A Curtain Falls (35 page)

“Mulvaney thinks the case is wrapped up,” he reminded me. “You won’t find him in his office before nine o’clock. Besides, the Vandergriffs may know of Robert Coby’s current whereabouts.”

That chance was reason enough to meet with Mrs. Vandergriff briefly, I decided. My friend down at the Fifth Precinct
had turned up nothing on Robert Coby. “It’s strange,” he had said. “It’s as though the man doesn’t even exist.”

“Will Mrs. Vandergriff even receive us at this hour?” It was not yet eight o’clock, and so early a visit seemed the height of impropriety.

Yet Alistair was no doubt right when he replied, “It concerns her only daughter. She’ll see us.”

And so the hansom cab whisked us through Central Park that morning to the Vandergriff residence on Millionaires’ Row, as the string of mansions along Fifth Avenue was called. The Vandergriff home, a white marble masterpiece surrounded by an iron fence with an elaborate filigree pattern, was among the largest and most imposing. Yet it struck me immediately as a house in mourning.

I knew that the Vandergriffs, like Alistair, counted themselves among Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred— considered a marker of New York’s social elite. I’d not often had occasion to enter the home of a society matron like Mrs. Vandergriff, and I was certain that the stiff restraint exercised by the young house maid who admitted us was not atypical. Nor were the dour, heavy furnishings that adorned the dark-paneled room in which we sat; they were in keeping with the prevailing taste of many wealthy New York families. But the sadness that was so palpable had nothing to do with furnishings or attitudes. It permeated the very air around us.

We did not wait for long before Mrs. Vandergriff entered the room majestically. She was an imposing grande dame with high cheekbones, gray hair with silver highlights, and a haughty attitude. In one sweeping gesture, she placed her pince-nez onto
her nose; it had formerly been suspended from the ivory brooch pinned to her dark purple satin dress. She then peered at Alistair with fixed attention.

“Your wife has not called upon me in months,” she said, her lips curling into a disapproving frown. “Yet you disturb me at this ungodly hour of the morning.”

I groaned inwardly, for this was not a promising start to our conversation.

But Alistair merely smiled, saying, “My wife has not exactly called upon me in months, either. She more or less resides abroad permanently now.”

His words earned him a severe look and a tart response. “Then you might have called upon me yourself and inquired into my health. Or that of Henry— that is, Mr. Vandergriff.”

Alistair’s sarcastic reply was no doubt affected by his lack of sleep. “Perhaps we ought to comment on the weather. We can say it’s been a particularly cold and snowy March— and then move on to more serious discussion.”

I thought she would rebuke him for his rudeness, but instead I watched as her face relaxed into a half smile. “Very well, Alistair. I will concur with you on the weather— and agree to move on.” She made a sound that was almost a chortle.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us at this early hour,” Alistair said, introducing me and doing his best to move the conversation along. “It’s been a while,” he said gently, “but we are here about your daughter.”

“Francine?” she said. Her voice cracked as she looked at us hopefully.

“I’m sorry. We haven’t found her,” Alistair said. “But in the
course of investigating another young woman’s disappearance, the name Robert Coby has come up. Are you acquainted with him?”

She looked at Alistair, readjusting the paisley shawl that covered her shoulders. But she said nothing.

“We have reason to believe your daughter’s disappearance was connected with Robert Coby.” Alistair paused for only a beat before he added, “Anything you can tell us about Robert Coby or your daughter’s relationship with him may help us.”

Her angry gaze fixed on him. “You slander my daughter’s reputation by implying a connection where there is none. And you insult me by broaching a topic of conversation that you know to be painful.”

“I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Vandergriff. And I am sorry to bring up a subject that must be difficult for you. But the connection that your family—” he paused for a split second, “particularly that your daughter— formed with Robert Coby is the best hope we have to find him quickly. And I assure you, it is urgent that we do so.”

They stared at each other for several moments, a contest of wills.

Her resolve broke first. She bit her lip, and when her words came, for the first time she spoke without pretense. “Do you think finding Robert would lead us to my Francine?”

“I believe it may.”

She stared ahead, her jaw working silently.

“I do not come here lightly, Mrs. Vandergriff. Don’t forget— I also know what it is to lose a child.” Alistair’s voice was thick with emotion.

“So did Robert,” she finally said. She removed her pincenez, letting it hang once more from the ivory brooch pinned to her chest. “At least he seemed to.”

“Robert?” I barely breathed the name.

She sighed. “I’ll be honest. I disliked Robert Coby at first. I resented the attention he paid to my daughter. I worried for her reputation, you see: he was a most unsuitable attachment for her. And I felt my husband gave him false encouragement by taking an interest in his career. As a philanthropic gesture, my Henry— Mr. Vandergriff, that is— tried to help Robert gain a foothold in the theater business.”

She was then silent for some moments, and we simply waited for her to continue speaking.

“Robert fancied himself a writer— a playwright, specifically. Mr. Vandergriff had read some of his work and felt it was quite good; as a result, he made some introductions for Robert, helping him to meet some of our city’s more influential theater types.” Her emphasis fell upon “theater types”— an exaggerated sniff underscoring her disapproval of them. “I don’t think anything ever came of it.”

“You mentioned that you eventually changed your mind about Robert. Why?” I asked.

“Because I saw that I had been wrong. I had judged him too harshly.” She pursed her lips. “When Francine disappeared, that last summer on Shelter Island, Robert was absolutely marvelous,” she said, her hands breaking apart in an expansive gesture. “No one could have been more supportive. He organized a search of the island. He wrote news articles about her for all the local Long Island papers, in the hopes that someone
would recognize her photograph or description. He checked on us every day.” She took a deep breath. “And when we had no choice but to give up and return to the city, he gave the most beautiful gift. He called it
A Prayer for Francine
and it was a collection of poems, each one an homage to our daughter in beautiful verse. Somehow, he managed to find words for those emotions that were locked deep in my heart.” She placed a hand upon her chest.

“But you don’t see him regularly now? You don’t know where he lives?” I asked, puzzled.

“No. He’s a young man with his own interests,” she said with a wan smile. Then with a flash of defiance she added, “After everything I’ve told you about Robert, you see now why he could not have been involved in Francine’s disappearance. Not after everything he did for us. Not,” she emphasized the word, “in light of the beautiful poems he wrote about her.”

Alistair’s voice was gentle when he asked, “Might we see the book of poetry that he wrote?”

“Of course; but a few poems won’t lead you to a missing man,” she said, her spirit returning as she excused herself.

I glanced at my watch. We were pressed for time, I reminded Alistair.

“We’ve still got to show her the ring,” he said. “Patience.”

She returned moments later with an inlaid-ivory book caressed between her hands. She passed it to Alistair somewhat reluctantly.

“As I said, the verses are beautiful—” She broke off awkwardly.

Alistair handed the book to me, and I saw that each poem
was carefully typewritten and surrounded by elaborate illustrations, mainly floral. Mrs. Vandergriff was right: their emotional tenor was one of tender remembrance of something precious and lost, as a parent might feel for a child. Not one of them smacked of passion or romance.

She placed her hand over her heart. “He managed to put into words every feeling I had for her. My enduring affection. My grief and loss.”

I looked away as she pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes— for I felt I was intruding on something deeply personal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Vandergriff. Just one more thing.” Alistair placed the sapphire-and-diamond ring on the coffee table that separated us from the society matron. “Is there any chance this was Francine’s ring?”

She stiffened. “Where did you find it?” Her words were hoarse and broken as they came from her throat. She reached out as if to touch the ring— pulled her hand back as though afraid— and then recovered her nerve and tried again. This time she succeeded and gingerly picked up the ring, tracing her fore-finger lightly over its filigree band.

“Someone on Shelter Island found it and gave it to us, knowing we planned to see you,” Alistair said, twisting the facts into a half-truth.

“But where?” Her eyes were searching as she looked from me to Alistair.

“Outside the hotel.” Another half-lie.

Her face collapsed in relief. “Of course. She walked on the path past the hotel all the time.”

Now she clasped the ring tightly in her fingers, and brought
it against her heart. “Her father and I . . . we gave it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Only a year before we lost her.”

“One more question that may sound odd— but did your daughter ever break her thumb?”

“Why, yes,” she said, and looked at us in amazement. “She’d just turned ten. We’d taken a sailboat out on the bay, and she wrenched her thumb playing with the mast.”

Alistair and I exchanged sad glances. Of course we could tell her nothing yet— so Alistair mumbled a half-excuse that appeared to placate her for the moment, especially since she was so distracted by the finding of her daughter’s ring.

I didn’t feel too guilty. When bad news had waited this long, a few more days would make little difference.

I reached out for the ring. “We need to keep your daughter’s ring just a little while longer, Mrs. Vandergriff. Then I promise we will return it to you.”

Reluctantly, she gave it up.

Alistair picked up the ivory-inlaid book of verse, glanced at a couple of the poems once more, then handed it back to Mrs. Vandergriff. As he did, an envelope that had been tucked into the back lining fell out. As he passed that to her as well, she opened it, asking us, “Would you like to see a couple of pictures of Francine? These were taken the last Christmas we spent with her.”

It was all I could do not to refuse. I was impatient to talk with Mulvaney and move on with this case. I nearly didn’t look when she passed me the photographs, each featuring a smiling young lady with high cheekbones and curly dark hair. She clearly had her mother’s confidence and determination: it was evident in both her posture and expression. I glanced at the last
photograph quickly— it was of a group of young people clustered around a piano at a Christmas party, with a decorated evergreen visible in the background.

I pulled out my pocket watch again. It was now nearly nine o’clock in the morning. We needed to leave.

Something, however, made me give the last picture a second look.

I focused on the man in the back row who was smiling broadly. Even in black-and-white sepia, I could see that his handsome face was framed by perfectly coiffed hair and a smile that revealed even, perfect teeth. He stared at me almost as though taunting me— mocking my inability to recognize him. For it slowly registered that this was a face I already knew.

“How is this man connected with Francine and Robert?” I asked, my voice rising in excitement.

In a world-weary voice, Mrs. Vandergriff responded, “Whomever are you talking about?”

I pointed again. “Here in the back row, just behind Francine.”

But Mrs. Vandergriff was distracted by her own thoughts, so she dismissed me with a look of mild frustration. “My dear,” she said, “you’re impossibly mixed up. How could Robert know
whom
well? You’re pointing to Robert himself.”

She repeated it again when we continued to stare at her blankly.

Now thoroughly flustered by our reaction, she added, “The photograph was taken right here in our ballroom, by the piano.”

We glanced again at the man with the charming smile, whose book of poetry and careful attentions had so captivated this grande dame of society.

The same man who had murdered her daughter.

A man who went by a different name than Robert Coby.

He’d known our every step, for covering our investigation had been his job.

Alistair had worked with him closely. Too closely, it would seem.

It all suddenly made sense.

A frustrated playwright.

A respected theater critic for
The New York Times
.

Robert Coby.

Jack Bogarty.

One and the same.

Central Park, Fifth Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street