A Curtain Falls (30 page)

She nodded to me and was gone.

I turned to my father. “I can be reached at this number tonight, should she remember anything else.” I wrote Alistair’s number on a card and passed it to him.

“Simon, I—” He regarded me with sincere concern.

“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner on Friday.”

My meeting with Molly Hansen had been brief, so I decided to catch up with Alistair in the theater district, reasoning that with so many theaters and productions to canvass, he could use some help. I canvassed the Savoy, the Lyric, and the Casino theaters, simply because I wanted to be thorough. While they were not Frohman theaters, they still had productions opening in the coming weeks— so I wanted to know about their operations
and the people involved in the shows. There was no sign of Alistair; his strategy had obviously been to visit the Frohman theaters first. Perhaps, between the two of us, we’d manage to see them all today.

It was as I left the Casino that I noticed a large office on the second floor, filled with memorabilia and posters, with an executive oak-and-leather desk in the back corner. It gave me just the germ of an idea that might help. . . .

I caught the ear of one of the office staff— a gawky young man who was delivering some papers to the office in question. “Is that Mr. Shubert’s office?” I asked.

“Sure is,” he said with a nod. “Mr. Sam Shubert, that is. His brother’s office is one more floor up. Both of them are traveling this week.”

Charles Frohman, I realized, would have an office just like this one. I would double-check, but I was almost certain it was at the Empire, where Frohman’s biggest hit continued to play:
Peter Pan,
starring Maude Adams.

I had formed a new plan within minutes. And it just might work—assuming, of course, that I could convince Isabella to join me for a night at the theater.

The Dakota Building, 1 West Seventy-second Street

This time, Mrs. Mellown gave me a welcoming smile when she opened the door to apartment 8B.

“Shall I set another plate for dinner, Detective?” she asked as she took my coat and hat from me. “Maybe that will encourage the professor to eat. What ever case you’re working on has him so wound up, he won’t come to the table— and his pot roast is getting cold.” She made a clucking noise of disapproval.

I thanked her and accepted the invitation as she ushered me into Alistair’s library. Alistair might be uninterested, but Mrs. Mellown’s roast would be my only chance of a meal this evening. I still had to dress for the eight o’clock show, so there would be no time for dinner out.

“Simon!” Isabella looked up in surprise. She was seated on
Alistair’s sofa, making notes on a tablet. “I didn’t expect to see you this evening.”

“I have two tickets to see
Peter Pan
tonight— would you come with me?” I blurted.

Isabella’s eyes widened in confusion.

“Only the two of you?” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “It’s a fabulous show. I’ve seen it twice already, and Miss Adams always outdoes herself. . . .” His thoughts seemed to drift off to some other place.

“It’s for the investigation. Unfortunately, I was only able to get two tickets,” I explained for Alistair’s benefit. That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want his help tonight. And at $2.50 apiece for prime third-row aisle seats, I couldn’t easily afford a third ticket.

“Besides, I believe Isabella makes a far more suitable companion,” I added with a smile. “I was hoping you might watch the stage door at the Garrick. Molly Hansen complained to me this afternoon that she’s being pursued by a stagestruck young man. And just in case it’s the same man . . .”

I didn’t bother to finish. Alistair immediately understood and agreed.

“Of course, of course.” Alistair chuckled. “And what sort of project are you pursuing, old chap?”

“One that involves learning more about Frohman. Come.” I gestured for Alistair to follow me. “I believe Mrs. Mellown has set dinner for us. Let’s talk briefly before I have to leave.”

Isabella sprang into action, leaving us in short order. “I’ll be back. I’ve got to dress.”

Alistair frowned at me in disapproval. “And you certainly can’t go to the theater dressed like that.”

My cheap brown suit, I knew, had seen better days. Even the patch on my left-sleeve elbow was becoming threadbare.

“I was hoping to borrow an evening jacket,” I said, following his cue.

“You’ll find appropriate evening wear in Ted—” he caught himself, “I mean, in the guest-bedroom closet.”

And he was gone before I caught even a glimpse of his expression.

But I could not imagine that he was entirely comfortable with my putting on his deceased son’s suit and squiring the same son’s widow to the theater. I certainly wasn’t. And the fact that Teddy’s clothing proved to be almost a perfect fit— suggesting that I was more or less his same build and size— did not help matters at all.

I gritted my teeth and resolved not to think of it. It was just the first of many discomfiting things I would need to do this night.

Alistair had no comment when I joined him at the dinner table some ten minutes later, and our talk immediately turned to the case. Alistair’s theater visits had turned up little of interest, other than the names of all actresses in each production. After I briefed him on my progress that afternoon, Alistair made a prediction. “I’m in complete agreement with Isabella: the killer’s next target will be
Romeo and Juliet.
”

He waited for a moment, then looked around, suddenly distracted. “Did Mrs. Mellown not open a bottle of wine for us?” He went over to his wine cabinet and made a selection, showing it to me before he uncorked it. “I picked up this Burgundy last summer in France. It has a refined complexity that
is remarkable.” He poured two glasses, passing one to me to taste.

I enjoyed it— though I didn’t register its “complexity,” which was too sophisticated for my palate.

Now settled in with his favored Burgundy, he picked at the pot roast on the plate before him and refocused his thoughts. “All the shows— other than
Romeo and Juliet
— share a single characteristic that, I believe, disqualifies them as an appropriate setting for his next murder.”

“And what characteristic is that?” I hunted through the roast in search of more vegetables.

With a pleased expression, he leaned back in his chair, his right fingers tracing the stem of his wineglass. “
It’s All Your Fault
opens April second.
The Social Whirl
opens the ninth. And
Arms and the Man
premieres the sixteenth, the same date as Frohman’s
The American Lord.
And I ask you— what do those dates all have in common that
Romeo and Juliet
does not?”

I played along, though I had never enjoyed Alistair’s games. “They all premiere in April,
Romeo and Juliet
opens in March, and you think the killer’s in a hurry,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.

He gave me an approving glance. “You’re learning, Ziele— though that’s not exactly what I had in mind.” He pushed his half-eaten dinner to the side. “Our killer may be in a hurry— or not. I’ve no way of knowing that.” Then he edged his chair closer to the table, leaning in toward me. “But I do know he is trying to outdo himself with every murder. I think he’s aiming for something big. For a grand premiere itself, not just an ordinary night. And
Romeo and Juliet
will have the most lavish premiere.”

I shook my head. “I’m not saying that it doesn’t make sense,
Alistair. But why has it got to be a premiere? Why not a dress rehearsal— or an ordinary performance, as he’s chosen before?”

Alistair smiled. “Because of something Isabella found when she reviewed the letters. Not a message,” he added hastily when he saw my reaction, “but a common refrain in each letter, up to and including the most recent one he sent to
The New York Times.
He wants to transform his victims into stars. And with each victim, he has aimed for increasingly larger audiences.”

“You’ll need to walk me through this one.”

“Well, his initial effort was simple. He left his first blue letter by his victim, wanting his audience to understand what he’d done. But that didn’t work. Eliza Downs was seen as a suicide, and the note he wrote was actually mistaken to be her own suicide letter. That must have been a disappointment,” he said, putting it delicately. “Next,” he took a breath, “he decided to give some advance warning of his designs. So, prior to Annie Germaine’s murder, he sent a letter to
The Times,
detailing his plans, no doubt hoping the press would become interested in the case. But not only didn’t they notice until it was too late— they viewed the letter as a joke and ignored it. Just as the letter by Miss Germaine’s body might have been disregarded if Leon Iseman had not noticed the similarities to Miss Downs’s murder and called the police.”

“At last gaining him the attention he wanted.”

“But not enough. We prevailed upon
The Times
to keep quiet until the case was solved. So he upped the stakes, yet again, with Miss Billings— complete with playbill ads in the lobby and a booby trap to injure whoever responded with help. He taunted us with his reference to Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm.” This time there was no mistaking him: he was as dramatic as he was dangerous, making clear he was someone to be reckoned with.”

I raised a skeptical brow. “True. But from that, you get that he is going for a premiere show?”

When he answered, his voice reflected his conviction. “Absolutely. He keeps escalating, and it takes more to satisfy him. I don’t know if you noticed in today’s
Times,
” he added, “but I prevailed upon our friends there to suppress any mention of Detective Marwin.”

I had noticed, but had thought it was the result of luck, not of Alistair’s intervention. And Alistair’s leap of logic— from “the killer is escalating his behavior” to “the killer will definitely choose a premiere”— was speculative at best.

Alistair saw my hesitation and immediately tried to allay my fears. “You know, in what I do, I freely admit there’s as much ‘art’ involved as there is ‘science.’ Sometimes you simply have to trust your instincts, just as you did in deciding to believe Timothy Poe’s declaration of innocence.”

“But I have no instinct on this,” I said, spreading my hands wide.

“That’s why I’m asking you to trust me.”

I simply stared at him. It was a hard thing to ask— especially where Alistair was concerned. His brilliance, I trusted implicitly. But his instincts?

I’d previously found them to be lacking, at least where ethical boundaries— not criminal behavior— were concerned.

Then again, as I well knew, the hardest ethical judgment calls involved compromising one ideal in the ser vice of another. I’d certainly done it myself, when lives were at stake.

I was still mulling over the issue when Isabella’s clear voice called out to me, asking if I was ready for the theater.

She stood by the entrance to Alistair’s dining room, breathtaking in a black-velvet-and-sequin evening gown with her hair done up in a more elegant fashion than I’d seen before. A small diamond heart nestled within the hollow of her throat. The effect was simple yet stunning.

I got up, stiff and suddenly awkward— and aware, with a pang of guilt, that I was not myself. To night I had dressed in borrowed clothes, preparing to play a role not my own.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Alistair said, pouring himself another glass of wine as he gave us a look that was almost mournful. “And don’t worry— I’ll be at the Garrick by half past ten to observe anyone who approaches Molly Hansen.”

He was not pleased to be left at home by himself, then sent to perform a thankless task. I thought briefly of including him, but I preferred that he not know my plan tonight. At least, not until I’d successfully accomplished it.

At the elevator, Isabella handed me her coat, wanting my help to put it on. I caught a whiff of her perfume— something that reminded me of springtime flowers— as I leaned briefly closer to her.

She rewarded me with a smile, but spoke briskly. “We
will
be late if you don’t hurry, Simon.”

And it dawned on me: of course she expected to take a cab, not the subway, dressed as she was. I felt in my pockets on the elevator down, and breathed more easily once I realized I had sufficient money not only to pay for a round-trip hansom cab but also to tip the attendant at the Dakota who would help me to find one at this time of night. Judging from the other well-dressed people in the lobby, we were obviously not
the only ones heading out for a night of entertainment in the city.

Though it was only a Tuesday, there was a sellout crowd at the Empire. That wasn’t entirely unexpected, since
Peter Pan
was Broadway’s most popular hit. I’d been lucky to get seats at all— much less good ones— on such short notice. We sat in row C on the far-right aisle of the long auditorium. Though the space was luxurious, decorated in muted shades of red and green, it was more subdued than the other theaters I’d visited in recent weeks.

When I remarked upon it, Isabella said simply, “He wants his audience to focus upon his show and his stars, not his decor.”

By “he” she meant Frohman, of course— and my stomach flipped in nervous anticipation of what I had to do that night.