I nodded, my expression grim.
“She got off, then.” He shook his head. “Well, juries can be a wild card. And I heard your defendant was a real looker,” he added knowingly.
Another shrill cry was audible behind us.
“Who’s the screamer?” I asked.
“Miss Lily Bowen, the leading lady here. I understand she is upset about her dress. That,” Mulvaney motioned to the corpse onstage, “is her dress. We brought Miss Bowen in early today to determine if there was some connection.”
At the sound of another screeching wail, Mulvaney shuddered, then recovered himself. “Not that she’s been much use to us. I’m glad you came. I’ve got to admit, this is one of the more disturbing cases I’ve seen,” he said.
I gazed again at the dead woman, who now loomed large above us to the left. “Who is she?”
“Name’s Annie Germaine. She was a chorus girl in The Shepherd’s Daughter, which has played here the past three weeks. Of course, as a chorus girl, she looked nothing like this. She’s made up and dressed like the star.”
“Any idea why?” I asked.
“Not yet.” Mulvaney seemed distracted by thoughts of his own as he walked to center stage and paused, studying the actress as though he were seeing her for the first time. “According to the stage manager— his name is Leon Iseman— everything she is wearing belongs to Miss Bowen, even the wig and jewels. It was all locked in Miss Bowen’s wardrobe closet. The key is missing, and there’s no sign the lock was tampered with.”
“The key wasn’t found near the victim?”
Mulvaney indicated that it was not, then said, “Miss Germaine normally looks very different. The question is: did she dress herself this way— or was it the work of her killer?”
I looked into her unseeing blue eyes.
“How did she die?”
“I don’t have a clue.” Mulvaney leaned against the edge of the stage and ran his right hand along the shaved stubble that surrounded his balding head. “There’s not a mark on her that I could find.”
He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “Almost noon. What the devil is taking Wilcox so long?”
The coroner’s physician was a professional who took his cases seriously, though his terse style of communication won him few friends. However, it was unlike him to leave a man of Mulvaney’s rank waiting without an explanation.
“Where is he?”
Mulvaney didn’t answer. Just then, a woman burst through the curtains, crying loudly, and a man I presumed to be the stage manager followed closely behind. He was a stout man in his forties with thick black hair and a stern face. She was frantic, and her words were largely unintelligible. I caught only phrases here and there: my dress and something about her own fault.
At this last, Mr. Iseman caught up with the woman and forcibly grabbed her. Her long brown hair, a mass of tangles, whipped around when she stopped.
“Listen,” he said, his words a sharp hiss of anger. “You’ve got to stop this. Imagine if word of your behavior got around!”
The rest of it was inaudible, but it had its desired effect: she immediately quieted, emitting only an occasional sob that sounded more like a hiccup.
“Do I have to speak with them now?” She looked pointedly in our direction.
Mr. Iseman’s reply was careful, but there was no mistaking his implicit warning. “You wouldn’t want Mr. Frohman to hear that you’d been uncooperative, now would you?”
“Miss Bowen,” Mulvaney said, walking toward her. “Come over here and take a seat.” He directed her offstage, just beyond the curtain, and indicated that she should sit in one of three metal chairs pushed to the side. Designed for actors awaiting their cues to go onstage, the small waiting area was cramped; Mulvaney and Miss Bowen sat with knees so close they almost touched, while the stage manager and I hovered above. But at least the dead woman onstage was no longer in view.
Lily Bowen looked at us, biting her lip.
“We won’t trouble you with many questions, as we understand this is a difficult time.” Mulvaney managed to inflect a note of sympathetic understanding into his voice. But he spoke fast, and I could tell he was eager to get this particular interview out of the way. “Did you know Miss Germaine well?”
A flash of annoyance crossed her face as she said, “Of course I did not! She was a chorus girl.” She seemed almost indignant, but then she caught Mr. Iseman’s disapproving look, swallowed hard, and reframed her answer. “Miss Germaine and I were not especially friendly, but I have known her since rehearsals began and I’m very sorry about what’s happened to her.”
“When did you last see her?” Mulvaney asked, moving briskly through his questions.
“Last night around eleven o’clock. She was waiting by the stage door when I left.”
“Who else was in the theater?”
“I don’t know. I was among the last to leave— maybe even the last.” She dabbed a tissue at each puffy red eye.
“Do you know why Miss Germaine was waiting? Did she have a new beau, perhaps?”
She laughed harshly. “I can’t imagine. Any more than I can imagine why she went back inside and put on my clothes and my jewelry.”
“Or why she ended up dead?” I couldn’t help reminding her, for I disliked the contempt she wasn’t bothering to conceal.
I regretted my comment at once, however, as I watched her eyes fill with tears. She made a show of pulling a clean handkerchief out of her pocket, all the while appearing to stifle giant sobs.
After Mulvaney asked her a few more, brief questions, she retired to her dressing room.
Mr. Iseman turned to Mulvaney and spoke in a stage whisper meant to be confidential. “Mr. Frohman and I would like your men to remove Miss Germaine’s body to the basement as soon as possible. I’ve cleared ample space where it can be housed.”
Mulvaney interrupted him. “That’s kind of you, but don’t worry— it won’t be much longer ’til we have her out of here. The coroner’s wagon will be here shortly.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Leon Iseman said. “It’s late enough in the day that she may be seen. If word spreads of her death, people will assume tonight’s show is canceled. They may even be frightened and decide to stay away all this week— or even longer.”
Mulvaney’s ire was rising. “So what do you propose? Leaving her in your basement indefinitely? I can assure you, Mr. Iseman, that arrangement is one you’d quickly grow to dislike. Let’s just say that death’s odor is not something you want in your theater.”
“Mr. Frohman feels strongly that publicizing Miss Germaine’s death would destroy our reputation and jeopardize the future prospects for this show. We’d like to keep her corpse here, just for today, hidden in the basement. After tonight’s show is over and the crowd’s gone home, the coroner’s men would be welcome to claim her body.”
Mulvaney laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. “You want to remove her body late tonight after the show, when no one will see?”
“Exactly.” Leon Iseman gave Mulvaney an icy stare.
Mulvaney set his mouth in a firm line. “I’ve already explained that we’re following protocol on this one and taking the body downtown as soon as Dr. Wilcox clears it. It would be downright illegal to do otherwise— and the commissioner would have my job.”
“Perhaps. But Mr. Frohman may have it if you don’t.” Mr. Iseman stalked away once he’d issued his dark warning.
Mulvaney’s face set in determination.
“I know something of Charles Frohman,” I said. “But what I know doesn’t explain why everyone here is so . . .” I searched for the right word to characterize the odd mix of deference and fear that I had observed in both Mr. Iseman and Miss Bowen.
“Absurdly cowed by the man?” Mulvaney made an irreverent face before he grew serious again. “At least where Miss Bowen is concerned, I think I understand,” Mulvaney said. “When we say Charles Frohman runs the syndicate and mana
ges hundreds of theaters, we can’t forget that means he is handpicking those actors and actresses who will play in them. He has a reputation as a star-maker. If Miss Bowen wants to become— and remain— one of his featured performers, then she’d better play by his rules.”
“And Mr. Iseman?”
Mulvaney flashed a big grin. “I’d guess the man is extremely well paid.”
We were interrupted by Dr. Wilcox, who was at last making his way downstage, equipment bag in hand. He was a tall, rail-thin man with a bald head and black-rimmed glasses. Always lean, he appeared to have lost weight since I had last seen him, almost a year ago.
Without preliminaries, Max Wilcox acknowledged us with a nod and set to work. It would be a precursory exam only, designed to obtain the most basic of information before Annie Germaine’s body was moved. Wearing thick cotton gloves, he leaned over the corpse and gingerly raised the woman’s hair to examine her neck.
“You took photographs already?” he asked.
“First thing,” Mulvaney said absently. “We photographed the stage area in general, and then focused on her. We got close-ups of her neck and face.”
“Good.” The coroner was approving. He slowly pulled a metal hook out of his equipment bag and used it to turn the woman’s eyelid inside out. Using light from an electric lamp— a new device powered by batteries— he peered closely behind each lid, then abruptly placed the lamp on the floor and began entering information into a small notebook he pulled from his jacket.
“Hmmph. Inconclusive.” He frowned in disappointment.
Then, picking up his lamp again, he shone it first upon her neck, then into her mouth, which he pried open.
“As I expected.” He shook his head. “Can’t do much here. Can your boys load her in the wagon without manhandling her? I don’t want any bruising that’s not there already.”
“That’s just it. There aren’t any bruises. In fact, there’s nothing the naked eye can see.” Mulvaney stated the obvious, which earned him a stern glare.
“Bruising can take hours to appear postmortem,” the coroner said, admonishing him. “And there could well be internal bruising, should this turn out to be a strangulation.”
“How else could she have died?” I asked.
“She might have been smothered.” He shrugged. “Poison is also possible, although most poisons leave rather unpleasant physical markers that are absent here. But from the way she’s decked out, it would suggest a suicide.”
“It wasn’t suicide, Max,” Mulvaney said. “There must be something more you can give me now. I’ve got nothing to go on except the certain knowledge she was murdered.” His voice was soft and cajoling, but his expression made clear he would not be denied.
Wilcox inclined his head. “The certain knowledge? Nothing is certain until science proves it, Captain.”
“In this case, your science will confirm what I already know.”
There was a quiet desperation in Mulvaney’s voice that suggested a deeper unease. Mulvaney was obviously aware that he risked Charles Frohman’s wrath by handling matters differently than the theater magnate preferred. The consequences of that might entail repercussions beyond anything Mulvaney had ever experienced. But I didn’t believe that was the whole of it.
Wilcox cleared his throat again as he grudgingly set down his bag. As he made a show of rearranging his scarf with exaggerated care, he said, “Assuming you’re convinced this is murder from other evidence— evidence you’re not sharing with me, that is . . .” He let his words linger pointedly before he continued. “I can tell you I believe strangulation is the most likely possibility. Carefully done, it can leave no visible sign. But I won’t be able to confirm that until I autopsy her, which will show whether there’s been damage done to the cartilage of her larynx or to her hyoid bone. I’ll send the wagon to get her right away.”
But before he left, he picked up his bag and pivoted slightly. “And until I’ve checked her vitals and stomach contents,” he said, “I’m not supporting your murder theory. She may be a suicide yet. I’ll know soon. Science doesn’t lie.”
Mulvaney grumbled for a few moments after Wilcox left, and my gaze was once again drawn toward the dead woman on-stage. One chorus girl out of a hundred. Why her?
“Wilcox has it right on one count. There’s something important you’re not telling us,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Does it have to do with why you’ve brought me here?”
Mulvaney was silent. He collapsed in a seat in the first row and looked up at me helplessly, his eyes filled with worry.
“You mentioned there were no physical marks on her. Why are you so certain that she’s been murdered?”
“Because if she wasn’t murdered, then we don’t have just one suicide.” He spread his hands wide apart. “We’ve got two.”
CHAPTER 3
The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street
A second murder. So that was what he had kept from Wilcox. And it was also, I was certain, the reason he had asked me here.
“You mean there has been another death similar to hers?” I asked, watching Mulvaney carefully.
He nodded but did not look at me, focusing instead on the woman whose lifeless eyes now gazed down at us. Then, as we heard noises— the footsteps of two officers who emerged from backstage, carry ing boxes of evidence— Mulvaney turned to me and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Three weeks ago at the Empire, down the block, another actress died the same way. The cleaning girls who came the next morning found her just like this one,” Mulvaney said, gesturing toward the stage. “Her name was Eliza Downs. She was all dressed up, posed center stage, and there was no sign of foul play. In fact, everyone assumed she was a suicide, so there was no investigation. We weren’t even called.”
“Then how do you know about it?”
“Mr. Iseman,” he said, admitting it frankly. “You see, the Empire is another Frohman theater and Broadway’s a small community. Word of Miss Downs’s death spread fast and put a damper on morale.” He drew himself up straight, stretching an arm that appeared cramped. “But Mr. Iseman had no reason to think her death was anything other than a tragic suicide until early this morning, when Miss Germaine’s body was found in similar circumstances.”
“They were both actresses. Do we know if they were acquainted? If so, they might have talked of suicide. Or if Miss Downs’s death reverberated so soundly throughout the community, Miss Germaine may have chosen to copy Miss Downs when she decided to end her own life.” I knew how unlikely it was, but it was my habit of mind to consider all possibilities, even if I came to discount them later.
“No,” Mulvaney said, shaking his head soberly. “I wanted to think that, too. There’s more.” Mulvaney looked around as though worried someone might overhear our conversation, but the auditorium was empty except for us. Satisfied, he motioned for me to walk with him to the seat in the last row where he had put his personal effects.
“We found some notes. Letters. I don’t know what to call them.” He fumbled for words to explain. “One was found by the body of Miss Downs at the Empire, though they disregarded it at the time. It was full of poetic nonsense about dying— and Mr. Iseman assumed it was a suicide note. But when he found this note just like it, next to Miss Germaine’s body, he became suspicious.”
He reached into his worn leather bag, which had anchored some papers. Using the edge of his handkerchief, he passed me a single sheet of eggshell-blue paper; I took it gingerly, being careful to touch only the cloth. The writing was in a slanted, spidery hand.
Once again, I have chosen a young girl lacking in natural attractions, and given her what Nature did not. Call me Pygmalion; call her Galatea, my greatest creation. Like one of the greatest poets of our English language, I say:
Yet I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Mulvaney looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat, trying
to shake off the uncomfortable sensation that had taken hold of me.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “ ‘Call me Pygmalion.’ And this business about not shedding her blood makes no sense. Is he actually trying to say he didn’t kill her?”
“Thought you’d know,” he said with a knowing smile. “You at least have a couple years’ college under your belt.” He threw up his hands in mock defeat. “I couldn’t make sense of it, either. Mr. Iseman explained what I know of it, which is basically that the killer wanted her to look good in death. Annie was a plain girl, a strong dancer and able chorus member. But he claims she’d never have been a leading lady. Didn’t have the looks for it.”
“According to Mr. Iseman only, I presume.” I shook my head as I once again surveyed the figure onstage. The dress and makeup must have radically changed her usual appearance, because what ever the woman in front of me may have lacked in talent or ability, she was certainly pleasing to the eye. Besides, plenty of actresses without conventional good looks were successful on stage. Sarah Bernhardt, for one.
“Good point,” Mulvaney agreed. “She made up pretty well, once someone put the effort into her. We’re going to see what the other actors and actresses have to say when they come in for rehearsal in a couple hours. But it’s clear she didn’t normally dress this way.”
“Did you find anything in her dressing room that relates to the letter?”
“She was a chorus girl, Ziele. She didn’t have a dressing room. I gather she used a common area in back. We’re searching it and all the rooms backstage, of course.” Mulvaney sighed in exasperation. “But so far, nothing out of the ordinary has turned up.”
“Did anyone keep the note Mr. Iseman found near Eliza Downs?” I asked. Right now the letters seemed the only promising connection between the two deaths.
A Curtain Falls Page 2