A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “What does The Post say about it?” This time it was the reporter asking the question.

  The editor grunted again. “Just their usual bombastic drivel. But they scored an interview with her estranged mother.”

  Both were silent for a moment.

  “Who marked up your story?” asked the editor.

  “Mr. Seiden,” the wiry man said, “before he left early. He does on Fridays, remember?”

  Though he had not once looked up from his papers, the editor sat up straighter and seemed to focus his attention even more sharply on the article he was reviewing. Down the line of desks, every man followed suit, attending closely to the task at hand.

  From the back of the room, a stout man wearing a crisp blue suit with a yellow-and-red tie strutted toward us. Ira Salzburg, the managing editor, was short and squat, but his expensive, colorful clothes enabled him to cut a distinctive figure. He knew it— and his swagger reflected it.

  Without acknowledging anyone on the floor, he ambled into his office, nodded, and shut the door with a sweeping dramatic flourish.

  “Gentlemen.” He greeted each of us with a straightforward handshake.

  After we finished our introductions, we sat in the stiff wooden chairs provided for guests while Mr. Salzburg sank into his large, cushioned chair and lit a cigar. “Welcome to Times Square.”

  It was Times Square, yes, but only in the mind of a Times employee. Nearly two years ago The Times had left newspaper row downtown for this new building— Manhattan’s second tallest, a lone skyscraper on the small island of land created by the triple intersection of Forty-second Street, Seventh Avenue, and Broadway. The area had been named Longacre Square and more often referred to as the Main Stem. Though now it was officially renamed in the paper’s honor, no one ever remembered to call it Times Square. Two years wasn’t enough time to change long-held habits.

  Mulvaney spoke first. “We need to talk to you about a letter you received this morning— one that may relate to police business.”

  Ira Salzburg regarded Mulvaney for a moment, then looked out the window to the swirling activity on the streets. The area below teemed with crowds of businessmen and tourists, chorus girls and restaurant-goers, all racing in multiple directions. Yet, up here, we sat awkwardly in silence.

  Without looking away from the window, he finally put down his cigar and spoke, his voice elongating his words into a drawl. “Which letter are you specifically talking about, gentlemen?”

  “The letter one of your employees contacted us about this morning,” Mulvaney snapped impatiently. He didn’t like it when others played games or wasted his time.

  Ira Salzburg turned and concentrated his gaze again on Mulvaney. “Oh, yes. The letter describing the murder at the Garrick Theater.”

  Mulvaney blanched. Although obviously we were at The Times because of a letter relating to today’s murder, Mulvaney had hoped it contained few details.

  But he forced a pleasant smile onto his face and managed to sound easygoing. “We’d like to see the letter now, Mr. Salzburg.”

  “You can call me Ira,” he said indifferently as he swung his legs around. “Like all my men do.”

  The comment struck a false note. We had seen every employee on the floor treat Ira Salzburg with great deference, and it was hard to imagine even one of them addressing him as “Ira.”

  He swung his weight out of his chair and flung open his office door. He didn’t say a word, but at his nod, the wiry man who had spoken earlier about the poisoning trial got up from his desk and came in to join us.

  We learned his name was Frank Riley and he was The Times’s senior crime reporter. He spread before us a letter written on now-familiar blue paper in the spidery hand that arched its words in an unnatural slant. As we read the letter in haste, he lounged easily against the corner of his editor’s desk.

  It was Alistair’s keen eye that noticed the first anomaly.

  “The writer’s dateline here indicates Tuesday.” He pointed to the top right-hand corner. “And your own receipt stamp suggests that you received it on Tuesday.” He pointed to a haphazard red-ink stamp that bore Tuesday’s date, March 13. “But today is Friday the sixteenth. We were under the impression you received this letter only this morning.”

  “Actually,” Ira admitted sheepishly, “we did receive the letter on Tuesday. But we thought it was a joke. We get lots of letters from crazy types who’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “So why bother saving this one?” Alistair asked.

  Ira shrugged. “Truthfully? By accident. Frank’s the one who ended up with it, and he’s a saver. Never throws a thing out unless someone makes him— right, Frank?” He exchanged conspiratorial glances with his reporter.

  At that moment, I trusted neither of them. They were making a show of cooperation— but in fact, they weren’t helping much at all. And it was all I could do to suppress my anger when I realized that Annie Germaine’s life might have been saved, had they only taken the letter more seriously.

  “When a little bird told us about what you found at the Garrick this morning, Frank remembered and showed it to me,” Ira was saying.

  “What sort of little bird?” My eyes continued to race over the writing in front of me.

  “The sort who works at the Garrick and gets a big reward for a good news tip. But I’m sure you know we always protect our sources,” Frank said, smiling congenially as he demurred.

  I looked at Frank sharply, trying to detect any sign of sarcasm. Not all reporters were alike, of course. But most I had known were motivated by personal opportunity rather than journalistic principle. When it suited them, they protected their sources. When it didn’t, they betrayed them without hesitation. The Times was working hard to earn a reputation for printing serious, accurate news, but it was impossible to tell how closely Frank adhered to those ethics.

  “There were no reporters at the Garrick,” Mulvaney said, his voice growing louder. “I was there.”

  Frank inclined his head. “I might have stopped by for a moment to visit my source.”

  Mulvaney and I looked at each other. It was certainly possible. In an effort to keep the news as quiet as possible, Mulvaney had posted no policemen at the theater door. Of course, a resourceful reporter like Frank would have known to use the backstage entrance.

  Mulvaney rose out of his chair. “You . . . you’ve got to know it’s against the law to tamper with an active crime scene . . .” he stammered in anger.

  “Simmer down, Captain.” Frank made a calming motion with his hands. “I only talked to a couple janitors backstage. I didn’t go anywhere near the stage where she was killed. Besides, I figured the best course of action was to contact my editor for some advice in light of that letter.”

  “You were there. You might have let us know and saved us some time,” Mulvaney said, his voice filled with bitterness.

  Frank only shrugged. “I didn’t have the letter with me.”

  “But a girl was murdered—”

  I cut Mulvaney off before his fury quashed their already halfhearted cooperation. “Let’s take a closer look at the letter itself.”

  Mulvaney reined in his temper, and we turned our attention to the letter, addressed to the head of The Times.

  Dear Mr. Ochs,

  Here’s your chance to cover the biggest story of the day. Your job? Well, you’ve got to recognize the opportunity I’m giving you.

  I’ve readied a new production for the stage. I auditioned the leading lady last week, and she’s perfect for the part.

  Her debut will be Friday at the Garrick.

  Ever gentle in my methods, she’ll suffer no stage fright.

  Like God, I create life in death.

  Like sculptors, I forge beauty

  And exquisite loveliness

  Where there is none.

  At last, you will behold my work of art!

  In honor and

  Tribute to

  Sublime form.

  It was
signed “Yours truly.” The letter was not what I had expected, and I had dozens of questions— though of course I could mention none of them in front of Ira Salzburg. I would have to wait until we were clear of him.

  “You noticed the acrostic—‘hell awaits’?” Alistair seemed unaware that he had spoken aloud.

  “I’d say it’s an allusion to Jack the Ripper, who also wrote to the papers. A couple of his letters were signed ‘From Hell.’ ” I answered him automatically, to my immediate regret.

  Ira’s eyes glinted and his mouth turned up into a satisfied smirk. “So you may well be dealing with a series murderer, gentlemen.”

  Alistair’s reproof was icy. “That’s a leap of logic I wouldn’t care to make— especially since there is not a single other similarity between Miss Germaine’s murder this morning and that of the prostitutes in Whitechapel who were butchered almost twenty years ago.”

  I marveled at how well Alistair discouraged that line of thought as Ira began to hem and haw in embarrassment.

  “Why would this writer— assuming he is the murderer— give advance notice of his plans to The Times?” Mulvaney asked.

  “And specifically to Mr. Ochs,” said Ira. “The writer obviously knew the name of the man in charge.”

  Alistair frowned. “That information is printed in the paper every day; easy enough to discover if you don’t already know it. Still, the fact that he began with a personalized greeting may mean something. . . .”

  “Was it delivered directly to Mr. Ochs?” I asked.

  “Only to Mr. Ochs’s secretary,” Frank said. “When he receives mail that’s not appropriate for Mr. Ochs, he passes it on. He gave it to me because he thought it was a good joke.”

  “And did you show it to anyone?” I was having trouble determining the chain of custody this letter had followed.

  Frank eyed us with unworried detachment. “Yeah. Most of the boys on the floor and I had a good laugh. Why not? Who’d take seriously a crazy guy who thinks he’s some great artist with the power of God?”

  I understood his point, but still asked him to clarify it. “So at the time, you weren’t troubled by the letter? You didn’t think to call the police? As we now know, this letter gave you advance warning of a murder.”

  “Naw,” Frank said with a grin. “We thought it was written by some stage-struck sap who wanted to write something highfalutin but didn’t quite succeed. But when I heard today about a murder at the Garrick, I remembered it. I wasn’t sure it was related.” He shrugged again. “But that’s your job, right?”

  So they were guilty of ignoring what had turned out to be relevant evidence. But The Times did not— at least not yet— know about the other two letters or even the first murder. Mulvaney, for one, was eager to keep it that way, so he began to thank Ira Salzburg and Frank for their time.

  “We appreciate your finally calling us. Let us know if you receive anything else.” Mulvaney’s voice was deliberately casual as he reached to fold and pocket the blue letter.

  But Ira’s thumb firmly planted itself at the letter’s header near the date stamp.

  “Not so fast, Captain.” Though he smiled, there was no mistaking his note of warning.

  We froze. No one said a word.

  “I think this letter is more important than you have let on. In fact, I’d bet money on it.” He laughed, and it was a grating, guttural sound. “Why not? I bet it often enough with the boys out there.” He gestured toward the poker game in the main room, which was still going strong.

  Then he leaned in close to Mulvaney, adding, “And I never lose.”

  Leaving his thumb on the blue letter, he used his other hand to open a desk drawer and pull out two pieces of paper. One was a typewritten transcript of the blue letter; the other was a photograph taken of it. Only after he had placed them on his desk did he release his hold on the original.

  “You can see, Captain, that I’ve saved you the trouble of making a copy for me. You can have your letter. But I do have some conditions.”

  “This is police evidence, Mr. Salzburg. I don’t need your permission to take it with me.” Mulvaney remained polite, but his voice had a sharp edge.

  “Of course, of course,” Ira said. “But you do need my cooperation if you’d rather not see this— and more— in tomorrow morning’s news. And should this writer happen to contact us again . . .”

  He let the implications of his warning linger in the air.

  Alistair tried to defuse Ira Salzburg’s not-so-veiled threat. “You know that an actress has died at the Garrick. And you’ve received a letter of interest to the police. You’ve got nothing more than that. Unless you want to invent a tale out of thin air, doesn’t sound like you have much of a story to me.”

  But Ira said, “I know what it means when a big-shot law professor— especially one with your history— walks into my office.” His smile was greasy as he settled back into his chair, placing his feet on his desk. His black shoes, polished to a high shine, glistened in the waning sunlight that came through his window. “If you’re involved in this case and taking an interest in this letter, then that tells me I’ve hit pay dirt on a good story.”

  “I’m afraid many of my interests come to nothing,” Alistair said with a self-deprecating look.

  Ira chortled in response. “You want this kept quiet, gentlemen?” Ira took a large puff from the end of his cigar.

  “In any ongoing investigation, it’s what we prefer,” Mulvaney said, his voice low. “There’s no need to scare the public or provide fodder for hoaxes. Especially in a case like this.”

  “And what sort of case is this, Captain?” The editor seemed to take a perverse delight in attempting to bait Mulvaney. He gnawed on his cigar stub. “What I want, gentlemen, is my due. We gotta trust each other. I’ll give you time. But I want an exclusive story as soon as you’ve made sufficient progress on the case— with access to evidence that’ll scoop The Tribune and The World.”

  “I don’t like it,” Mulvaney said, seething with barely repressed anger. “I don’t want this story in the paper.”

  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.”

  Fran
k 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?”