A Curtain Falls (33 page)

“Do you mean Leon Iseman?” I mentioned his name carefully— I didn’t want to presume, and yet the name was so close.

“Maybe.” She spat on the floor. “Whoever he was, he was tight with Charlie.”

That sounded like Leon Iseman— and it served as a powerful reminder that I shouldn’t discount Frohman’s longtime assistant, who was entangled with this family in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

“And Elaine’s child?”

“They wanted her to get rid of it. But she wouldn’t.” She leaned back in her chair, and a look of terrible sadness crossed her face.

“That child was Robert,” I said, prodding her carefully.

But I lost her again as she retreated somewhere deep in the recesses of her memory, and her answer ignored my question. “Watching the way the Frohman brothers have treated others over the years, they’d never have given her a second chance anyway,” she said.

“Were there no other options, perhaps outside of New York?”

She interrupted me. “Not for an actress with ambitions like Elaine. He destroyed her, he did,” she pounded the end table beside her with vehemence, “when he took that away from her. She was forced to come here and have the child. My husband, Eddie, and I took her in. We spread the word she was recently widowed.”

“And she stayed over the years, with her son?”

She nodded. “What else would she have done? Besides, we were family. Her Robert and my daughter were very close. Though they were ten years apart in age, they were as close as brother and sister.”

I followed up by asking whether Robert had developed close childhood friends or, as he’d grown up, even romantic attachments. But Mrs. Layton’s mind seemed to grasp the distant past far better than more-recent events, and she could tell me nothing.

“Where is your sister now? I take it she no longer lives here,” I said.

“No, but she’s nearby; just right over there.” She lifted her arm and pointed out the window toward the bay and ferry landing.

“She lives on the mainland? In Greenport?”

Another cackle. “I mean right
in
the bay. She has, ever since the day five years ago that she went out for a short walk and
never returned.” She shook her head sadly. “She’d gone for a walk as usual, right about eleven o’clock. They said at the post office that she’d stopped by and mailed some letters. Then she headed toward home. But at the last minute, she went to the bay instead. A young boy saw her.” She began breathing heavily, laboring under the memory of what had happened. “He thought she was collecting shells. But it turned out they were heavy rocks to put in her pockets. When she found enough, she walked right in. The boy ran for help, but it was too late. They found her three weeks later, when a fisherman on the other side of the island pulled her body out.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. Was there some lack of sanity, I wondered, that affected the entire Coby family? Each generation had been touched in some way by it: Mrs. Layton maintained a precarious grip on present reality, her sister had committed suicide, and her nephew was quite possibly responsible for a series of heinous murders.

“Did Robert live here at the time?” Alistair asked.

“He was nearby, in Montauk, working odd jobs on the fishing boats.”

“Where is he now, Mrs. Layton? Please think hard,” I said.

She gave me an annoyed look. “I don’t have to think hard. He’s out on the boats. But he visits me every year, on the anniversary of her death.”

“When is that?”

“Why, April first.” She seemed surprised by the question— and I wasn’t entirely sure it was relevant. But the anniversary would occur in a matter of days, so if we had no better luck beforehand . . . But I immediately pushed the thought out of my head. Someone’s life was at stake, and this was no time
to anticipate failure. We’d succeed now— simply because we had to.

We continued to talk, uneasily conversing in the front sitting room, listening to the drip of the rain leaks, smelling the dank, musty odor of the house. Alistair helped me to wrap up our conversation with Mrs. Layton quickly, passing over the details of her life on Shelter Island and Robert’s upbringing. We soon came to the present: her husband was long deceased, Robert was away on the fishing boats, and her own daughter had inherited her love of the theater and gone onstage, albeit with limited success, doing traveling shows. The postcards came regularly: from Philadelphia and Boston, St. Louis and Chicago. “But I don’t know where she is, either. Anywhere but New York,” she said, shaking her head.

“Do you have anything of Robert’s to help us to locate him? His most recent address? Even a picture?”

Mrs. Layton had no address, but she duly looked for a picture to give us. Among the newspapers, she found a dog-eared silver-and-gray photograph from Robert’s childhood, and I recognized Elaine from the newspaper. She caressed a five-year-old, earnest-faced boy who must have been Robert, as well as a younger Mrs. Layton with her husband and their daughter. Mrs. Layton, I was startled to realize, had been attractive once. And though her face was half obscured by an elaborate hat with many feathers and a fishnet veil, her daughter was also obviously a beauty. They gave every appearance of being a contented family . . . and I wondered anew what had happened to upset it all. Elaine Coby’s suicide must have played a large role . . . but I didn’t think it alone sufficed as an explanation. Perhaps mental illness had played the largest role in destroying
this family, taking hold of its members one by one. A family curse, of sorts.

“We were so happy then,” she said wistfully, gazing at the photograph.

“Is there any other room in the house that Robert used?” I asked. “Perhaps he maintained a desk somewhere? Or stored his things in the basement?”

I was thinking about his plays— or anything else he might have written while living in this house. We still didn’t know if he was truly the killer we sought— but his handwriting might settle the issue immediately.

She shook her head. “He took everything when he moved out. Besides, the basement’s prone to get water anyway. Can’t store anything there.”

We thanked her for her time. When we had almost left the property, I stopped Alistair short.

“Do you see that?” I asked. “There, in the back corner,” I added, pointing to a ramshackle building to the rear of the property.

“It looks deserted.” Alistair and I exchanged meaningful glances.

I surveyed the manicured neighboring lot. The division between what was well kempt and what was neglected could not have been clearer. “It’s on the Layton property.”

With purposeful steps that belied my apprehension— even my fear— I turned back. In a few short strides, I led Alistair to the far northwest corner of the yard, where, nearly obscured by trees, vines, and overgrown shrubs, there was a wood-plank shed secured with a rusted iron padlock. There were no windows; only the small door in front. I’d have preferred to keep
walking, right back to the street and the ferry landing, as for away as I could get from this godforsaken place.

But we had come too far today not to see our inquiry through, wherever it took us.

And so, with very little force, I broke open the padlock that secured the deserted shed and pushed open the door.

I didn’t regret my choice the moment I entered— making my way through cobwebs into a small, enclosed space that seemed to contain the very heart of evil itself.

The Woodshed. Bay Avenue, Shelter Island

I entered first, breaking through the cobweb mesh that blocked the door almost as if by design. It had a dirt floor beneath wood planks haphazardly laid, which was no doubt responsible for the strong damp, putrid odor that nearly overwhelmed me. Within seconds, I had stumbled into a collection of five boxes at the center of the room.

“Is everything all right?” Alistair’s voice sounded worried.

“Fine,” I said. “I could just use some light.” Though it was a small room, no more than eight feet by ten feet wide, the dull gray skies outside permitted little natural light to illuminate the space.

“I’ve got a box of Lucifers, if that helps,” Alistair called out, sounding very far away.

“Let me find a candle.” If Robert had spent time in here, I
reasoned, he would have sometimes come in after dark— and would have needed a light. I finally found a half-burned candle in a saucer on top of a small table to my left. Alistair stepped inside with his matches and we lit it— then stood perfectly still in the flickering light, allowing our eyes to adjust to the room around us. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in anticipation. After a few minutes, we saw more clearly.

I scanned the other contents of the table. It was covered with dirt and detritus, the cast-off items of someone’s life: a spool of thread, some jacks and a ball, a deck of cards, knitting needles, and countless books. The latter smelled of mold and mildew; it appeared that the shed was far from watertight. There was also a playbill and two ticket stubs dated November 30 from an 1899 production of
Cyrano de Bergerac
at the Garden Theater. I recognized the star— Richard Mansfield— but it was not a Frohman production.

“Let’s start here,” I said, grim-faced, pointing to the south wall, where some photographs and cards were tacked to the wall. I stepped carefully, avoiding piles of old shoes, both men’s and women’s.

Alistair looked nervously at the open door behind us.

“I’d rather have the air and the light,” I said. “I don’t think anyone will notice. It’s not visible from the street.”

With a deep breath, he came close to me, the wood floor groaning loudly under the strain of his step.

“Careful,” I warned, as he nearly tripped over the mountain of shoes that I’d just avoided.

I held the light up to the wall, illuminating each picture one by one as best as the flickering candle would allow. And there,
on the wall, was the evidence that told us we had identified our adversary: pictures of Pygmalion.

A black-and-white postcard depicted a man reaching out toward a nude woman. It looked like a reproduction of a painting, such as what vendors sold for a penny outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Its subtitle read PYGMALION
AND GALATEA
. We quickly realized that the second picture was its twin: the same figures, this time from the rear perspective.

Alistair let forth a low whistle.

“You must know these,” I said.

Alistair nodded. “These postcards replicate two paintings by Jean-Léon Gérôme of the sculptor Pygmalion and his creation Galatea. Both depict the moment she comes to life. And here she is again,” he said with excitement, pointing to another card tacked on the wall below, depicting the woman, the sculptor, and a baby. “I’ve seen this one as well. I forget the name of the painter . . . Anne something, from the early nineteenth century. She’s drawing on one version of the myth that suggests Pygmalion and his statue bore a son.”

I turned my attention to the space to the right of the postcards, where a phrase was painted in red, sloppy letters: “The gods make life. I can only make death.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Here, in this godforsaken place, the words seemed especially chilling— almost tantamount to an admission of murder. We had truly found our man.

Alistair had said that this killer, whom we now knew to be Robert Coby, was one of the most unusual criminals he had ever encountered. His mind, obviously filled with crazy obsessions,
was not one I particularly wanted to know or understand. Yet, I understood that to catch him, I needed to do exactly that. So, taking a deep breath, I asked Alistair if he believed the phrase related to the postcards in some way.

Alistair placed the candle on a plank that jutted out from the wall, much like a shelf, and ran his fingers over the words. “I’m not sure,” he finally said, “but I believe it refers yet again to Pygmalion. It may even be from the play itself.”

I pulled out my notebook and pencil to write it all down.

Alistair ran his hand over his brow. “We need to imagine all this,” he gestured to the walls around us, “from Robert’s perspective. I believe it’s safe to assume he co-opted this space because it was set apart from the main house, offering him privacy. He’s used that privacy to nurture the obsession we see here.” His voice grew sober. “We’re in the very space where he gave birth to his fantasies.”

“Fantasies he took with him to the city and made real on the stages of three different theaters,” I said, picking up Alistair’s train of thought.

I’d not often thought so, but today I was grateful for Alistair’s companionship, even for his help. For the first time, we seemed to be allies in understanding, working toward a common goal.

“But I’m confused by how Frohman— and perhaps Leon Iseman— played a role in Robert’s plans. We know Coby has an obsession with certain women— specifically, those who can fulfill his fantasies about Pygmalion and Galatea. Yet he targeted Frohman’s theaters. His aunt blames Frohman and Iseman for working in concert to destroy Elaine Coby, Robert’s mother. Frankly, Coby’s obsession sounds exactly like what you’ve
always told me: that fantasy plays a large role in forming criminal behavior.”

“Go on,” Alistair said.

“But the rest of it sounds like a standard revenge plot. I can’t make sense of it, together.” I gestured to the walls around us.