A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  He handed it to me. “It’s the original found beside Miss Downs. Take a look and then tell me you don’t share my concern.”

  I quickly read through the letter, noting that it was written in the same light, spidery handwriting as the letter found at the Garrick.

  What beauty I have given her by playing Pygmalion to her

  Galatea! As a wise poet has said:

  That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

  Perfectly pure and good: I found

  A thing to do, and all her hair

  In one long yellow string I wound

  Three times her little throat around,

  And strangled her. No pain felt she;

  I am quite sure she felt no pain.

  As a shut bud that holds a bee,

  I warily ope’d her lids: again

  Laugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.

  Mulvaney had been right. The references to Pygmalion and Galatea were similar, but the lines of poetry differed substantially.

  My old partner busied himself pouring milk and sugar into the fresh cup of coffee his assistant had just brought in. He politely offered me a mug as well, feigning shock when I accepted.

  “Thought you were choosy about your coffee,” he said, his tone chiding.

  “You mean this swill you drink?” I said good-naturedly. Mulvaney was right: my normal taste ran toward the stronger brew offered at various coffee houses around the city. Precinct-house coffee was a weak, watery concoction that I normally considered undrinkable. But this morning’s events, which had left no time for lunch, had created a pounding in my head that I hoped the caffeine would alleviate.

  After he took another gulp from his cup, he summarized his observations. “The Downs letter has the same handwriting as the one found this morning at the Garrick. It’s written on the same blue paper. And we’ve got two references to ‘playing Pygmalion.’ Who else has played Pygmalion in this city other than Timothy Poe? In recent years, of course. I’ve confirmed that he had the title role the entirety of the play’s run last fall.” Pleased with his research, he then added, “All the other actors from last year’s revival are out of the area. Only Mr. Poe remains here in New York.”

  “But look,” I said, pulling out my notebook to show him where Timothy Poe had written his name and address. “Their handwriting is nothing alike. It’s a dissimilar size and shape, and they make their ps and ys differently.”

  Mulvaney considered the lines for a moment.

  “It means nothing,” he decided. “He has disguised it, that’s all. And in both cases, the handwriting is light, with neat, formal penmanship.”

  He was right about that, but I still disagreed. “There’s also no slant to what Poe wrote. And his letters are tiny and curled, not elongated. That would be hard to fake for an entire letter.”

  Our mutual silence was unbroken for several minutes.

  “To return to Pygmalion,” I said, “how many people saw the play during its run? It must have been thousands, assuming a normal run of several weeks. There’s no reason to suspect its star more than anyone else. Any member of the audience would be familiar enough with the story to write these letters and kill these women.” I put it as plainly as I could, once again turning the letter on Mulvaney’s desk to face him.

  “ ‘What beauty I have given her by playing Pygmalion.’ What does it mean?” I flicked my fingers against the paper in frustration.

  “Bloody hell if I know!” Mulvaney looked at me with indulgence. “It’s early yet, Ziele. Can’t expect to know everything at once. Here, take a look at the photographs of Eliza Downs, such as they are.”

  He flipped through yet another huge folder on his desk and handed me three pictures.

  “They’re not our typical postmortem photos, as you can see. Apparently the family requested them before her body was removed from the theater.” His nose wrinkled in mild disgust. “Maudlin practice, isn’t it, photographing the dead in their final pose? I think it’s falling out of fashion, but there’s still families that want it as an enduring memory.” He grimaced. “I’m lucky my Bridget’s not the sentimental type. Certainly wouldn’t want anyone remembering me that way when I’m gone.”

  I agreed as I began to examine each photograph. While I knew it was not an uncommon practice, I always found it discomfiting to view death poses. Eliza Downs, at least, looked as though she had merely fallen asleep while reclining on a large, overstuffed armchair.

  “Just like Annie Germaine,” Mulvaney said. “She was a chorus girl, but they found her wearing the leading lady’s garb. Nothing on that stage had been left to chance. Not her outfit. Not the way she was placed front and center stage. And not that letter.”

  He was right. The young woman pictured in the photographs was beautiful: posed in a graceful recline, she was elegantly clad in jewels and silks.

  “You don’t have close-ups?” I asked.

  Mulvaney answered in the negative. “Like I said, these were done for the family to remember her by. At the time, no one thought her death was anything other than a tragic suicide.”

  I held up the last picture to the light; it offered the closest view of the woman’s face and neck. While the photograph’s black-and-white tones made it difficult to tell, I did not notice any bruising— an observation I mentioned at once to Mulvaney.

  “Whoever he is, he wants them to die pretty, that’s for sure. I should have Wilcox’s autopsy report by tomorrow and I’ll know more.”

  “You’ll have to get an exhumation order for Eliza Downs,” I reminded him.

  He nodded mutely and placed the letter back in his files.

  “And what about Timothy Poe?” I asked. “The fact that he starred in a play called Pygmalion, and that it’s mentioned in these letters, doesn’t give you enough to keep him. It doesn’t give him a motive to kill; it’s just a coincidence. You’re missing all the elements of motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “What are you, his lawyer?” Mulvaney seemed amused. After a pause, he finally said, “You’re right. Of course we’ll let him go this afternoon, with a warning not to leave the area. But I do intend to investigate him more thoroughly.”

  He pushed aside his empty coffee mug, got up, and began to put on his coat and scarf. “Come with me to The Times’ offices. I want you there when I see the new letter and talk with the reporter who received it.”

  But I stayed in my chair and looked up at Mulvaney. “There is one more thing.”

  “What?” He was halfway out the door.

  “You can’t make real sense of these letters. Neither can I. They seem to be all poetry and nonsense. But I agree with you that they are our first key to solving this crime.”

  Then I took a deep breath and said it. “I think I know the person who can help.”

  The thought had been in my head all afternoon, and I had become increasingly certain of both the necessity and the awkwardness of contacting him. It had been more than three months since I’d last spoken with him. And after I had made my excuses for two or three dinner invitations, further efforts on his part had ceased. Which was exactly what I had wanted.

  “Out with it, lad!” Mulvaney’s coat was on, and he was bursting with impatience to get to The Times’ offices.

  “Remember Alistair Sinclair?”

  I watched as a medley of emotions— disbelief and surprise, then concern, and finally disapproval— played in succession across Mulvaney’s face. Alistair was the law professor and criminologist who had involved himself in the murder investigation I’d led last fall. Despite our many disagreements, he had opened my eyes to new and unorthodox ways of understanding criminal behavior. In terms of learning and intellectual acumen, he had no peer. But Alistair was not without flaws, and his selfish grandstanding had nearly kept us from solving that case.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mulvaney said, his voice flat. “If you want help with the letters, why not contact a literature professor from any college in this city? An ordinary prof
essor could help us figure out the poetry. We don’t need your Professor Sinclair.”

  But we did.

  I was certain of it, and I did my best to explain why. “This isn’t just a matter of understanding a few lines of poetry. We’re dealing with someone— a criminal— who is using those lines to create a dangerous message. Alistair has made it his life’s work to figure out the elusive connection between criminal motivation and behavior. He believes that if you understand how the mind works, then you can better predict the behavior that follows.”

  We stared at each other in silence.

  I took a deep breath and put the matter a different way. “Two actresses have died. And their killer has written at least three letters already that we know of: two here in our possession and one sent to The Times. There’s simply too much at stake.”

  Mulvaney yielded with the grudging acceptance I had anticipated. “Well, we’d best talk with him and get it over with. Maybe he can be of help with The Times. Though I’ll not bet on it.”

  He walked over to his secretary’s desk. “Danny, can you check the directory and find out where a man named Alistair Sinclair lives. And call ahead, would you? See if he’s home.”

  “No need.” I cleared my throat as I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck, bracing myself for the cold March snow, if not the confrontation to come. “In this weather on a Friday afternoon, he won’t be at his office at Columbia. We’ll find him at his apartment uptown, on Seventy-second Street. I know the place.”

  And I did. I only hoped I knew the man half as well.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Dakota, One West Seventy-second Street

  Alistair lived in the Dakota building, at the western edge of Central Park and Seventy-second Street. It stood almost alone at the edge of the park, a Gothic structure that towered over its smaller neighbors. I’d heard the building got its name because it was so far from the heart of the city, it might as well be in the Dakotas. But Alistair insisted the Wild West motifs were responsible— for ears of corn and arrowheads adorned the walls of the brick-and-sandstone building. And I tended to think he would know, for Alistair considered it a point of pride to have been one of the building’s original tenants. He had moved in nearly twenty years ago, when this area of the city was uninhabited, and Alistair’s adventurous— not to mention rebellious— spirit had led him to stake his home here.

  It had been almost four months since I’d last seen him. Or Isabella. I had thought of her often, despite my resolution to see her no more. My gaze shifted uneasily to the door across the landing, opposite Alistair’s. It was the apartment Alistair had procured as a wedding gift for his son Teddy following his marriage to Isabella. But Isabella had found herself widowed after only two years, when Teddy was murdered while on an archaeological expedition— the details of which I’d never learned. Now, in an unconventional arrangement, Isabella remained in the apartment, maintaining a close relationship with Alistair and assisting him with the criminological research that had become his all-consuming passion. Meanwhile, he had separated from his wife, who lived permanently abroad.

  I was announced from the lobby, so even before we knocked on the door of Alistair’s eighth-floor apartment, his house keeper, Mrs. Mellown, stood ready to open the door. She greeted me with a perfunctory “Detective Ziele”— and if she remembered me from last fall, she gave no indication of it. She briskly took charge of our coats and muddy shoes before we stepped onto the plush Turkish and Indian carpets that lined the hallway to Alistair’s library. Then she ushered us into a space that might have resembled a small, intimate art museum, for Alistair had traveled widely and his home was filled with artifacts from his journeys.

  She led us past rooms filled with Chinese vases, European paintings, carved wooden and marble statues, and even a tapestry depicting a unicorn and its hunter. But all this was nothing compared to the library itself, filled with bookshelves that ran the expanse of all four walls. Reaching from floor to ceiling, they held leather-bound tomes and stone artifacts and were interrupted only by a marble-and-tile fireplace on the southern wall and an expansive window to the east. Today, that window offered a spectacular view of Central Park blanketed in snow. Mulvaney’s breath caught sharply the moment he saw it, though he was normally not one to be impressed by such things.

  Alistair faced the fireplace as we entered, and while I’m certain he heard our footsteps, he did not turn until Mulvaney discreetly cleared his throat.

  At the sound, Alistair walked over to Mulvaney with a broad smile. “I don’t think we’ve ever formally met, though I’ve heard much about you. I’m Alistair Sinclair.”

  “Declan Mulvaney” was the curt response.

  They shook hands vigorously. Then Alistair turned to me with a stiff, unreadable expression. From the deep lines that ran along his face, I suspected the past few months had not been easy for him. After the conclusion of our last case together, the press had ridiculed him mercilessly, with papers sporting headlines like RENOWNED CRIMINAL LAW PROFESSOR HARBORS KILLER IN OWN RESEARCH LAB. The embarrassment had no doubt compounded the personal betrayal he had suffered.

  “Ziele.” He clasped my hand in a firm shake, though, as always, he was careful enough not to jostle my injured right arm.

  As I greeted him in return, his eyes met my own and I was struck anew by their color and clarity. They were not a typical blue but rather a bright azure— and while they glittered with alert intelligence, their startling color also suggested an absence of warmth.

  After a few more pleasantries, he came to the point. “What brings you here today, gentlemen?”

  He did not invite us to sit.

  “We’re investigating a difficult case,” I said. “We hoped you might be able to shed light on some challenging evidence we’ve encountered.”

  As Mulvaney and I continued to stand, awkwardly, Alistair moved to a side table, picked up a decanter of water, and poured himself a glass. He did not offer any to us.

  Mulvaney caught my eye and signaled he was ready to abandon this meeting.

  But Alistair returned to us. His intellectual curiosity appeared to overpower his desire to hold a grudge.

  “What sort of case?” he asked.

  “An intriguing one,” I replied. “Just the sort you like best.”

  Alistair was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed— and it was a full-throated chuckle. He could not help himself: his eyes brightened and his face flushed with excitement.

  “Come and tell me about it.” With sudden enthusiasm, he motioned us to come sit with him by the roaring fire. He sprawled comfortably across a blue velvet sofa, while Mulvaney and I settled into the two paisley armchairs opposite.

  I placed the two near-identical letters on the long coffee table between us. He looked at them for a moment without making any movement.

  “Love letters?” He arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

  “Something like that,” I said, my voice rough. “Care to read?” I cleared my throat. “Obviously from the handwriting and the choice of paper, we assume each was written by the same person.”

  “You’ve sealed them.” He noted their protective covering. “I take it they’re evidence, not just incidental to your investigation?”

  “We think so,” Mulvaney said. “What can you tell us about them?”

  “First, you need to tell me about your case,” Alistair countered.

  “Before we do, we’d like to hear your opinion about the letters,” I said, doing my best to sound as though my suggestion were uncalculated.

  A dark expression of stubbornness crossed his face, and I thought for a moment that he might refuse. But at last he reached toward the coffee table and in a swooping, deliberate motion, he lifted up the eggshell-blue letter marked EXHIBIT ONE. It was the letter found near Miss Downs at the Empire Theater, where she had been killed three weeks earlier.

  Alistair checked the watermark, but I was one step ahead of him.

  I said, “It’s by Crane’s, w
hich as you know is easily obtained at almost any fine stationery store in the city. I don’t think we’ll be successful in tracking the writer through his choice of paper.”

  “The writing is more important anyhow,” he said indifferently before reading aloud. “ ‘I found a thing to do . . . and strangled her.’ ” He paused. “I take it this writing is regarding a person— a woman— who was strangled?”

  I exchanged glances with Mulvaney. After he nodded almost imperceptibly, I said, “We think it’s possible, pending the coroner’s official report.”

  “So there were no outward signs?” Alistair was becoming more visibly excited by the moment. “No bruising around the neck? Or, what about the eyes? If they aren’t visibly bulging, at least the red capillaries inside the lid may have burst from the pressure.”

  I shook my head as I recalled Max Wilcox’s use of a buttonhole device to turn Miss Germaine’s lids inside out. He had examined her capillaries yet had found nothing conclusive. I had previously heard of certain killers possessing the considerable skill required to strangle a victim and yet leave no sign of it. But such a feat could normally be accomplished only by an experienced killer— and I explained as much to Alistair.

  “If she was indeed strangled, then I’ll expect Wilcox to tell us her killer probably used a soft material. And to that I’ll add the fact that he likely has developed some practice or expertise in the matter.”

  Alistair’s mouth opened slightly. “Well, then. This is indeed interesting, Ziele.” With renewed energy, he reached for the second letter and read it quickly. “ ‘Yet I’ll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster.’ Your writer does have a way with words, though I don’t think they are his own. In the first, he mentions a ‘wise poet,’ and here he talks of ‘one of our greatest poets.’ And something about the lines is familiar. . . .”