A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  Mulvaney looked as though someone had punched him in the gut, but he agreed. We needed the cooperation of The Times.

  Far worse would be no deal at all— just rampant news speculation— which would be the fate of this case if the yellow sensation papers got hold of it. The Times at least espoused the goal of producing serious news. But should the yellow papers pick this story up, they would have a field day with it. They would embellish the truth with lies until they had riled the public into a frenzy. In short, their brand of news coverage would make it almost impossible to investigate this case.

  So, after repeated mutual assurances of cooperation and confidentiality, we left the Times offices and returned to precinct headquarters— where Mulvaney’s grim-faced secretary greeted him with the unwelcome news that the commissioner needed to see him downtown.

  The commissioner, Theodore Bingham, had been in office only since January and was still a relative unknown among the ranks. But if he wanted to see Mulvaney near five o’clock on a Friday, it meant he was displeased. I suspected that Leon Iseman, the stage manager who worked for Charles Frohman, had made good on his threat to cash in his political connections and complain about Mulvaney’s handling of this morning’s investigation at the Garrick.

  Mulvaney did not even take off his coat. On his way back out the door, he shuffled through the papers in his leather satchel.

  “No need for the commissioner to see this tonight.” He passed me the envelope containing the letter sent to The Times. “You lads may want to take a closer look. Let me know what you think.”

  Mulvaney was out the door even before I could agree.

  Alistair started to follow him. “I’ve got to make a couple telephone calls before we commence our next plan of attack.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked, somewhat irritated. I was eager to review the Times’s letter with Alistair, now that Ira Salzburg no longer hovered over our shoulders.

  “The question is, where are we going?” Alistair flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Lighten up, old boy. It’s Friday night. We’re about to enjoy dinner and an evening at the theater. I think we ought to see what’s playing over at the Garrick.”

  I turned away before Alistair could see the smile I could not suppress. Even murder could not diminish Alistair’s enjoyment of New York’s finest entertainment and dining opportunities.

  “What did you have in mind for dinner? One of the new places along Broadway?” I eventually asked. As more theaters were being built along Broadway’s north end, restaurants were cropping up, too, displacing most of the clubs, brothels, and tenements that had previously anchored the neighborhood.

  “Not tonight,” Alistair said, in high spirits now. “Dinner at Sherry’s is what I had in mind. It’s a longer walk from here, but we have time. And the headwaiter knows me; he’ll find us a table, even if they’re busy.”

  More casually, he went on to say, “But I do want to make a brief telephone call. There’s a colleague of mine I hope will join us.”

  “Who?” I raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

  “A longtime acquaintance who is also an expert in handwriting analysis.”

  “Alistair.” I sounded a note of warning. “I asked for your help on this case— not the help of some charlatan. I don’t want to hear that a criminal’s character can be determined from the size of his head or the style of his handwriting.”

  Alistair smiled indulgently. “You mean phrenology and graphology. It’s true: those disciplines look to the circumference of a person’s head or a sample of someone’s penmanship and infer specific character traits.” He shook his head. “Not to worry, Ziele. My colleague is well regarded as an expert in forensic analysis. He has testified numerous times in London trials on the subject of handwriting and forgery. You’ll find his logic to be solid, grounded in science.”

  “Are you sure?” Given this morning’s turn of events in the courtroom, I had no interest in pursuing evidence that would not stand up to the law.

  “Yes,” Alistair said emphatically. “I know you all too well, Ziele. I won’t give you information you cannot present at trial.”

  As I reluctantly agreed, Alistair made his call, and we set off crosstown toward Sherry’s and a discussion that— despite my doubts about its scientific basis— would fundamentally alter our approach to the case.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sherry’s, Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street

  “He controls his players’ lives more than you’d think. Would you believe he only allows his leading ladies to walk along Fifth Avenue, never Broadway?”

  “What are you talking about?” I didn’t follow Alistair’s train of thought.

  We were making our way uptown on Fifth Avenue toward Sherry’s. Alistair, nonchalant as always, appeared to be surveying the storefronts we were passing, but it was clear that his mind continued to work feverishly.

  “Charles Frohman, of course.”

  “That’s preposterous,” I said, scoffing at the suggestion. “How could anyone presume to control where someone walks?”

  “It’s only a story, of course,” Alistair said easily. Then he gave me a knowing look. “But I have good reason to believe it’s true. I was once acquainted with his biggest star.”

  He paused for effect.

  “You may have seen Maude Adams onstage? Fascinating woman.”

  I shook my head. She was Broadway’s most well-known actress, so of course I had heard of her. But I had never seen her perform.

  “Well, as Miss Adams once explained it to me, Frohman believed her offstage image would directly affect her onstage reputation.” His voice grew softer. “I do know his influence once led her to cut off a romance that he believed to be inappropriate.”

  I eyed him suspiciously but declined to comment. What ever his personal secrets, he was entitled to keep them.

  “And what does this story— assuming it’s true— have to do with the murders at the Garrick and the Empire?”

  “Perhaps nothing— at least not directly,” Alistair said. “But it is the environment in which your investigation will take place. You should understand it.”

  I nodded.

  “Here we are.” Alistair raised his arm and pointed to the classic brownstone entrance to Sherry’s, a restaurant located across the street from its chief rival, Delmonico’s, in new quarters designed by Stanford White. It was one of New York’s finest restaurants— a place where one went not merely to dine but to be seen. I had never been there myself, but like most New Yorkers I knew it by reputation, for its patrons’ over-the-top soirees were regularly written up in the papers. And while I was not a regular reader of the society column, in recent months I had scanned it on occasion, wondering if Isabella’s name would appear.

  It was a typical Friday evening and Sherry’s was filled to capacity. Yet, exactly as Alistair had anticipated, the headwaiter managed to find a small table for us. Sherry’s reserved exterior had not prepared me for the opulent scene indoors. Walking through the Palm Room, I gawked openly at the vaulted ceiling above, which was covered in elaborate latticework that, on each side, reached to the edge of a row of windows surrounded by a gold floral design. Numerous potted palms created a tropical effect that made me feel suddenly far removed from the icy March night outdoors.

  The moment we were seated, our waiter— a stiff man in a black suit— seemed to assess the age of my worn brown suit as he placed a napkin emblazoned with Sherry’s name on my lap. I looked across the table at Alistair. He had moved his napkin immediately and thus escaped our waiter’s intrusive attention.

  “Wine list, sir?”

  This was addressed to Alistair, not to me.

  “No need.” Alistair instead ordered a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux— one he knew they stocked in their cellar.

  Meanwhile, I counted the number of forks placed in front of me. The silverware was arranged from left to right, small to large, except for the exceptionally small fork at the top of my plate. I flipped one ov
er to look at the engraving: TIFFANY & CO.

  Putting the fork back, I reviewed the menu in haste, for there was no time to be lost if we were to make this evening’s show.

  Our waiter had reappeared with the requested bottle of wine. He removed the cork with a grand flourish and poured Alistair a sample of the Bordeaux, which he tasted and approved. The waiter then poured a glass for me, accompanied by a condescending stare that I returned in kind.

  “May I suggest the roast beef, sir? It comes with a delicious potato lyonnaisse and is very popular.”

  The menu suggestion was directed to me, and no doubt it contained a veiled insult I did not fully recognize.

  “Thank you, but we’re interested in your spring specials tonight, not your regular fare,” Alistair said smoothly. “What does the chef recommend?”

  I listened impatiently as the waiter went on to describe the spring lamb, omitting no intricate step of its preparation. In the end, I deferred to Alistair, who ordered for both of us: an oyster appetizer followed by the lamb. I had a weak constitution for oysters, and I immediately regretted delegating this task.

  “I wasn’t certain that I would hear from you again, Ziele,” Alistair said as he swirled his glass of wine, then sniffed its aroma. “But I’m glad I did. Whether by merit or by chance, you seem to have landed a most interesting case.”

  But I was in no mood to entertain a heart-to-heart discussion with Alistair.

  I glanced at my pocket watch. “What time did your handwriting expert say he would meet us?”

  The waiter resurfaced to refill our glasses of Bordeaux, though neither of us had taken more than two or three sips.

  Alistair was perturbed by my impatience. “Dr. Vollman should be here momentarily.”

  Another server— this one a young boy— brought over the oyster appetizer together with yet another strangely shaped fork. Alistair eagerly sampled one.

  “Why not relax, enjoy the food and wine? These oysters on the half shell are delicious. Go ahead and try one.”

  Aware that our waiter— who was now arranging dishes to accommodate the used shells— was watching me intently, I followed Alistair’s lead. It was not their briny taste that I disliked so much as their slippery, cold texture. I immediately took a large gulp of Bordeaux.

  As if he sensed my lack of appreciation for what others considered a fine delicacy, the waiter frowned in disapproval. I stared back at him until he retreated once again from the table.

  Alistair appeared not to notice my reaction, for he went on to say, “These are Blue Point oysters— a rare delight. The original Blue Points from the Long Island South Bay are now extinct, of course, but these transplanted ones are almost as good. They bring the oysters in from the Chesapeake and let them spend a few months in the Great South Bay before selling them.” He smacked his lips. “A pure delicacy. Not like the ones you’re used to in those all-you-can-eat places on Canal Street.”

  I was sure he was right. But I had never been a fan of the Canal Street oyster bars, either. Though many New Yorkers considered oysters everyday fare, I had never enjoyed them— never liked the look of them. While their presentation here at Sherry’s was more elaborate than I’d ever seen, even so, they didn’t look appetizing.

  “Are you sure your expert can help us? We might have found a better use for this time, talking with some of the players at the Garrick.”

  Admittedly, I was second-guessing Alistair’s plan already. I had never fully appreciated what I thought amounted to blind devotion to new theories. And his track record was certainly not impressive. He had been positive, based on his research and interviews, that he knew the man responsible for the brutal murder I had investigated last fall. And he had been dead wrong.

  But Alistair’s laugh was relaxed and easy. “The actors and actresses will be available— and likely to talk more freely— right after the show. You did ask for my help, Ziele.” Alistair pointed this out with no small degree of self-satisfaction. “You can’t say you need me and then reject my advice.”

  He refilled his glass with the Bordeaux— for I had apparently offended or frightened our too-helpful waiter— before he continued. “The art of handwriting analysis— and yes, admittedly it is an art, not a pure science— has been with us for hundreds of years. Did you know the first scientific treatise on the subject was a French work published in the early 1600s?”

  Before I could respond, an elderly man, small but spry, approached us. He carried a brass cane, but as he did not appear to lean on the stick at all, I decided he employed it more for show than for need.

  “Dr. Vollman.” Alistair stood up.

  “Professor.” Dr. Vollman nodded in greeting to Alistair, even as he peered at me curiously from behind wire-rimmed glasses. “And you have a new assistant, I see?”

  “This is Detective Simon Ziele, and I am assisting him in a new investigation,” Alistair said. “Ziele, I’d like you to meet Dr. Henry Vollman, a forensic expert on handwriting— and also a professor of sociology at New York University.”

  “I see.” Dr. Vollman smiled as he eased himself into his chair, placing his cane against the table. “So how can I help you gentlemen?”

  He waved away Alistair’s offer of a menu. “Perhaps just a touch of cognac. Yes, that would be nice. Something to take the chill from my bones.” He leaned toward me confidentially. “You’ll find as you get to be my age, that’s harder and harder to do.” Then he sighed dramatically as Alistair motioned to our waiter, who now came over reluctantly to take the order.

  Moments later, Dr. Vollman had his drink, and Alistair and I were brought our main course. The spring lamb was served sliced over roast potatoes and accompanied by bright green asparagus. I’d had lamb many times before, but never like this. While I couldn’t be sure I fully appreciated the chef’s creative efforts, I knew I was eating something that was far from ordinary.

  “Before we begin,” Alistair said diplomatically, “it would be helpful if you would explain to Detective Ziele something of what you do.”

  “A novice to my branch of expertise, I presume.” Dr. Vollman sighed in mock exasperation, but he actually seemed pleased to have the opportunity to talk about his occupation. “First, I should tell you my line of work arose from the proliferation of forgeries our country has seen in recent decades. As our society becomes better educated, an unfortunate few are using their newfound skills for illicit purposes. Now more than ever, the law must know if a document is forged or if it is true. And from the close observation of experts, common principles of understanding have emerged.”

  I interrupted him roughly, for he seemed to have digressed far afield. “But what we need to know has nothing to do with forgery.”

  Dr. Vollman waved me off.

  “Just because this line of inquiry began with forgery doesn’t mean its principles are limited only to the identification of forgers.” He made a noise of impatience. “Let me show you, and then you will understand.”

  With a shaky, laborious movement, he pulled a notebook and pencil out of his coat and handed it to me. “Would you sign your name five times, please. Just as you normally would.”

  Perplexed, I obliged, making a column of my signature.

  Alistair’s barely repressed smile suggested he already knew the point of this exercise. Perhaps he had once been subjected to it himself.

  “As you can see,” Dr. Vollman said, beaming with pride, “not only is each person’s handwriting unique from any other person’s, but no person writes the same thing the same way twice. Consider your own five signatures. See how they differ: in each case, your Z is a different height. Your es vary in width. And even the length of your signature varies a good deal between your first and fifth attempt. Attempt number three is the longest by almost an eighth of an inch.”

  I examined what I had written and had to admit he was right.

  Alistair said, “And you were writing your signature in a fairly controlled environment: same time, same pencil, same p
aper. Imagine the slight variation caused by writing on different paper, with varied instruments— sometimes a pencil, sometimes a pen, each of them a different width. Sometimes you write in a rush; other times slowly and deliberately. And your writing surface may vary from wood to a desk pad to a notebook.”

  “Aging influences your writing as well,” Dr. Vollman said with a rueful smile. “My writing today is a frail, shaky affair compared to what it was when I was younger, like yourself.”

  “Then how can analysis help us at all, if handwriting is so susceptible to environment and change?” I asked. I had begun to suspect this meeting was shaping up to be another of Alistair’s frustrating exercises, a game to provide intellectual amusement but no real information.

  “Ah.” Dr. Vollman nodded sagely. “Because despite all these minor inconsistencies, there are things I can tell from your writing, based on close observation, that you cannot disguise however much you try.”

  Dr. Vollman was obviously accustomed to defending his work from skeptics. He went on to instruct us, saying, “Look at the initial S in your first name. It has a distinctive loop that carries throughout each of your signatures . . . despite the size variation. Your leftward slant is consistent, your writing flows firmly with a bold stroke, and your letters are somewhat crowded together with minimal lifting. But more particularly—” he broke off, and his small gray eyes bored into my own, “I suspect you have not always written with your left hand. Something happened— an injury to your right arm or hand perhaps— that caused you to change the hand with which you write. Your signature strives to be firm and bold, but it is slow. There is a wavering, a shakiness if you will, that betrays the fact your signature is newly formed, not developed from the habit of years. This trait would also be found in a man who had developed arthritis. You are no longer young, but you are not yet old enough to suffer ailments of the joints. So it follows that you were injured, and your signature bears witness to the fact, like it or not.”