A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “Fine,” I said. “I could just use some light.” Though it was a small room, no more than eight feet by ten feet wide, the dull gray skies outside permitted little natural light to illuminate the space.

  “I’ve got a box of Lucifers, if that helps,” Alistair called out, sounding very far away.

  “Let me find a candle.” If Robert had spent time in here, I reasoned, he would have sometimes come in after dark— and would have needed a light. I finally found a half-burned candle in a saucer on top of a small table to my left. Alistair stepped inside with his matches and we lit it— then stood perfectly still in the flickering light, allowing our eyes to adjust to the room around us. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in anticipation. After a few minutes, we saw more clearly.

  I scanned the other contents of the table. It was covered with dirt and detritus, the cast-off items of someone’s life: a spool of thread, some jacks and a ball, a deck of cards, knitting needles, and countless books. The latter smelled of mold and mildew; it appeared that the shed was far from watertight. There was also a playbill and two ticket stubs dated November 30 from an 1899 production of Cyrano de Bergerac at the Garden Theater. I recognized the star— Richard Mansfield— but it was not a Frohman production.

  “Let’s start here,” I said, grim-faced, pointing to the south wall, where some photographs and cards were tacked to the wall. I stepped carefully, avoiding piles of old shoes, both men’s and women’s.

  Alistair looked nervously at the open door behind us.

  “I’d rather have the air and the light,” I said. “I don’t think anyone will notice. It’s not visible from the street.”

  With a deep breath, he came close to me, the wood floor groaning loudly under the strain of his step.

  “Careful,” I warned, as he nearly tripped over the mountain of shoes that I’d just avoided.

  I held the light up to the wall, illuminating each picture one by one as best as the flickering candle would allow. And there, on the wall, was the evidence that told us we had identified our adversary: pictures of Pygmalion.

  A black-and-white postcard depicted a man reaching out toward a nude woman. It looked like a reproduction of a painting, such as what vendors sold for a penny outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Its subtitle read PYGMALION AND GALATEA. We quickly realized that the second picture was its twin: the same figures, this time from the rear perspective.

  Alistair let forth a low whistle.

  “You must know these,” I said.

  Alistair nodded. “These postcards replicate two paintings by Jean-Léon Gérôme of the sculptor Pygmalion and his creation Galatea. Both depict the moment she comes to life. And here she is again,” he said with excitement, pointing to another card tacked on the wall below, depicting the woman, the sculptor, and a baby. “I’ve seen this one as well. I forget the name of the painter . . . Anne something, from the early nineteenth century. She’s drawing on one version of the myth that suggests Pygmalion and his statue bore a son.”

  I turned my attention to the space to the right of the postcards, where a phrase was painted in red, sloppy letters: “The gods make life. I can only make death.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. Here, in this godforsaken place, the words seemed especially chilling— almost tantamount to an admission of murder. We had truly found our man.

  Alistair had said that this killer, whom we now knew to be Robert Coby, was one of the most unusual criminals he had ever encountered. His mind, obviously filled with crazy obsessions, was not one I particularly wanted to know or understand. Yet, I understood that to catch him, I needed to do exactly that. So, taking a deep breath, I asked Alistair if he believed the phrase related to the postcards in some way.

  Alistair placed the candle on a plank that jutted out from the wall, much like a shelf, and ran his fingers over the words. “I’m not sure,” he finally said, “but I believe it refers yet again to Pygmalion. It may even be from the play itself.”

  I pulled out my notebook and pencil to write it all down.

  Alistair ran his hand over his brow. “We need to imagine all this,” he gestured to the walls around us, “from Robert’s perspective. I believe it’s safe to assume he co-opted this space because it was set apart from the main house, offering him privacy. He’s used that privacy to nurture the obsession we see here.” His voice grew sober. “We’re in the very space where he gave birth to his fantasies.”

  “Fantasies he took with him to the city and made real on the stages of three different theaters,” I said, picking up Alistair’s train of thought.

  I’d not often thought so, but today I was grateful for Alistair’s companionship, even for his help. For the first time, we seemed to be allies in understanding, working toward a common goal.

  “But I’m confused by how Frohman— and perhaps Leon Iseman— played a role in Robert’s plans. We know Coby has an obsession with certain women— specifically, those who can fulfill his fantasies about Pygmalion and Galatea. Yet he targeted Frohman’s theaters. His aunt blames Frohman and Iseman for working in concert to destroy Elaine Coby, Robert’s mother. Frankly, Coby’s obsession sounds exactly like what you’ve always told me: that fantasy plays a large role in forming criminal behavior.”

  “Go on,” Alistair said.

  “But the rest of it sounds like a standard revenge plot. I can’t make sense of it, together.” I gestured to the walls around us.

  Alistair gave me a bemused smile. “You’ve said so yourself: life doesn’t always follow a scientific theory. What if Robert Coby has channeled his obsession with women— specifically, dead women, Galatea figures— into the ser vice of his hatred of Charles Frohman?”

  “Allowing him to kill two birds with one stone, to use a poor analogy?”

  “Exactly.”

  I looked again at the red-painted phrase and felt only one sensation: fear.

  As though he knew what I was feeling, Alistair said, “Remember what I’ve told you: evil is less threatening the more we understand it.”

  I considered the five boxes at the center of the room. “I suppose something in those may help shed light on the question.”

  With no small amount of trepidation, we pushed our way to the boxes, brushing aside more cobwebs, listening to the floor squeak beneath our feet.

  I bent over, using my pocketknife to open the first box, which was taped shut. I had just reached in to pull out the first item when— with a great gust of air— the door slammed shut, extinguishing the light.

  We jumped— and in sheer panic, Alistair rushed for the door, throwing it open and looking out into the yard.

  I was right behind him, my right hand reaching for my gun.

  We split up, circling to the back of the shed, looking in and around the overgrowth of vines and shrubs that shrouded the building.

  “Maybe it was the wind?” He gave me a doubtful look, because though it was a blustery day, the door had shut with amazing force.

  But what ever the reason for the door closing, no one was here now. We went back inside, relit the candle, and resumed working with renewed energy. I couldn’t shake the sense that this was a sinister place we were searching, and I was anxious to finish our business and be on our way.

  We tackled each box, one by one, pulling out its contents to survey by the candle’s flickering light. At first, there was nothing of significance: scores of notebooks filled with writing— years’ worth, including plays and poems written in the spidery hand we now knew so well. But nothing resembling a diary. No photographs. No personal letters, not even from his mother. I was surprised, since most people kept something. My own flat in Dobson contained few personal possessions, but there was a box in the top of my closet that contained photographs and letters written by my mother and Hannah. The items were too painful to see yet too precious to throw away. But Robert may have kept similar items elsewhere— or even purged his life of such memories altogether.

  After we finished, I checked the shed
thoroughly to make sure we had missed nothing. It was then that I found the final box. It was a small trunk, really, made of sturdier material than cardboard. Far heavier than the others, it was buried in the ground, underneath a series of loose planks that I kicked out of the way.

  We brought it up with some difficulty, placing it on top of the other boxes. It had a padlock on front— but it was unsophisticated, and I was easily able to pick it open with the tools I had brought.

  Alistair held the candle high above its contents.

  We peered inside and saw only a crumpled sheet, its floral pattern heavily stained with a dark substance.

  I reached in and pulled it aside to see what it obscured. Slowly, slowly . . . until Alistair and I had a full view of what lay below.

  Had we not been prepared for the worst, we might have jumped, even cried out.

  “What in the devil’s name . . .” Alistair swore softly.

  Someone’s hand— at least, the skeletal remains of it— rested in the box. The bones were small, delicate even— though of course I could not really know what they had looked like in life. On the third skeletal finger was a small diamond-and-sapphire ring. It glittered brilliantly in the candlelight.

  We stared— shivering as a draft of cold air wafted in through the open door.

  “Are the bones human— perhaps a girl’s?” I asked, hesitating— aware that I was making an assumption based on the fact that the ring was obviously a female’s, and that this victim had been killed wearing it.

  Alistair paused for a moment to consider. “They’re small enough. And the fact that he left the ring around her finger— or, put it there postmortem— must have some significance.”

  We checked the remaining contents of the box but there was nothing.

  There were noises from the street, so we quickly emptied the contents of Alistair’s satchel into my own, then transplanted the skeletal hand and ring to Alistair’s bag for transport. Making our way back to the ferry, we discussed the two biggest challenges now facing us: how to prove these remains were human, and how to find Robert Coby.

  “I have to go to Mulvaney,” I explained. “But I won’t convince him that he has gotten the case wrong without solid proof.”

  “Surely we found enough evidence today?” Alistair looked at me in surprise.

  “It’s all circumstantial,” I said, shaking my head. “We can’t even confirm that these remains are in fact human.”

  “They certainly look to be,” he said sharply.

  “And looks can deceive,” I retorted. “I won’t stake my reputation on unsubstantiated evidence.”

  Fortunately, Alistair soon came up with a solution: he had a friend, a paleontologist at the American Museum of Natural History, who could be counted on for his discretion and knowledge.

  “Are you sure?” I pressed Alistair. “After all, dinosaur bones and human ones are very different. Perhaps I should risk calling Dr. Wilcox.”

  He waved away my objection, saying, “My friend will be up to the task.”

  And so we boarded the last train to New York, sitting silently most of the trip. But the bones Alistair carried in his bag— the skeletal remains of the hand of an unknown girl— called out to me throughout the journey, refusing me rest, reminding me of justice undone.

  Thursday

  March 22, 1906

  CHAPTER 28

  The American Museum of Natural History,

  Central Park West,

  between Seventy-eighth and Eighty-first streets

  “You entertain dark suspicions, gentlemen. My own poor skills may not be up to the task of confirming them.” Professor Saul Loman pushed his glasses back up from where they had fallen to the tip of his nose.

  “We’ll take that chance,” Alistair said, clearing his throat as he made a weak attempt at humor. “We also appreciate that no other bone expert in this city would meet us on such short notice to analyze these remains and tell us something about their own er’s age, gender, and life history.”

  Saul chuckled. “You have high hopes, my friend.”

  The electric light inside flickered in response to a loud thunderclap— for a full-fledged thunderstorm was now raging outside. It was past midnight in the bowels of New York’s Museum of Natural History. Alistair had managed to locate a telephone at the hotel in Greenport before we boarded our train home: he had made two telephone calls. His frantic call to Saul Loman had convinced the paleontologist to open his lab to us after-hours, when he should by all rights have been home in bed. And his call to Frank Riley had prompted the reporter to search old news files for any missing-persons cases on Shelter Island during the past decade. I had made one call myself, to an old friend in the Fifth Precinct; he had promised to run a search through police records as well as the city directory for any mention of Robert Coby.

  Alistair had explained to me earlier that Saul Loman was one of the museum’s elite researchers, handpicked by Henry Fairfield Osborn to help restore several impressive dinosaur-fossil discoveries. But I cared more for what Professor Loman might tell us about the bones we had found on Shelter Island. With each passing hour, Thursday night’s premiere of Romeo and Juliet drew nearer. And I needed proof to secure Mulvaney’s help.

  “I realize we’d be better off with a human anthropologist,” Alistair said by way of apology. “Or even someone from the coroner’s office.”

  “So why did you call me?” The professor’s voice was gruff, belying the gleam of interest that flickered in his eyes. “There are other men with far more expertise. Aleš Hrdlička at the Smithsonian specializes in human remains analysis. And George Dorsey at the Field Museum in Chicago has experience with sensational murder cases, including that one involving the sausage maker a few years ago. Either man,” he said, “would provide far better help than I can offer.”

  My words sounded desperate, even to my own ears. “We needed someone’s help immediately. Even tomorrow morning may be too late for us.”

  He remained dubious, so I added, “We’re actually working at the moment in an unofficial capacity.”

  “Ah.” An even brighter glint appeared in his eyes. And I saw that he was more than a man of discretion: he actually enjoyed the prospect of participating in a secret, unofficial investigation. It excited him in ways that a more traditional inquiry did not. I should have known that a man who would meet us in the dead of night— unlocking the door to the museum where he worked— was a maverick of sorts. Just like Alistair, I reflected. Saul Loman would risk a great deal for any cause he supported; fortunately, based on what ever Alistair had told him, he appeared ready to support ours.

  “All right then.” He moved closer to the skeletal hand, which was laid out on a white sheet. Touching it gently with a small instrument that resembled a toothpick, he began his analysis.

  “Well, I can tell you straight off, these bones are indeed human. You can see how they match up here.” He showed us an anatomical chart—a virtual diagram of the human skeletal hand. “The finger bones here are called phalanges. Note how well each correlates to the diagram. For example, look at the thumb.” He touched the relevant bone fragment with his instrument. “We can see the tip, or distal phalanx, the proximal phalanx, and the metacarpal. The bones in the palm, here,” he continued to point, “are the carpals.”

  He opened an overstuffed manual titled Human Anatomy that he had pulled from his bookshelf soon after we arrived. “The bones you have, unfortunately, are not the most dispositive in yielding information about this skeleton’s life history. The pelvis bone, for example, might have allowed me to tell you conclusively that these are the bones of a woman. That’s because, to accommodate childbirth, the female pelvis is typically wider than that of the average male. The skull might have allowed me to estimate her age based upon the presence and condition of her teeth.”

  “We understand there will be limits to what you can tell us.” Alistair moved closer to the table, listening to the professor with rapt attention.

&n
bsp; “And what I tell you will not necessarily be accepted by all scientists— or even the majority of them. It may prove nothing.” Quickly flipping to a section on measurements, Loman continued to talk. “Long bones provide more accurate information, but based on the mea sure ments of the finger bones here, I believe this hand is from a female skeleton. You’ll see the fingers are actually within the averages compiled by researchers for typical female phalanges.”

  “And of course, that would make sense given the circumstances in which we found them: wearing a ring,” Alistair said.

  “Can you tell us how quickly her corpse would have decomposed into these skeletal remains?” I asked.

  Professor Loman shrugged. “It depends, based upon where her body was found. For example, if animals or insects had access to it, then she might have skeletonized in as little as one to two months.”

  “And what’s the outside estimate, assuming her corpse decomposed more slowly?”

  He took a breath, considered it, and said, “A conservative estimate would be around six months. More than that, her bones will not tell me. She may have lain in a forest for three months— or for three years. The fact that her hand is now a skeleton only really tells us she did not die in recent weeks.” He pulled out his magnifying glass to examine the thumb. “I can see that she once broke her thumb. The small bump here,” he used his toothpick to touch the area, “shows a well-healed fracture.”

  “How long before her death?” Alistair asked.

  He shrugged. “Impossible to tell, but I suspect it was a childhood injury. It’s something else that may help you with identification. Assuming, of course, that the owner of the ring and the remains are one and the same.”

  I thought again of the gold ring, its sapphire gem anchored on either side by two tiny diamonds. It was the kind of ring typically worn by a young lady. Of course, it was possible that Robert Coby had simply found the ring. Or that it was a family ring, taken from his mother’s possessions. Yet I believed it had significance, if only because I had some idea of the man with whom we were dealing. For Robert Coby did not make insignificant choices.