A Curtain Falls (9 page)

But Ira completely ignored Mulvaney. “To make sure I get your exclusive, I’m assigning Frank to the case, effective immediately. He’s a top-notch investigative reporter.”

Frank’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not otherwise betray any surprise.

“That’s not exactly a sign of trust, now, is it?” Mulvaney’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Can’t see how you expect us to give you any information when you are so mistrustful of us,” Alistair added.

Ira Salzburg skillfully danced around the charge. “It will be a partnership between us. We have a public duty here, see? With any crime, we’ve got to report the straight news the public deserves to know. But we also have a duty to reassure them that criminals won’t escape justice for their crimes. It’s what our society needs to hear in times like these.”

He leaned toward us and spoke almost confidentially. “Look here, have you considered we might actually help you by publishing the letter? Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? We could publish an exact copy of it. We might get someone who recognizes the handwriting.”

“But the writer may have disguised his handwriting. And publishing a facsimile will only generate a round of hoaxes,” I said.

He removed his feet from his desk and sat up straight. “Well, then. Frank will be investigating on his own, but you may make use of him if you want. I place him at your disposal. Sometimes a reporter can be more useful than a policeman in ferreting out information.”

We looked at Frank, whose expression was unperturbed, as though he had been expecting Mr. Salzburg’s recommendation. But after a moment, he cleared his throat. “Boss, I think I’m going to need help on this one. I want someone who knows the theater and will make people more comfortable talking with me. I know from that rash of vaudeville robberies I covered last summer, actors can be a suspicious lot. I’d like to have Jones on it.”

Frank locked his gaze on Ira Salzburg, awaiting his reaction.

After another moment, he added, “He’s junior, but he’s been a big help to me in the past. Nobody can strike up a conversation and get information out of a stranger as well as Jones can.”

Ira gazed out at the long row of desks on the floor, deep in thought. His attention seemed to center on the poker table. “Jones is good, but I’ve assigned him to Bronstein all next week. What about Bogarty?”

“He’s a critic, not an investigator.” Frank frowned in disapproval. “And he’s difficult to work with. Keeps irregular hours and doesn’t pull his share of the writing. Just look at him now.”

I turned my head toward the poker game in the back corner, where a well-dressed young man with blond hair and a confident manner was shuffling a deck of cards.

“But he knows the theater.” Ira swatted his desk with a rolled-up paper. “And theater types know him. That’s what you need. He’s gained their trust, so they’ll open up to him nice and easy.”

Frank still looked dubious. “The women will open up, they always do,” he said with a smirk. “But Bogarty’s not as good at
schmoozing with the men, in case you haven’t noticed. Not unless they’ve got a game on the table.”

But Ira was not one to be deterred once he had made up his mind. “Frank, look. Jack Bogarty is a pretty boy who likes fancy clothes and good-looking women. I know you think he’s not a serious reporter. But he is becoming a well-known critic and they’ll respect that. If his charm doesn’t make ’em want to talk, there’s always the threat of his next review to loosen their lips. Believe me, this will work. I’ll make sure he understands the deal.”

Ira took a deep breath yet didn’t miss a beat. “And here’s how it will work.” He now addressed all of us. “Every couple days, you gentlemen and Frank will check in with each other, share anything you find out. And when the case concludes, you’ll grant Frank full access to each of you for an interview. And once the killer is in custody, you’ll let Frank interview him— or her. He gets an exclusive. Are we agreed?”

Mulvaney looked as though someone had punched him in the gut, but he agreed. We needed the cooperation of
The Times
.

Far worse would be no deal at all— just rampant news speculation— which would be the fate of this case if the yellow sensation papers got hold of it.
The Times
at least espoused the goal of producing serious news. But should the yellow papers pick this story up, they would have a field day with it. They would embellish the truth with lies until they had riled the public into a frenzy. In short, their brand of news coverage would make it almost impossible to investigate this case.

So, after repeated mutual assurances of cooperation and confidentiality, we left the
Times
offices and returned to precinct headquarters— where Mulvaney’s grim-faced secretary
greeted him with the unwelcome news that the commissioner needed to see him downtown.

The commissioner, Theodore Bingham, had been in office only since January and was still a relative unknown among the ranks. But if he wanted to see Mulvaney near five o’clock on a Friday, it meant he was displeased. I suspected that Leon Iseman, the stage manager who worked for Charles Frohman, had made good on his threat to cash in his political connections and complain about Mulvaney’s handling of this morning’s investigation at the Garrick.

Mulvaney did not even take off his coat. On his way back out the door, he shuffled through the papers in his leather satchel.

“No need for the commissioner to see this tonight.” He passed me the envelope containing the letter sent to
The Times.
“You lads may want to take a closer look. Let me know what you think.”

Mulvaney was out the door even before I could agree.

Alistair started to follow him. “I’ve got to make a couple telephone calls before we commence our next plan of attack.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, somewhat irritated. I was eager to review the
Times
’s letter with Alistair, now that Ira Salzburg no longer hovered over our shoulders.

“The question is, where
are
we going?” Alistair flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Lighten up, old boy. It’s Friday night. We’re about to enjoy dinner and an evening at the theater. I think we ought to see what’s playing over at the Garrick.”

I turned away before Alistair could see the smile I could not suppress. Even murder could not diminish Alistair’s enjoyment of New York’s finest entertainment and dining opportunities.

“What did you have in mind for dinner? One of the new places along Broadway?” I eventually asked. As more theaters were being built along Broadway’s north end, restaurants were cropping up, too, displacing most of the clubs, brothels, and tenements that had previously anchored the neighborhood.

“Not tonight,” Alistair said, in high spirits now. “Dinner at Sherry’s is what I had in mind. It’s a longer walk from here, but we have time. And the headwaiter knows me; he’ll find us a table, even if they’re busy.”

More casually, he went on to say, “But I do want to make a brief telephone call. There’s a colleague of mine I hope will join us.”

“Who?” I raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“A longtime acquaintance who is also an expert in handwriting analysis.”

“Alistair.” I sounded a note of warning. “I asked for
your
help on this case— not the help of some charlatan. I don’t want to hear that a criminal’s character can be determined from the size of his head or the style of his handwriting.”

Alistair smiled indulgently. “You mean phrenology and graphology. It’s true: those disciplines look to the circumference of a person’s head or a sample of someone’s penmanship and infer specific character traits.” He shook his head. “Not to worry, Ziele. My colleague is well regarded as an expert in forensic analysis. He has testified numerous times in London trials on the subject of handwriting and forgery. You’ll find his logic to be solid, grounded in science.”

“Are you sure?” Given this morning’s turn of events in the courtroom, I had no interest in pursuing evidence that would not stand up to the law.

“Yes,” Alistair said emphatically. “I know you all too well, Ziele. I won’t give you information you cannot present at trial.”

As I reluctantly agreed, Alistair made his call, and we set off crosstown toward Sherry’s and a discussion that— despite my doubts about its scientific basis— would fundamentally alter our approach to the case.

Sherry’s, Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street

“He controls his players’ lives more than you’d think. Would you believe he only allows his leading ladies to walk along Fifth Avenue, never Broadway?”

“What are you talking about?” I didn’t follow Alistair’s train of thought.

We were making our way uptown on Fifth Avenue toward Sherry’s. Alistair, nonchalant as always, appeared to be surveying the storefronts we were passing, but it was clear that his mind continued to work feverishly.

“Charles Frohman, of course.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said, scoffing at the suggestion. “How could anyone presume to control where someone walks?”

“It’s only a story, of course,” Alistair said easily. Then he
gave me a knowing look. “But I have good reason to believe it’s true. I was once acquainted with his biggest star.”

He paused for effect.

“You may have seen Maude Adams onstage? Fascinating woman.”

I shook my head. She was Broadway’s most well-known actress, so of course I had heard of her. But I had never seen her perform.

“Well, as Miss Adams once explained it to me, Frohman believed her offstage image would directly affect her onstage reputation.” His voice grew softer. “I do know his influence once led her to cut off a romance that he believed to be inappropriate.”

I eyed him suspiciously but declined to comment. What ever his personal secrets, he was entitled to keep them.

“And what does this story— assuming it’s true— have to do with the murders at the Garrick and the Empire?”

“Perhaps nothing— at least not directly,” Alistair said. “But it is the environment in which your investigation will take place. You should understand it.”

I nodded.

“Here we are.” Alistair raised his arm and pointed to the classic brownstone entrance to Sherry’s, a restaurant located across the street from its chief rival, Delmonico’s, in new quarters designed by Stanford White. It was one of New York’s finest restaurants— a place where one went not merely to dine but to be seen. I had never been there myself, but like most New Yorkers I knew it by reputation, for its patrons’ over-the-top soirees were regularly written up in the papers. And while I was not a regular reader of the society column, in recent months
I had scanned it on occasion, wondering if Isabella’s name would appear.

It was a typical Friday evening and Sherry’s was filled to capacity. Yet, exactly as Alistair had anticipated, the headwaiter managed to find a small table for us. Sherry’s reserved exterior had not prepared me for the opulent scene indoors. Walking through the Palm Room, I gawked openly at the vaulted ceiling above, which was covered in elaborate latticework that, on each side, reached to the edge of a row of windows surrounded by a gold floral design. Numerous potted palms created a tropical effect that made me feel suddenly far removed from the icy March night outdoors.

The moment we were seated, our waiter— a stiff man in a black suit— seemed to assess the age of my worn brown suit as he placed a napkin emblazoned with Sherry’s name on my lap. I looked across the table at Alistair. He had moved his napkin immediately and thus escaped our waiter’s intrusive attention.

“Wine list, sir?”

This was addressed to Alistair, not to me.

“No need.” Alistair instead ordered a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux— one he knew they stocked in their cellar.

Meanwhile, I counted the number of forks placed in front of me. The silverware was arranged from left to right, small to large, except for the exceptionally small fork at the top of my plate. I flipped one over to look at the engraving: TIFFANY & CO.

Putting the fork back, I reviewed the menu in haste, for there was no time to be lost if we were to make this evening’s show.

Our waiter had reappeared with the requested bottle of wine. He removed the cork with a grand flourish and poured
Alistair a sample of the Bordeaux, which he tasted and approved. The waiter then poured a glass for me, accompanied by a condescending stare that I returned in kind.

“May I suggest the roast beef, sir? It comes with a delicious potato lyonnaisse and is very popular.”

The menu suggestion was directed to me, and no doubt it contained a veiled insult I did not fully recognize.

“Thank you, but we’re interested in your spring specials tonight, not your regular fare,” Alistair said smoothly. “What does the chef recommend?”

I listened impatiently as the waiter went on to describe the spring lamb, omitting no intricate step of its preparation. In the end, I deferred to Alistair, who ordered for both of us: an oyster appetizer followed by the lamb. I had a weak constitution for oysters, and I immediately regretted delegating this task.

“I wasn’t certain that I would hear from you again, Ziele,” Alistair said as he swirled his glass of wine, then sniffed its aroma. “But I’m glad I did. Whether by merit or by chance, you seem to have landed a most interesting case.”