A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “Gibson—you almost done with that piece about probating Susan B. Anthony’s will?” yelled out a voice from the first row of desks in the City Room of The New York Times.

  “Almost, boss,” a young man at the desk nearest the door answered, pushing his glasses up from where they had slipped down his nose.

  “How long’s it take you to pull together a few sentences saying she left a fortune to women’s suffrage?” the voice grumbled.

  I scanned the room in search of Frank Riley or Jack Bogarty, figuring either of the reporters assigned to our investigation would be more helpful— or at least more discreet— than someone new. Riley was nowhere in sight, but I soon noticed Bogarty sitting alone at the poker table.

  “How’d you finish so quick, Jack? Let me guess— you wrote a short article about the circus elephants now in residence at the Garden?” A short man with a nasal-sounding voice began to laugh good-naturedly.

  I recalled seeing the posters advertising that Barnum & Bailey’s Circus was back at Madison Square Garden, where it came every spring.

  Jack grinned. “Nah. Elephants are entertainment, not art. Not even Salzburg’s gonna make me write about hippos and circus tricks.”

  “You wanna bet?” A man with a cigar hanging from his mouth spoke this time. “You’ll do what Salzburg wants. You always do, for all your talk.”

  Jack laughed as he picked up a deck of cards, shuffling it expertly. “I do it for the free opera tickets.”

  “Enough already; we got work to do,” the man with the nasal voice complained.

  Another shrug. “For what it’s worth, my piece was a retrospective on this year’s opera season, which ended last night. I’d written most of it already, just had to add a bit today about last night’s performance.”

  A man I couldn’t see grumbled something about Jack having it too easy.

  “Don’t knock it. I got coverage on half of page three with multiple pictures,” Jack said, then brightened. “So who’s in for a quick poker game before I go home?”

  “No chance after you stole all my winnings, last game,” the cigar-wielding man said.

  Jack’s face spread into another easy laugh that stiffened only slightly when he saw me. “Ah, Detective Ziele,” he said, putting the deck of cards away, “what brings you here today?”

  “Just a simple question— but we need some privacy to discuss it,” I said, glancing at the other reporters. I realized it was likely that they all knew about the theater murders and the letter of warning The Times had received last week. But that didn’t mean I wanted to discuss it in front of everybody.

  “Sure,” Jack said easily. “We can use the boss’s office; he’s not here today anyway. I take it you got Frank’s message?”

  I shook my head. “There was no message— not for Captain Mulvaney, and certainly not for me. When did he leave it?”

  “This morning around ten o’clock, I assume with the Nineteenth Precinct house. No matter. You’re here now.”

  I closed the door behind us as Jack took Ira Salzburg’s chair, spinning it around. I sat in the guest chair and regarded him steadily. “What was the message?”

  “Another letter turned up. I assumed that was why you came.”

  “When?” I demanded.

  A languid shrug of the shoulders. “We found it early this morning.”

  And by this morning, Emmaline Billings was already dead. But what if it had been ignored, just like the earlier letter?

  I moved my chair closer to the desk. “I’d like to see it.”

  Jack opened the top drawer of Mr. Salzburg’s desk. “Frank put it here for safekeeping,” he explained. He handed it to me. It was the same spidery writing— on the same blue stationery.

  Dear Mr. Ochs,

  Your fate seems to be one of missed opportunity. I’m giving you one last chance to preview my gala night performance. Its setting: the theater under the stars. Its subject: the tragedy of man. Its hero: me.

  Yours truly,

  A theater lover

  “What do you make of it, Detective?”

  I answered his question with two of my own. “Who exactly found this? And where?”

  Jack leaned back in Mr. Salzburg’s chair, running his thumbs along his suspenders. “Frank and I came in early this morning and found it with the rest of the post, mixed among all the letters and bills. But it was addressed to Mr. Ochs, and of course Frank and I recognized the handwriting and stationery. All our mail is delivered there.” He pointed to the front desk I had passed earlier, next to where the young man with thick black glasses sat.

  “Who delivers it?”

  “A man who’s been with us the last ten years. His name is Arnie.”

  “Could Arnie—?” I ventured.

  That earned a loud guffaw from Jack. “Arnie couldn’t see a fly, much less hurt one— if that’s where you’re headed. Talk to him yourself, and you’ll see.”

  I resolved to do just that.

  “I don’t see a postmark,” I said, examining the envelope.

  He answered without hesitation. “That’s my point by saying ‘mixed in.’ Someone had to deliver it personally— and stick it in with the rest of the postal-delivery mail.” He paused for a moment. “Our secretary who handles the mail during the week might have noticed something. But he doesn’t come in on weekends.”

  “And you receive no mail on Sundays, either,” I said, my tone sharp. “That means you’re talking about Saturday’s mail.”

  “Look, Detective. Frank and I asked around this morning. No one noticed anybody odd in the building overnight. And no one noticed anyone dropping off this letter this morning. It just appeared. Plain and simple. And now it’s yours if you want it. We’re trying to cooperate with you, see?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, his tone easy. “And speaking of cooperation, Detective, what have you got for us? Haven’t heard much from you of late.”

  “I’d say our cooperative efforts are on par with yours,” I said evenly.

  Jack moved forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “Let’s start with the obvious. You didn’t get our message— and yet here you are. That tells me the murder this ‘theater lover’ warns of here,” he tapped his forefinger against the letter, “has already taken place.”

  He waited for a moment to let his words sink in. Then, with an easy smile, he continued. “So tell me, Detective. No need to be shy; we’re acting as partners here, right?”

  It was a partnership born of necessity only— since, given the choice, I would never want to work with anyone from The Times. I trusted no one here. But I couldn’t very well avoid telling him what he already knew.

  “There was another murder,” I said slowly. “An actress at the Aerial Gardens rooftop theater— presumably, the ‘theater under the stars’ that he mentions here.” I gestured toward the letter that lay between us. “And we just might have prevented her murder, if only . . .”

  I paused for a moment from sheer frustration.

  Jack regarded me with sympathy in his eyes. “Honestly, I can’t see how anyone could have noticed the letter earlier, Detective. It was mixed with Saturday’s mail— which is delivered so late in the afternoon that we rarely see it before Sunday morning. This letter writer couldn’t have known that we wouldn’t see it earlier, of course. But as a practical matter, I don’t see how any of us could have stopped this murder. So rest easy, Detective, your conscience is clear.”

  “No, Mr. Bogarty. I’m afraid I can never rest easy. Not until these murders stop— and the killer is behind bars.”

  “I think you really ought to reconsider letting us publish these letters. A reader just might recognize something.”

  “Nice try,” I answered with good humor, “but no publication until the case is closed. I expect you to honor our agreement.”

  A competitive edge crept into his voice. “All right. But we won’t be scooped. The other papers—The Herald, The World, and The Tribune— have each run small blurbs about Annie Germa
ine’s death. So far, they are only of the ‘a twenty-two-year-old female victim has lost her life’ variety. But it’s only a matter of time before they discover a pattern— and the larger story behind it. And it’s pure luck that they’re not getting letters, too.”

  I took the letter. “I’ll ask the reporters outside a few questions, if you don’t mind. And if anything else comes up . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Detective. We’ll call.”

  “And one more thing, Mr. Bogarty. If you see any other letters— or learn anything else important about this case— please try your best to reach me directly.” I scribbled down several numbers in addition to Mulvaney’s precinct-house number. I even included Alistair’s number, knowing that any important message given to Alistair would waste no time getting to me.

  I spoke with all the reporters in the City Room, but they echoed exactly what Jack had just said: the blue letter had appeared in the City Room apparently unnoticed by anyone. At least— anyone willing to admit it.

  But I had the letter in hand. And if I had learned nothing else, I now knew one thing: this killer was still advertising his moves, literally daring us to stop him.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Ladies’ Boudoir, The New Amsterdam Theater

  “His change in method is what troubles me most,” Alistair said, pacing the length of the sitting-room area.

  He and Isabella had joined me soon after I got word to them of the latest developments. I was back at the New Amsterdam, in the ladies’ boudoir, where Dr. Wilcox had set up temporary care for Detective Marwin. It was a pink lounge with a rose motif that ran along the carpets, wallpaper, and even the cushions of the satinwood furniture that filled the room. But as a large room with two distinct sections, designed to hold ladies as they attended to their elaborate, fashionable dress, its size easily accommodated the sofa and all manner of supplies brought in for Marwin’s treatment. The doctor had tried to make his barely conscious patient comfortable at the rear of the room, where a velvet rose curtain was drawn for greater privacy.

  “You mean because the killer didn’t leave a letter at the crime scene, as he’s done before?” I asked Alistair to clarify.

  “Not in and of itself.” Alistair spun to face me. “What disturbs me is that he’s become indiscriminate. He posted notice of his victim in an advertisement— a playbill poster— for anyone to see. It was a passive method for getting his message across, whereas his prior attempts— the letters to the police, the letter to The Times— were specifically targeted.”

  “But he still wrote this letter to The Times,” I said, pointing to the eggshell-blue letter that lay on the table in front of us. “He still gave us advance warning of his plans.”

  “Did he?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “The Times didn’t ignore it this time; in fact, they called as soon as they found it. And that was still too late to save Emmaline Billings.”

  “All right. The timing’s in question. But the wording is meant to give advance warning— this ‘theater under the stars’ obviously refers to the Aerial Gardens rooftop.”

  Isabella ventured a guess. “What if the killer didn’t leave a letter with Miss Billings’s body because he was interrupted— or simply ran out of time before the janitor was expected to arrive Sunday morning?” With a slight shudder, she added, “To position her corpse as he did, he obviously took much more time than with the others.”

  “You might also argue,” I said, thinking aloud, “that he is exercising more creativity. With the murders of Eliza Downs and Annie Germaine, he dressed them for a part before he killed them. And when their bodies were discovered, they were posed in a dramatic way. Maybe he’s just becoming more theatrical about the entire death scene he creates.”

  Alistair became more animated once he’d heard my idea. “Ziele, you may just be onto something. It’s possible he is putting more effort into creating not just a scene, but an entire dramatic production— complete with the rescuer, whoever he or she may be, entering the drama itself.” He continued to talk, his hands gesticulating with excitement. “This theory would actually give us an explanation for why he randomly planted the cyanide poison. It wasn’t enough, this time, simply to kill Emmaline Billings. He also set a trap to kill whoever would untie her— literally weaponizing his first victim to target his second one.”

  “And that victim could have been anyone,” Isabella whispered.

  “Exactly. He had no way of knowing who that person would be.” He gestured toward the part of the room where David Marwin was fighting for his life. “It could have been you in there,” he said to me. “Or Mulvaney. Or the janitor who found her— had he decided to try to free her, rather than call for the police.”

  I shook my head. “But it doesn’t explain one aspect of it all that seems unlike him. His crime scenes are carefully planned and orchestrated. But these last elements leave a good deal to chance.”

  “They incorporate the element of surprise, if you will,” Alistair said with a bemused smile. “Whoever this man is, his mind works in odd ways indeed.”

  Beyond the curtain, Dr. Wilcox continued to work on his patient, and we overheard his sporadic commands for more hot compresses and different stimulants, including whiskey and sulfate of strychnine.

  Mulvaney emerged from the makeshift sickroom, closing the curtain tightly behind.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. His complexion had turned slightly green.

  “They’re going to inject him with a saline solution to flush his bloodstream.” Mulvaney collapsed onto the sofa opposite me. “How his mother can take this, I don’t know. I surely can’t.”

  Marwin’s mother, a stiff, gray-haired lady with a face of stone, had arrived within minutes of receiving Mulvaney’s message and immediately set to work as the doctor’s assistant.

  “How is he doing?” Isabella asked.

  “He’s still with us,” Mulvaney said. “It’s enough for now.” He paused for a moment. “What I can’t figure out is why this murderer also wanted to kill Detective Marwin.”

  Alistair shook his head. “As I was saying, he didn’t specifically target Detective Marwin. He was indiscriminate, intending to hurt whoever came to her aid.”

  “And that’s very different behavior from someone who specifically targets young female actresses,” I said flatly. “Should we consider that it may be someone else? A copycat, if you will? It’s not as though we’re unfamiliar with that sort of crime.”

  Alistair gave me a steady look. “I’d say the coroner holds the key to answering that question. What we learned from Miss Germaine’s autopsy was that few killers possess sufficient skill to snuff out a life without leaving so much as a single mark on the body. If Miss Billings follows that pattern, then we can feel confident that this is a single killer who has simply chosen to vary his methods. Otherwise, yes, we’ll have to consider the possibility of a copycat.”

  “Would any of you like a glass of water?” I got up and went to the pitcher on the side bar to help myself to a glass. To accommodate the doctor’s request for liquids, the officers had brought in water, brandy, and other liquors they’d found in the wooden bar outside the lounge.

  “I would,” Isabella said.

  “How about something stronger?” Alistair cast a hopeful glance toward the brandy and scotch.

  “No need to use their supplies. I’ve got something right here.” Mulvaney tapped his jacket pocket before pulling out a small bottle of Clonmel single-malt Irish whiskey. “Bring over a couple extra glasses, would you?”

  After I obliged, he poured a dram of the whiskey into each of the two glasses. “Ireland’s finest. There’s no better.”

  I knew Alistair’s taste ran to Scottish varieties, but to his credit, he refrained from mentioning it.

  “Ziele?” Mulvaney offered to pour a third.

  “No, thanks,” I said dryly. “Too early for me.”

  And it was. The clock had just chimed two o’clock.

  “So why does it matter t
hat the killer varied his methods?” Mulvaney asked. “With this murder, I grant you that he became more diabolical. And smarter, I’d say; he picked an out-of-the-way venue where he wouldn’t be interrupted. So what? It still looks to me like the exact same guy who killed the other chorus girls.”

  “But why?” Alistair said. “Three deaths, very nearly four, depending on whether Detective Marwin pulls through, and we’re no closer to understanding what motivates this killer than we were a few days ago.”

  “Why do we need to understand him?” Mulvaney asked as he refilled his glass. “Some violence is just senseless, and some people are evil, pure and simple. In the end, isn’t our ability to stop them all that matters?”

  “And how will you stop them if you can’t understand the nature of who or what you’re trying to stop? Mens rea. Mental state. A guilty mind. It’s the foundation of criminal law, and the essence of what we must understand to know the criminal impulse,” Alistair countered. “To say that senseless violence by its nature is too difficult to understand is ridiculous. Of course, it may never make sense to reasonable minds. But it has its own logic. And that’s what we must figure out.”

  Mulvaney shot Alistair a dubious look. “I don’t know. . . .”

  Isabella jumped in to smooth things over. “What do you have to lose by asking the questions Alistair is raising? Three women are dead, and a man’s life remains in jeopardy. If asking these questions enables us to stay just one step ahead . . . to save just one life . . . then why not?”

  We were all silent for a moment, thinking.

  “Okay,” I said, for the sake of argument. “Let’s assume it is the same killer. What bothers me is not the fact that he became ‘indiscriminate,’ as you mentioned before, in planting a poison that might have injured anyone. Why use the poison at all? Why escalate the attack in this manner? And why write all these damn letters— to us, to The Times, almost to anyone who will listen,” I continued. “What does he gain by doing that?”