Molly was not surprised to see me. “I figured your curiosity would get the better of you,” she said with a bright smile as she took a seat primly on the sofa across from me.
I sat awkwardly, legs crossed, my knees thrust tightly against a satinwood coffee table. The parlor was clearly set up for courting couples, with opposite sofas arranged in cozy fashion— though not so close as to invite any impropriety. Clearly, arrangements had been designed for the comfort of men shorter than myself.
Molly looked at me askance. “Last night you said the case was closed and my information was of no importance. Mind telling me what changed?”
“Let’s just say I’d had a rough day yesterday. I’m entitled to a change of heart, no?”
“They say it’s a woman’s prerogative.” She was almost flirtatious as she flashed another dimpled smile. “But I’ll allow it.”
I uncrossed my legs, attempting to stretch them. “You said you had information relating to the case. Was it about one of the more recent victims?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But remember how I told you the other night that Annie had met a new fellow— someone she believed would make her into a star?” She caught her breath. “Well, there’s a man who’s been hanging out around the stage door recently, paying a lot of attention to me and the other girls.”
I simply waited, letting her continue to talk.
“Of course I’ve no way of knowing if he’s the same person as the fellow who was courting Annie.”
A fellow had been paying attention to Miss Downs and Miss Billings as well . . . but she’d know nothing of that, of course. I kept my expression poker-faced, betraying nothing.
She was saying, “Maybe it’s just my knowing what happened to Annie, but this man makes me uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable in what way?”
When she remained silent, at a loss for words, I helped her out. “Do you mean he is too familiar? Or maybe he seems to know too much about you?”
She considered it for a moment. “I suppose he is just odd— both familiar and indifferent, at the same time. He’s brought me flowers after every performance— and to the other girls, too. But he doesn’t seem to like any one of us, in particular. It’s as though he’s waiting to see which one of us will encourage him most.”
“And have you— encouraged him?”
I hoped that for a moment she could forget that I was my father’s son. I didn’t want her to lie to me now, and I couldn’t have cared less about the particulars of their relationship. For all I knew, her expectations mirrored those of my father, and he— a consummate womanizer— would think nothing of turning his own attention in a new direction.
If she lied, it wasn’t in the way I expected.
“I can encourage him if you want.” She thrust her chin out, then almost immediately looked away, blushing, as though she’d just realized what she’d offered. “Only if it would help your investigation,” she added lamely.
“What would help me is any details you can give,” I said gently, “such as his name, or his general description?”
She seemed almost surprised that my questions were so simple.
“He’s a regular sort of guy: clean-cut, young, in his late twenties if I had to guess. Light brown hair that could almost be described as a dirty blond. He dresses well and is quite confident and sure of himself.”
“And his name?”
She was silent for a minute. “I think I heard one of the other girls call him Daniel.”
Charles Frohman had a brother named Daniel, I had learned from reading news files about the syndicate. But of course, there was no reason to believe that the suitor Molly described was using his real name.
“How does he sign the card with his flowers?”
She smirked. “ ‘An ardent admirer.’ He signs all our cards the same way.”
I laughed. “He’s not very discreet, then. Do you still have the card he sent you?”
A guilty expression crossed her face before she shook her head. “I tossed them all. But I can ask the other girls when I see them tonight.”
“Please, when they come in. And if he’s at tonight’s show . . .”
She tossed her head. “Will you come tonight, to watch and see?”
“Maybe. If I can’t, I’ll send someone I trust.”
I caught her look of disappointment. But she hadn’t told me enough— at least yet— to entice me to spend time at her stage door rather than pursue more-likely leads. The odd suitor she described sounded like a starstruck, not terribly sophisticated young man, and there was nothing to indicate he was the same man who had courted and killed three other actresses. Alistair had been right: it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
I decided to give her one more chance. “Is there anything else about this man that you remember as distinctive or unusual? Anything that makes you suspicious, other than the fact of his indiscriminate attentions?”
She bit her lip, said, “No,” and I was struck that she was unsatisfied— that something was left unsaid.
Then I realized we were not alone.
My father had entered the room, dressed in his best blue suit with a silk handkerchief showing from his pocket. He at least looked the part of a man with money in his pocket and not a care in the world.
“Simon, my boy,” he said with a cavalier smile. “I came to take Molly to the theater. Are you ready, love?”
She reached into her pocket, pulled out her watch, and started when she saw the time. She ran a hand anxiously through her red curls, then stood. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of the time, and it’s an earlier rehearsal call than usual. We have a couple of new chorus members who need a full run-through.” She walked to my father and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be just ten minutes. You’re a dear to come by to remind me.”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “Don’t I always walk you to the theater and home again these days? Can’t be too careful, given the case that Simon’s investigating.”
“Thank you for sharing the information you did. Every detail helps,” I said, getting up with no small mea sure of relief, for my legs now ached from their cramped position. I pulled awkwardly to lift my satchel, which was half stuck under the sofa.
She nodded to me and was gone.
I turned to my father. “I can be reached at this number tonight, should she remember anything else.” I wrote Alistair’s number on a card and passed it to him.
“Simon, I—” He regarded me with sincere concern.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner on Friday.”
My meeting with Molly Hansen had been brief, so I decided to catch up with Alistair in the theater district, reasoning that with so many theaters and productions to canvass, he could use some help. I canvassed the Savoy, the Lyric, and the Casino theaters, simply because I wanted to be thorough. While they were not Frohman theaters, they still had productions opening in the coming weeks— so I wanted to know about their operations and the people involved in the shows. There was no sign of Alistair; his strategy had obviously been to visit the Frohman theaters first. Perhaps, between the two of us, we’d manage to see them all today.
It was as I left the Casino that I noticed a large office on the second floor, filled with memorabilia and posters, with an executive oak-and-leather desk in the back corner. It gave me just the germ of an idea that might help. . . .
I caught the ear of one of the office staff— a gawky young man who was delivering some papers to the office in question. “Is that Mr. Shubert’s office?” I asked.
“Sure is,” he said with a nod. “Mr. Sam Shubert, that is. His brother’s office is one more floor up. Both of them are traveling this week.”
Charles Frohman, I realized, would have an office just like this one. I would double-check, but I was almost certain it was at the Empire, where Frohman’s biggest hit continued to play: Peter Pan, starring Maude Adams.
I had formed a new plan with
in minutes. And it just might work—assuming, of course, that I could convince Isabella to join me for a night at the theater.
CHAPTER 25
The Dakota Building, 1 West Seventy-second Street
This time, Mrs. Mellown gave me a welcoming smile when she opened the door to apartment 8B.
“Shall I set another plate for dinner, Detective?” she asked as she took my coat and hat from me. “Maybe that will encourage the professor to eat. What ever case you’re working on has him so wound up, he won’t come to the table— and his pot roast is getting cold.” She made a clucking noise of disapproval.
I thanked her and accepted the invitation as she ushered me into Alistair’s library. Alistair might be uninterested, but Mrs. Mellown’s roast would be my only chance of a meal this evening. I still had to dress for the eight o’clock show, so there would be no time for dinner out.
“Simon!” Isabella looked up in surprise. She was seated on Alistair’s sofa, making notes on a tablet. “I didn’t expect to see you this evening.”
“I have two tickets to see Peter Pan tonight— would you come with me?” I blurted.
Isabella’s eyes widened in confusion.
“Only the two of you?” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “It’s a fabulous show. I’ve seen it twice already, and Miss Adams always outdoes herself. . . .” His thoughts seemed to drift off to some other place.
“It’s for the investigation. Unfortunately, I was only able to get two tickets,” I explained for Alistair’s benefit. That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want his help tonight. And at $2.50 apiece for prime third-row aisle seats, I couldn’t easily afford a third ticket.
“Besides, I believe Isabella makes a far more suitable companion,” I added with a smile. “I was hoping you might watch the stage door at the Garrick. Molly Hansen complained to me this afternoon that she’s being pursued by a stagestruck young man. And just in case it’s the same man . . .”
I didn’t bother to finish. Alistair immediately understood and agreed.
“Of course, of course.” Alistair chuckled. “And what sort of project are you pursuing, old chap?”
“One that involves learning more about Frohman. Come.” I gestured for Alistair to follow me. “I believe Mrs. Mellown has set dinner for us. Let’s talk briefly before I have to leave.”
Isabella sprang into action, leaving us in short order. “I’ll be back. I’ve got to dress.”
Alistair frowned at me in disapproval. “And you certainly can’t go to the theater dressed like that.”
My cheap brown suit, I knew, had seen better days. Even the patch on my left-sleeve elbow was becoming threadbare.
“I was hoping to borrow an evening jacket,” I said, following his cue.
“You’ll find appropriate evening wear in Ted—” he caught himself, “I mean, in the guest-bedroom closet.”
And he was gone before I caught even a glimpse of his expression.
But I could not imagine that he was entirely comfortable with my putting on his deceased son’s suit and squiring the same son’s widow to the theater. I certainly wasn’t. And the fact that Teddy’s clothing proved to be almost a perfect fit— suggesting that I was more or less his same build and size— did not help matters at all.
I gritted my teeth and resolved not to think of it. It was just the first of many discomfiting things I would need to do this night.
Alistair had no comment when I joined him at the dinner table some ten minutes later, and our talk immediately turned to the case. Alistair’s theater visits had turned up little of interest, other than the names of all actresses in each production. After I briefed him on my progress that afternoon, Alistair made a prediction. “I’m in complete agreement with Isabella: the killer’s next target will be Romeo and Juliet.”
He waited for a moment, then looked around, suddenly distracted. “Did Mrs. Mellown not open a bottle of wine for us?” He went over to his wine cabinet and made a selection, showing it to me before he uncorked it. “I picked up this Burgundy last summer in France. It has a refined complexity that is remarkable.” He poured two glasses, passing one to me to taste.
I enjoyed it— though I didn’t register its “complexity,” which was too sophisticated for my palate.
Now settled in with his favored Burgundy, he picked at the pot roast on the plate before him and refocused his thoughts. “All the shows— other than Romeo and Juliet— share a single characteristic that, I believe, disqualifies them as an appropriate setting for his next murder.”
“And what characteristic is that?” I hunted through the roast in search of more vegetables.
With a pleased expression, he leaned back in his chair, his right fingers tracing the stem of his wineglass. “It’s All Your Fault opens April second. The Social Whirl opens the ninth. And Arms and the Man premieres the sixteenth, the same date as Frohman’s The American Lord. And I ask you— what do those dates all have in common that Romeo and Juliet does not?”
I played along, though I had never enjoyed Alistair’s games. “They all premiere in April, Romeo and Juliet opens in March, and you think the killer’s in a hurry,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.
He gave me an approving glance. “You’re learning, Ziele— though that’s not exactly what I had in mind.” He pushed his half-eaten dinner to the side. “Our killer may be in a hurry— or not. I’ve no way of knowing that.” Then he edged his chair closer to the table, leaning in toward me. “But I do know he is trying to outdo himself with every murder. I think he’s aiming for something big. For a grand premiere itself, not just an ordinary night. And Romeo and Juliet will have the most lavish premiere.”
I shook my head. “I’m not saying that it doesn’t make sense, Alistair. But why has it got to be a premiere? Why not a dress rehearsal— or an ordinary performance, as he’s chosen before?”
Alistair smiled. “Because of something Isabella found when she reviewed the letters. Not a message,” he added hastily when he saw my reaction, “but a common refrain in each letter, up to and including the most recent one he sent to The New York Times. He wants to transform his victims into stars. And with each victim, he has aimed for increasingly larger audiences.”
“You’ll need to walk me through this one.”
“Well, his initial effort was simple. He left his first blue letter by his victim, wanting his audience to understand what he’d done. But that didn’t work. Eliza Downs was seen as a suicide, and the note he wrote was actually mistaken to be her own suicide letter. That must have been a disappointment,” he said, putting it delicately. “Next,” he took a breath, “he decided to give some advance warning of his designs. So, prior to Annie Germaine’s murder, he sent a letter to The Times, detailing his plans, no doubt hoping the press would become interested in the case. But not only didn’t they notice until it was too late— they viewed the letter as a joke and ignored it. Just as the letter by Miss Germaine’s body might have been disregarded if Leon Iseman had not noticed the similarities to Miss Downs’s murder and called the police.”
“At last gaining him the attention he wanted.”
“But not enough. We prevailed upon The Times to keep quiet until the case was solved. So he upped the stakes, yet again, with Miss Billings— complete with playbill ads in the lobby and a booby trap to injure whoever responded with help. He taunted us with his reference to Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm.” This time there was no mistaking him: he was as dramatic as he was dangerous, making clear he was someone to be reckoned with.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “True. But from that, you get that he is going for a premiere show?”
When he answered, his voice reflected his conviction. “Absolutely. He keeps escalating, and it takes more to satisfy him. I don’t know if you noticed in today’s Times,” he added, “but I prevailed upon our friends there to suppress any mention of Detective Marwin.”
I had noticed, but had thought it was the result of luck, not of Alistair’s intervention. And Alis
tair’s leap of logic— from “the killer is escalating his behavior” to “the killer will definitely choose a premiere”— was speculative at best.
Alistair saw my hesitation and immediately tried to allay my fears. “You know, in what I do, I freely admit there’s as much ‘art’ involved as there is ‘science.’ Sometimes you simply have to trust your instincts, just as you did in deciding to believe Timothy Poe’s declaration of innocence.”
“But I have no instinct on this,” I said, spreading my hands wide.
“That’s why I’m asking you to trust me.”
I simply stared at him. It was a hard thing to ask— especially where Alistair was concerned. His brilliance, I trusted implicitly. But his instincts?
I’d previously found them to be lacking, at least where ethical boundaries— not criminal behavior— were concerned.
Then again, as I well knew, the hardest ethical judgment calls involved compromising one ideal in the ser vice of another. I’d certainly done it myself, when lives were at stake.
I was still mulling over the issue when Isabella’s clear voice called out to me, asking if I was ready for the theater.
She stood by the entrance to Alistair’s dining room, breathtaking in a black-velvet-and-sequin evening gown with her hair done up in a more elegant fashion than I’d seen before. A small diamond heart nestled within the hollow of her throat. The effect was simple yet stunning.
I got up, stiff and suddenly awkward— and aware, with a pang of guilt, that I was not myself. To night I had dressed in borrowed clothes, preparing to play a role not my own.
“Enjoy yourselves,” Alistair said, pouring himself another glass of wine as he gave us a look that was almost mournful. “And don’t worry— I’ll be at the Garrick by half past ten to observe anyone who approaches Molly Hansen.”
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