A Curtain Falls (3 page)

“Perhaps. But Mr. Frohman may have it if you don’t.” Mr. Iseman stalked away once he’d issued his dark warning.

Mulvaney’s face set in determination.

“I know something of Charles Frohman,” I said. “But what I know doesn’t explain why everyone here is so . . .” I searched for
the right word to characterize the odd mix of deference and fear that I had observed in both Mr. Iseman and Miss Bowen.

“Absurdly cowed by the man?” Mulvaney made an irreverent face before he grew serious again. “At least where Miss Bowen is concerned, I think I understand,” Mulvaney said. “When we say Charles Frohman runs the syndicate and manages hundreds of theaters, we can’t forget that means he is handpicking those actors and actresses who will play in them. He has a reputation as a star-maker. If Miss Bowen wants to become— and remain— one of his featured performers, then she’d better play by his rules.”

“And Mr. Iseman?”

Mulvaney flashed a big grin. “I’d guess the man is extremely well paid.”

We were interrupted by Dr. Wilcox, who was at last making his way downstage, equipment bag in hand. He was a tall, rail-thin man with a bald head and black-rimmed glasses. Always lean, he appeared to have lost weight since I had last seen him, almost a year ago.

Without preliminaries, Max Wilcox acknowledged us with a nod and set to work. It would be a precursory exam only, designed to obtain the most basic of information before Annie Germaine’s body was moved. Wearing thick cotton gloves, he leaned over the corpse and gingerly raised the woman’s hair to examine her neck.

“You took photographs already?” he asked.

“First thing,” Mulvaney said absently. “We photographed the stage area in general, and then focused on her. We got close-ups of her neck and face.”

“Good.” The coroner was approving. He slowly pulled a
metal hook out of his equipment bag and used it to turn the woman’s eyelid inside out. Using light from an electric lamp— a new device powered by batteries— he peered closely behind each lid, then abruptly placed the lamp on the floor and began entering information into a small notebook he pulled from his jacket.

“Hmmph. Inconclusive.” He frowned in disappointment.

Then, picking up his lamp again, he shone it first upon her neck, then into her mouth, which he pried open.

“As I expected.” He shook his head. “Can’t do much here. Can your boys load her in the wagon without manhandling her? I don’t want any bruising that’s not there already.”

“That’s just it. There aren’t any bruises. In fact, there’s nothing the naked eye can see.” Mulvaney stated the obvious, which earned him a stern glare.

“Bruising can take hours to appear postmortem,” the coroner said, admonishing him. “And there could well be internal bruising, should this turn out to be a strangulation.”

“How else could she have died?” I asked.

“She might have been smothered.” He shrugged. “Poison is also possible, although most poisons leave rather unpleasant physical markers that are absent here. But from the way she’s decked out, it would suggest a suicide.”

“It wasn’t suicide, Max,” Mulvaney said. “There must be something more you can give me now. I’ve got nothing to go on except the certain knowledge she was murdered.” His voice was soft and cajoling, but his expression made clear he would not be denied.

Wilcox inclined his head. “The
certain
knowledge? Nothing is certain until science proves it, Captain.”

“In this case, your science will confirm what I already know.”

There was a quiet desperation in Mulvaney’s voice that suggested a deeper unease. Mulvaney was obviously aware that he risked Charles Frohman’s wrath by handling matters differently than the theater magnate preferred. The consequences of that might entail repercussions beyond anything Mulvaney had ever experienced. But I didn’t believe that was the whole of it.

Wilcox cleared his throat again as he grudgingly set down his bag. As he made a show of rearranging his scarf with exaggerated care, he said, “Assuming you’re convinced this is murder from other evidence— evidence you’re not sharing with me, that is . . .” He let his words linger pointedly before he continued. “I can tell you I believe strangulation is the most likely possibility. Carefully done, it can leave no visible sign. But I won’t be able to confirm that until I autopsy her, which will show whether there’s been damage done to the cartilage of her larynx or to her hyoid bone. I’ll send the wagon to get her right away.”

But before he left, he picked up his bag and pivoted slightly. “And until I’ve checked her vitals and stomach contents,” he said, “I’m not supporting your murder theory. She may be a suicide yet. I’ll know soon. Science doesn’t lie.”

Mulvaney grumbled for a few moments after Wilcox left, and my gaze was once again drawn toward the dead woman on-stage. One chorus girl out of a hundred. Why her?

“Wilcox has it right on one count. There’s something important you’re not telling us,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Does it have to do with why you’ve brought me here?”

Mulvaney was silent. He collapsed in a seat in the first row and looked up at me helplessly, his eyes filled with worry.

“You mentioned there were no physical marks on her. Why are you so certain that she’s been murdered?”

“Because if she wasn’t murdered, then we don’t have just one suicide.” He spread his hands wide apart. “We’ve got two.”

The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street

A second murder. So that was what he had kept from Wilcox. And it was also, I was certain, the reason he had asked me here.

“You mean there has been another death similar to hers?” I asked, watching Mulvaney carefully.

He nodded but did not look at me, focusing instead on the woman whose lifeless eyes now gazed down at us. Then, as we heard noises— the footsteps of two officers who emerged from backstage, carry ing boxes of evidence— Mulvaney turned to me and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Three weeks ago at the Empire, down the block, another actress died the same way. The cleaning girls who came the next morning found her just like this one,” Mulvaney said, gesturing toward the stage. “Her name was Eliza Downs. She was all dressed up, posed center stage, and there was no sign of foul play. In fact, everyone assumed she
was a suicide, so there was no investigation. We weren’t even called.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“Mr. Iseman,” he said, admitting it frankly. “You see, the Empire is another Frohman theater and Broadway’s a small community. Word of Miss Downs’s death spread fast and put a damper on morale.” He drew himself up straight, stretching an arm that appeared cramped. “But Mr. Iseman had no reason to think her death was anything other than a tragic suicide until early this morning, when Miss Germaine’s body was found in similar circumstances.”

“They were both actresses. Do we know if they were acquainted? If so, they might have talked of suicide. Or if Miss Downs’s death reverberated so soundly throughout the community, Miss Germaine may have chosen to copy Miss Downs when she decided to end her own life.” I knew how unlikely it was, but it was my habit of mind to consider all possibilities, even if I came to discount them later.

“No,” Mulvaney said, shaking his head soberly. “I wanted to think that, too. There’s more.” Mulvaney looked around as though worried someone might overhear our conversation, but the auditorium was empty except for us. Satisfied, he motioned for me to walk with him to the seat in the last row where he had put his personal effects.

“We found some notes. Letters. I don’t know what to call them.” He fumbled for words to explain. “One was found by the body of Miss Downs at the Empire, though they disregarded it at the time. It was full of poetic nonsense about dying— and Mr. Iseman assumed it was a suicide note. But when he found this note just like it, next to Miss Germaine’s body, he became suspicious.”

He reached into his worn leather bag, which had anchored some papers. Using the edge of his handkerchief, he passed me a single sheet of eggshell-blue paper; I took it gingerly, being careful to touch only the cloth. The writing was in a slanted, spidery hand.

Once again, I have chosen a young girl lacking in natural attractions, and given her what Nature did not. Call me Pygmalion; call her Galatea, my greatest creation. Like one of the greatest poets of our English language, I say:

Yet I’ll not shed her blood,

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Mulvaney looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sensation that had taken hold of me.

“What does it mean?” I asked. “ ‘Call me Pygmalion.’ And this business about not shedding her blood makes no sense. Is he actually trying to say he didn’t kill her?”

“Thought you’d know,” he said with a knowing smile. “You at least have a couple years’ college under your belt.” He threw up his hands in mock defeat. “I couldn’t make sense of it, either. Mr. Iseman explained what I know of it, which is basically that the killer wanted her to look good in death. Annie was a plain girl, a strong dancer and able chorus member. But he claims she’d never have been a leading lady. Didn’t have the looks for it.”

“According to Mr. Iseman only, I presume.” I shook my head as I once again surveyed the figure onstage. The dress and makeup must have radically changed her usual appearance,
because what ever the woman in front of me may have lacked in talent or ability, she was certainly pleasing to the eye. Besides, plenty of actresses without conventional good looks were successful on stage. Sarah Bernhardt, for one.

“Good point,” Mulvaney agreed. “She made up pretty well, once someone put the effort into her. We’re going to see what the other actors and actresses have to say when they come in for rehearsal in a couple hours. But it’s clear she didn’t normally dress this way.”

“Did you find anything in her dressing room that relates to the letter?”

“She was a chorus girl, Ziele. She didn’t have a dressing room. I gather she used a common area in back. We’re searching it and all the rooms backstage, of course.” Mulvaney sighed in exasperation. “But so far, nothing out of the ordinary has turned up.”

“Did anyone keep the note Mr. Iseman found near Eliza Downs?” I asked. Right now the letters seemed the only promising connection between the two deaths.

Mulvaney cleared his throat. “Iseman kept the note himself— though why he would keep a suicide note, I don’t know. He turned it over to us early this morning when he came in to report Miss Germaine’s death. It’s in the evidence file at the precinct house, so I’ll show you when we get back. The content is similar, right down to the wording about Pygmalion. But the poetry’s different.”

“If there are matching fingerprints on both letters, we’d have a solid connection,” I mused aloud.

“We had it dusted— but you know
that
won’t necessarily do us any good,” he said, muttering the words under his breath.

He was right that it would do no good officially. Fingerprinting was still a new technology that had yet to be accepted by the courts, or even by many policemen. But unofficially, many of us were beginning to rely on it.

“And these letters,” I said, “are presumably why you wanted to involve me?”

“In part.” He furrowed his brow as another troubling thought occurred to him. He seemed distracted as he continued. “I’d like you to talk with someone I’ve got in custody at the precinct house. His name is Timothy Poe. He’s an actor.”

“From what I’ve seen this morning,” I said, “it seems as though you’ve got precious little evidence to warrant taking anyone into custody.”

Mulvaney jabbed his finger at the eggshell-blue paper. “You see all these references to someone called Pygmalion. According to Mr. Iseman,
Pygmalion
is a show that was revived last fall. And guess who played the starring role?”

“Had to be Poe,” I deadpanned.

“Literally, he played Pygmalion to her Galatea.” Mulvaney was quite pleased with himself. “Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“
Too
perfect sense,” I said. “If he’s going to incriminate himself by leaving a message, why bother with all the fuss and poetry? He might just as well have signed his name.”

Mulvaney cocked his head. “He also knew Annie Germaine. She even substituted in
Pygmalion
for a few weeks when another actress was laid up sick.”

“As Galatea?” I asked. “That would fit nicely into your perfect theory.”

“I didn’t ask,” Mulvaney said, somewhat annoyed that I disagreed with him. “And there’s more. Mr. Iseman is under the
impression that Poe was sweet on Miss Germaine, but the lady rebuffed him.”

“There must be additional evidence,” I countered. “Don’t tell me you’re relying only on Mr. Iseman.”

Mulvaney was taking our conversation in a direction I disliked. It smacked of an unwarranted rush to judgment.

Mulvaney gave me a tired look. “It’s all we’ve got to start with. Do me a favor and talk to Timothy Poe. Just see if you can turn up some useful information, one way or the other.”

Of course I agreed, though I was increasingly troubled by Mulvaney’s assumptions. I could only suppose that unknown stresses weighed heavily upon him. I reached for my hat and was about to leave— when he stopped me once again.