“Fair enough.” I was impressed with his discovery, but I didn’t want to show it. And what mattered was his opinion about our suspect’s writing, not mine. I handed him the Downs murder letter that Mulvaney had left us, and Alistair passed him the longer missive that The Times had received.
“What do you make of these?”
He did not answer, though it was clear he was giving each letter close attention.
“Not that we have any real doubt,” I said, summarizing, “but we assume you’ll confirm they’re by the same author. It’s the same blue paper from Crane’s and the same light, spidery handwriting. And we see similarities in how the ys, the ss, and the ws are formed in each letter. They are nearly identical.”
Dr. Vollman grunted, then picked up the first letter found next to Eliza Downs’s body. “What I tell you first about this, I suspect you already know. But to review: its content shows he is a well-educated man, familiar with poets like Browning. I see his spelling is accurate, and his word choice is formal, with no errors in usage or punctuation.” But when Dr. Vollman turned to the longer letter sent to The Times, his eyes were full of excitement, as though he were about to impart a particularly compelling secret. “Now this letter, however, is pure gold— at least in its value to you. Why, you ask? I will explain.”
He placed the letter before us so we might see, and even Alistair peered curiously as he waited to hear what Dr. Vollman would say.
Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke. “To the extent that any of this man’s writing will help you to identify and find him, this letter to The Times will do it. Because of its length, it reveals important information about the writer’s linguistic habits as well as his actual handwriting. Anyone can alter his phrasing and handwriting for a short while. But not for a longer missive. His writing is consistent throughout, so we can say with confidence that his true hand is at work.”
“Why is his tone so much more casual?” I asked, quoting from the letter: “ ‘Here’s your chance to cover the biggest story of the day. Your job?’ ”
“He’s writing for a different audience,” Alistair said quietly. “By reaching out to the papers— and specifically, The Times— he is communicating with people who were not there. People who did not know his victim, who did not see her body. So his point is less about what he’s done and more about who he is and what he wants.”
So, who was he? And what did he want?
I reread the message I found so troubling—Hell Awaits— and I shuddered in spite of myself. It was disturbing enough to have seen this killer’s victim this morning, but his writing about it struck me as even more menacing.
Dr. Vollman spoke again, drawing my attention back to the letter. “His true handwriting spacing is naturally wide, with frequent pen lifts. That movement of the pen is something ingrained in him. It would be nearly impossible for him to disguise it in any of his writing. You can compare.” He gestured to the first words of each letter. “Note that he attempts a severely angled leftward slant at the beginning of each letter. But it cannot hold. So by midletter,” and he showed us specifically, “he has reverted to his natural, slightly rightward slant. There is a loop to the tail of his j and y that I suspect is natural.”
Dr. Vollman was pleased with himself. He went on to say, “I can also tell you with some confidence that he is a man still in the prime of his life. You may be tempted to think he is older, that he writes in a thin, frail hand.”
I nodded. I thought of the style as spidery.
“But to maintain it, given his cycle of pen movements and lifts, would be extremely unlikely were he truly an elderly man. As I have shown you, age increases irregularity— whereas his pen remains consistent.”
The doctor’s explanation had certainly been interesting, but I remained dubious it would actually help us identify the writer of these letters— absent our having the good fortune to come into a document penned in his own name. I said as much, and, to my surprise, he agreed with me.
“There are limits to what handwriting analysis can offer, Detective.” He smiled. “But what uses we have, I offer you freely.”
“So you can tell me nothing about his personality from his handwriting?” I asked. I had heard of so-called handwriting experts doing so, and I admit, that was what I had anticipated of this meeting.
“That would be a whole different kind of analysis, called graphology,” he responded soberly. “And while you may want to consult a graphologist to see if you learn anything of interest, be very cautious. That field is filled with charlatans who’ll take your money and give you nothing for it but the ramblings of their imagination that bear no relation to scientific thought.”
He pushed back his chair.
“Gentlemen.” He bade us good night. “I have my own show to attend this evening. And you’d better hurry,” he said, “or you, too, risk being late.”
I glanced at my watch; it was half past seven.
Alistair put a few bills on the table to pay and reluctantly agreed we’d better go, but not before lamenting the fact we had not ordered dessert. “Sherry’s gets fresh strawberries straight from Henry Joralemon in New Jersey. His experiments allow him to grow wonderful plants that produce every month of the year.” He glanced mournfully at the table next to us, where the diners were sampling a selection of cheeses and strawberries. “It’s a spectacular treat that we’re missing.”
Alistair had insisted on our paying two dollars each for a pair of the better seats in the house, so our tickets placed us in the center of the third row. We excused ourselves as we stepped over the knees of other patrons, managing to find our seats only minutes before the curtain rose. Then I sank deeply into the plush velvet cushion seat and allowed the darkness to envelop me, for the theater had gone pitch black and the musicians in the orchestra pit had begun their loud and brassy overture.
The first act was a series of dance and musical numbers that tried to compensate for an incomprehensible plot. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the actors and actresses seemed stiff tonight. Of course, by now they had to know that one of their own had been murdered. It was to their credit that they had put on the show at all.
The house lights had barely risen for intermission when someone tapped sharply on my shoulder.
“Are you Detective Ziele?” the usher asked in an exaggerated whisper.
I nodded.
“Then this is for you.”
He handed me a folded pink note that smelled of cheap perfume. Inside, in large, childish letters, I found an invitation to meet someone— a woman named Molly Hansen— just outside the stage door after the show. “But P.S., lose the toff sitting beside you,” she wrote.
I reopened my program and scanned the list of actors and actresses in tonight’s performance. I was certain my sharp in-take of breath was audible when I read her name toward the bottom.
MOLLY HANSEN—Milkmaid.
She was the actress who had replaced Annie Germaine.
After the curtain at last fell on the second act, I whispered hurried instructions to Alistair to interview the actors backstage. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t let me go easily.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion, lingering on the note in my hand. Of course, he disliked being excluded.
“Someone wants to meet me alone. Besides,” I added, “it’s perfect timing. I had hoped you might talk privately with Miss Bowen tonight. A leading lady of her stature is far more likely to talk with someone like you, who truly knows the theater. . . .”
Luckily, he appreciated my attempt at flattery. And the fact that Miss Lily Bowen was exceptionally pretty ended any other objections he might have had.
CHAPTER 8
West Thirty-fifth Street
I waited for her at the backstage door— growing increasingly uncomfortable when I couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was watching me. I checked both the side alley and the vestibules of surrounding buildings, but saw no one. The audience
had dissipated quickly, for it was a cold, unpleasant night.
I nervously checked behind me again to make sure, shivering and rubbing my aching right arm. No doubt I was reacting to the fact that Annie Germaine’s killer had waited for her in this spot, mere hours before her death. Perhaps I was even sharing the same perspective: a deserted brick alley filled with garbage, a man smoking a cigarette by the newsstand across the street, and passersby moving in haste to escape the brisk March wind.
My apprehension continued to grow until Molly Hansen finally appeared, having made a poor attempt to hide herself under the thick black shawl that covered her head and shoulders.
With only a slight nod of greeting, she grabbed my arm and whisked me down the block.
“Walk faster,” she commanded, casting a furtive glance behind us. “I’m going to catch it if Mr. Iseman finds out I’ve left the theater while still in costume. And his temper is terrible: he treats infractions like they’re cardinal sins.”
We hustled down the block until we arrived at The Emerald Isle, an Irish pub with which she was apparently quite familiar. It was a hole in the wall— a tiny space with dark paneled-wood walls and no more than eight tables and benches where a handful of customers sat eating and drinking. But there was a roaring fire in the grate, and the room was filled with the sweet odor of pipe tobacco, an unexpected smell for this manner of establishment.
She took a table at the back next to the bar. I followed cautiously.
“Two Bushmills,” she called to the bartender.
“Aye.” The bartender poured the tawny golden whiskey into two short glasses, then brought them over without a second glance toward me. “Molly, you working again?”
“Sure am,” she said, taking off her coat and placing it over the empty chair between us, then pulling off a brown wig to reveal long, red curls, which she quickly whisked into a loose knot before she sat down. “I’m in a new show over at the Garrick. Come over and see me one night, why don’t you?” She flashed him a broad smile that revealed even white teeth and dimpled cheeks.
She excused herself for a brief moment.
To avoid the bartender’s unmistakable stare, I pulled my pocket watch out to check the time. A quarter ’til eleven.
A half hour remained until I had to meet Alistair again.
When Molly Hansen returned, she had changed into a green dress and washed her face of its greasepaint. I saw that her skin was remarkably good— clear and healthy, the color of fresh cream except for a sprinkling of light freckles around her nose. I decided she must be about ten years older than I— probably a year or so past forty— for although she was a handsome woman, I noted the telltale sprinkling of gray amid her red curls. She was also self-assured in a way that only comes to some women as they mature.
I took hold of my drink but waited to take a sip. Something about her prompted me to keep my guard up.
“So what’s this about?”
She inclined her head, giving me an intent gaze. “You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.
“Who—or what— led you to expect anything?”
“Just people talking.” She drained her Irish whiskey in one shot, flung her head back, and called out, saying, “Johnny, I’ll have another.”
The bartender returned with another glass, and this time he directed a worried glance to me. I gathered Molly Hansen was not normally a drinker— and he suspected I probably had something to do with her uncharacteristic indulgence tonight.
“You look familiar,” he said at last. “You’ve been in here before?”
“Don’t think so.” I returned his probing gaze with a steady look. I’d never seen him, and I’d certainly never been to this particular bar.
He walked away, shaking his head, muttering something incomprehensible.
“You were about to explain why I’m here and how you knew to contact me.” I finally took a small sip of the whiskey. It was not my favorite drink, but on this bitter night I savored the slow burn as it went down.
Her entire frame tensed even as she forced a bright smile. “I thought I could help you out, Detective. I have information about Annie Germaine that you might find useful.”
I waited, knowing there was more to come.
Her jaw was set in determination. “I was hoping that in return, you could help me out with a favor.”
“I don’t work that way, Miss Hansen,” I said, leaning back. “And may I remind you that this is an official investigation. You’re duty-bound to tell me anything you know. Otherwise, we have a name for it: obstruction of justice.” I paused for a moment to let the words sink in.
She shook her head, smiling. “Call me Molly. And you misunderstand me, Detective. I am talking about an exchange of goodwill, nothing more.”
I misunderstood nothing. But I let it pass.
“How well did you know Miss Germaine?” I asked.
She cast a furtive glance around the bar.
“We can return to the theater to talk, if you prefer. . . .”
She laughed, a low and guttural sound. “Allow me to offer my first bit of free advice to you. If you want to learn any real information from me or any of my colleagues, you’ll need to get us in private, away from Mr. Iseman’s watchful eye. No one will say a word if it’s possible he may be listening.”
“Why not? He doesn’t sign their paychecks. He doesn’t even cast them in the roles they play.”
She regarded me with an indulgent look. “It’s far more than that, Detective. Don’t make the assumption that you understand everything about Mr. Iseman just because you know his job title. He does more than manage the theater’s day-to-day operations. He not only has Charlie Frohman’s ear— he also has his trust. And mark my words,” her voice was suddenly sober, “you’ll learn nothing of value so long as anyone thinks Mr. Iseman may hear of it.”
I considered the woman in front of me. She gave every appearance of being forthright and honest. Yet I did not forget for a minute that just a moment ago she had offered me a roundabout bribe. Furthermore, she was an actress: the art of deception was her livelihood.
“Rest assured Mr. Iseman is not here now. So you’ve nothing to fear by talking with me,” I said again.
She scanned the room once again.
“Or—” I leaned back and regarded her with a steady gaze, “does this have something to do with the favor you wanted?”
She flushed a deep red and avoided looking at me.
“I have a friend who needs help, and you’re in a position to intervene.” She looked down at the table, where her fingers idly played with her empty whiskey glass, tipping it first one way, then another.
“What kind of help?” My voice took on a more cautious tone.
“He needs more time to repay someone you know for losses at the table. He’s good for the money, of course— he just needs a couple extra weeks.” She gulped hard, watching my face anxiously for a sign of my reaction.
“And your friend’s concern has become yours because . . . ?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Because he owes me money, too.” Her face twisted oddly and her voice took on a desperate tone. “I’ll never get it so long as he’s in the hole to this sort of man. A man who’ll take it from him one way or another, leaving him in no position to work.”
So it wasn’t a favor she wanted, it was a fool’s errand. Whether she was talking about an in de pen dent bookie or the owner of one of the gambling joints downtown, she was right that I knew such men. I’d grown up among them on the Lower East Side, though after I joined the police force, I’d done my best to avoid them— at least in any professional capacity.
“And your friend owes the money to . . . ?” I asked warily. Her answer was certain to be no one I had any wish to meet.
“Let’s just call him an associate of Mike Salter’s.”
So I had guessed right. Salter’s Pelham Café in Chinatown was just like any number of saloons in the Bowery: its public restaurant area was a front for all ki
nds of criminal activities that happened in back behind closed doors, sanctioned by Mike Salter himself.
I made a careful reply. “Do I know this particular associate?”
She nodded, though she did not look at me, and her voice was low when she replied. “You don’t need to see him or talk with him. You could just let me mention your name. It would buy us— or rather, my friend— a little more time.”
I sized her up carefully. I knew it was possible there was no “friend” involved at all. It was likely she herself owed the money.
And the “associate” was as likely to be a police officer as a saloon owner like Mike Salter himself. That saloon owners colluded with the police was an open secret in the Bowery called the protection racket: money was directed to certain policemen in exchange for their turning a blind eye to illegal backroom activities. And Molly was right: I didn’t want to know more.
“Let me think about it,” I finally said. I made it a point never to involve myself in dealings of this sort. It would compromise my reputation and involve me in a shady transaction of which I wanted no part— and for what? To help Molly, I supposed. But it remained unclear to me whether she was worth that sort of risk.
“Tell me about Annie Germaine.”
She downed her third whiskey shot.
“I’ve understudied her the better part of this month. Ever since I came back to town.”
I took advantage of the opening. “So before then, you were . . . ?”
“In Philadelphia,” she replied automatically.
But I had seen the way her eyes had flickered away from mine in that instant. Her instinctive— and evasive— response told me in no uncertain terms that there was something in her recent past she did not want me to know.
“What made you come to New York?”
Another brilliant smile. “Why does any actress come to New York?” she replied with a coy smile. “For fame and fortune.” She pushed her drink aside. “I knew Mr. Iseman, actually. I looked him up when I got back into town, he vouched for me with Mr. Frohman, and I started work the next day— understudying Annie’s part as well as that of the lead.”
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