man
opens the sixteenth at the Lyric,
The American Lord
opens at the Hudson on the sixteenth, and
Romeo and Juliet
premieres this Thursday night at the Lyceum.”

“And how many of those are Frohman productions?”

“Only two.
The American Lord
and
Romeo and Juliet.
”

“We don’t want to ignore the other productions, but based on the three prior murders, I say we focus on the two Frohman premieres.”

Alistair was silent for a long moment. Then he finally agreed.

I turned to Isabella. “We have complete transcripts for each letter written by this murderer. Would you take a look at each and try to figure out if we may have missed something?”

“What exactly am I to look for?” she asked, her brown eyes pools of worry.

“I’ve no idea, honestly,” I said. “But I’m confident that if something is there, you’ll recognize it when you find it.”

I stared at the board for another long moment.

“Alistair, would you be able to find out more detail about each of these Frohman premieres? It would be helpful to learn the names of those involved, particularly the actresses. And ask around to see if anyone unusual has been observing the dress rehearsals.”

“Of course,” Alistair replied. “But as I’ve repeatedly said, I believe our killer fits in at the theater.” He caught my look and hastily added, “But yes— I’ll ask around.”

“And I need to chase down a lead that I ignored yesterday.”

We had formed a plan of action— a good one, I thought. And after thanking Dr. Vollman and agreeing to meet up at Alistair’s apartment that evening, we split up in the interest of efficiency.

Isabella immediately caught a cab back uptown, but Alistair and I walked through the park, headed toward the southwest corner.

“We’ve much to do to prepare for Thursday night’s show,” Alistair was saying, “and I think we ought to start by . . .”

But even as I listened to Alistair’s ideas, I wanted to enjoy this moment while it lasted. We still had no idea whom we were searching for. But we had accomplished something important: we had quite possibly identified the killer’s next venue.

Alistair and I soon parted ways, for his plans took him to the West Side, where he would catch the subway back uptown to the theater district.

I continued walking south, passing a saxophone player who had attracted a lunchtime crowd, playing a tune I recognized but couldn’t name from a recent George M. Cohan musical. For
once, I felt we were a step ahead of the killer we sought, and not the other way around. That was a feeling worth savoring, and I did so— with every step as I made my way toward Molly Hansen’s boarding house and the information I had so stupidly chosen to ignore the night before.

Madame Pinoche’s Boarding house

My hunger got the better of me before I left Washington Square Park, so I decided a five-minute lunch break was in order. I bought a sausage and roll from a pushcart, as well as an apple from a nearby fruit wagon and a copy of
The Times
from the corner newsboy. Crossing the walking path, I found a vacant park bench and opened my
Times
in search of the article that Frank Riley and Jack Bogarty had certainly written by now on the theater murders. I scanned coverage on the front page, seeing stories about the fire at Benedict’s Undertaking, another fire at the Columbus Circle subway station, and a father who had killed his daughter just before her wedding day. Then I found it:
PREDATORY MURDERER STALKS ACTRESSES OF GREAT WHITE WAY; APPREHENDED IN OPIUM DEN
.

The article, penned in language more sensational than was
typical for
The Times,
praised Alistair lavishly. Apparently, his criminological theories had been invaluable to the investigation and were almost single-handedly responsible for the killer’s timely capture. Mulvaney would be incensed to read that one, all right. However Alistair had managed it, he’d certainly made friends of those reporters. I realized with some surprise that he must have grown far closer to them than I’d first imagined.

But how would they rewrite the news when Poe was proven innocent— as I believed would happen in the coming days? Their effusive praise could not help but make me concerned that Alistair was beholden to them. I would have to be careful of where his loyalties stood, should any conflict of interest arise.

I made short work of my lunch and left the park, crossing Washington Square South to enter a neighborhood of boardinghouses and hotels that catered to actors, artists, and musicians. My father had said I’d find Molly at the three-and-a-half-story redbrick building several blocks south run by Madame Pinoche. Actors and actresses, writers and artists— most were still at home at this hour of the afternoon, socializing throughout first-floor common rooms— but I was ushered into a private parlor and assured that Miss Hansen would be down shortly.

Molly was not surprised to see me. “I figured your curiosity would get the better of you,” she said with a bright smile as she took a seat primly on the sofa across from me.

I sat awkwardly, legs crossed, my knees thrust tightly against a satinwood coffee table. The parlor was clearly set up for courting couples, with opposite sofas arranged in cozy fashion— though not so close as to invite any impropriety. Clearly, arrangements had been designed for the comfort of men shorter than myself.

Molly looked at me askance. “Last night you said the case was closed and my information was of no importance. Mind telling me what changed?”

“Let’s just say I’d had a rough day yesterday. I’m entitled to a change of heart, no?”

“They say it’s a woman’s prerogative.” She was almost flirtatious as she flashed another dimpled smile. “But I’ll allow it.”

I uncrossed my legs, attempting to stretch them. “You said you had information relating to the case. Was it about one of the more recent victims?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But remember how I told you the other night that Annie had met a new fellow— someone she believed would make her into a star?” She caught her breath. “Well, there’s a man who’s been hanging out around the stage door recently, paying a lot of attention to me and the other girls.”

I simply waited, letting her continue to talk.

“Of course I’ve no way of knowing if he’s the same person as the fellow who was courting Annie.”

A fellow had been paying attention to Miss Downs and Miss Billings as well
. . . but she’d know nothing of that, of course. I kept my expression poker-faced, betraying nothing.

She was saying, “Maybe it’s just my knowing what happened to Annie, but this man makes me uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable in what way?”

When she remained silent, at a loss for words, I helped her out. “Do you mean he is too familiar? Or maybe he seems to know too much about you?”

She considered it for a moment. “I suppose he is just odd— both familiar and indifferent, at the same time. He’s brought me flowers after every performance— and to the other girls, too. But
he doesn’t seem to like any one of us, in particular. It’s as though he’s waiting to see which one of us will encourage him most.”

“And have you— encouraged him?”

I hoped that for a moment she could forget that I was my father’s son. I didn’t want her to lie to me now, and I couldn’t have cared less about the particulars of their relationship. For all I knew, her expectations mirrored those of my father, and he— a consummate womanizer— would think nothing of turning his own attention in a new direction.

If she lied, it wasn’t in the way I expected.

“I can encourage him if you want.” She thrust her chin out, then almost immediately looked away, blushing, as though she’d just realized what she’d offered. “Only if it would help your investigation,” she added lamely.

“What would help me is any details you can give,” I said gently, “such as his name, or his general description?”

She seemed almost surprised that my questions were so simple.

“He’s a regular sort of guy: clean-cut, young, in his late twenties if I had to guess. Light brown hair that could almost be described as a dirty blond. He dresses well and is quite confident and sure of himself.”

“And his name?”

She was silent for a minute. “I think I heard one of the other girls call him Daniel.”

Charles Frohman had a brother named Daniel, I had learned from reading news files about the syndicate. But of course, there was no reason to believe that the suitor Molly described was using his real name.

“How does he sign the card with his flowers?”

She smirked. “ ‘An ardent admirer.’ He signs all our cards the same way.”

I laughed. “He’s not very discreet, then. Do you still have the card he sent you?”

A guilty expression crossed her face before she shook her head. “I tossed them all. But I can ask the other girls when I see them tonight.”

“Please, when they come in. And if he’s at tonight’s show . . .”

She tossed her head. “Will you come tonight, to watch and see?”

“Maybe. If I can’t, I’ll send someone I trust.”

I caught her look of disappointment. But she hadn’t told me enough— at least yet— to entice me to spend time at her stage door rather than pursue more-likely leads. The odd suitor she described sounded like a starstruck, not terribly sophisticated young man, and there was nothing to indicate he was the same man who had courted and killed three other actresses. Alistair had been right: it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I decided to give her one more chance. “Is there anything else about this man that you remember as distinctive or unusual? Anything that makes you suspicious, other than the fact of his indiscriminate attentions?”

She bit her lip, said, “No,” and I was struck that she was unsatisfied— that something was left unsaid.

Then I realized we were not alone.

My father had entered the room, dressed in his best blue suit with a silk handkerchief showing from his pocket. He at least looked the part of a man with money in his pocket and not a care in the world.

“Simon, my boy,” he said with a cavalier smile. “I came to take Molly to the theater. Are you ready, love?”

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her watch, and started when she saw the time. She ran a hand anxiously through her red curls, then stood. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of the time, and it’s an earlier rehearsal call than usual. We have a couple of new chorus members who need a full run-through.” She walked to my father and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be just ten minutes. You’re a dear to come by to remind me.”

He gave her an indulgent smile. “Don’t I always walk you to the theater and home again these days? Can’t be too careful, given the case that Simon’s investigating.”

“Thank you for sharing the information you did. Every detail helps,” I said, getting up with no small mea sure of relief, for my legs now ached from their cramped position. I pulled awkwardly to lift my satchel, which was half stuck under the sofa.