Alistair’s response was automatic. “An audience. He wants others to see and appreciate what he’s doing. He is making a star— albeit of a different kind than Charles Frohman and his syndicate create. Or maybe he wants to be one himself; I’m not sure.”
“Then how does his attempt on Marwin’s life figure into it? With the two prior murders, it was all about the women: he dressed them up, made them pretty. He played Pygmalion, right?” I leaned against a rose-patterned sofa. “What’s he playing this time? We talked earlier about how he made this crime scene even more theatrical. He dressed her up and killed her on-stage; so far, he fits into your star-making theory. But then he sets a cyanide trap for her eventual rescuer. What does that accomplish for him?”
“Even more attention?” Isabella ventured.
“Not the right sort,” Mulvaney groused.
But something about the comment caught Alistair’s imagination. “Or was it? Look at us. Normally, each of us would be outside, pursuing other leads. Instead he’s got us stonewalled, sitting at a detective’s bedside, praying for his recovery.”
I turned to face Alistair. “But what if he had died, then and there? The poison entered his bloodstream through injection. A deep prick . . . just a little more of the poison injected . . . he would already be dead.”
“And it would have stalled our investigation all the same, albeit in a different way. He’s one of your own. You’d have had department protocol to follow.” Alistair addressed Mulvaney directly.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“But what,” I interjected, “if it was the janitor? It could have been anyone, as you said earlier.”
“Anyone who might obscure the clear focus we might otherwise have had on Emmaline Billings,” Alistair said in conclusion. “I think there is something to the idea we talked about at first: he wanted to make the crime scene as theatrical and shocking as possible. And part of that involves scaring us in a tangible way.”
“And how does knowing that help?” I asked.
But before Alistair could answer, there was a knock at the door. Alistair crossed the room in large strides, opening the door to admit two officers who were among the dozen I had seen earlier at the Aerial Gardens. We had not formally met, so Mulvaney introduced us now: Ben Schneider was a stocky, older man in his fifties, and Paul Arnow was his lanky, freckled assistant.
“Captain.” They greeted Mulvaney formally, then nodded to me, Alistair, and Isabella.
Mulvaney motioned for them to sit. “What’s the update, lads?”
Paul, though he appeared to be the ju nior officer, spoke first. “We finished processing the crime scene, sir. And the victim— Miss Billings— was taken downtown to the morgue. She’s all set for Dr. Wilcox when he’s done here.”
Mulvaney nodded. “Were you able to confirm how long Miss Billings had been missing?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben answered. “We found where she lived, and talked a good deal with her flatmates. They last saw her right before she left for the theater last night.”
“Which show?” Mulvaney asked.
“Beau Brummel. It’s one of the repertory shows here at the New Amsterdam. She played a bit part.” He exchanged looks with Paul.
They both nodded, then Ben said, “There was apparently a gentleman she’d been seeing. He escorted her to the show last night, and she planned to be out late with him. That’s why her friends didn’t worry when they went to bed last night. But they worried the moment they woke up and she hadn’t come home.”
“Had they met him?” I asked.
“Very briefly,” Paul answered. “They disagree on his age. One said he was in his late twenties to midthirties, had light brown hair, and was quite handsome. The other claimed he was much older, probably in his midforties, with blond hair. In other words, nothing to help us identify him— compared to all the other men in this city who take a fancy to Broadway actresses.”
Mulvaney nodded. “Anything else important?”
He was concerned only with major details now; minor points could wait until he received their report and reviewed everything in light of Dr. Wilcox’s autopsy.
Paul cleared his throat. “Just one thing, sir. This same suitor had been causing her trouble at work. She was on the verge of being fired, they thought.”
“He caused her performance issues? Like being late?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Apparently the manager— he’s part of Frohman’s syndicate, of course— had got wind of an infraction that Frohman doesn’t tolerate. At least, that’s what her flatmates said.”
“And they wouldn’t say more than that?”
Ben looked me straight in the eye. “Only that it involved the attentions of this same man, sir.”
“All right. We’ll check it out,” Mulvaney said.
Ben nodded. “With your permission, Captain, after we finish our initial report.” He turned to go, then pivoted back, brow furrowed. “One more thing,” he said. “How is Detective Marwin?”
“He’s seriously ill, but he’s young and has a strong constitution. I’ll keep everyone informed as I learn more.” Mulvaney’s reply was stiff.
The moment they were out of the room, with the door closed behind them, I spoke. “A police detective is critically ill and another actress is dead. There’s no question about it now. One of us must pay an official visit to Charles Frohman. Three actresses associated with his syndicate are now dead.”
I watched Mulvaney closely for his reaction, but this time he offered no objection. “The gentleman suitor worries me just as much, if not more.”
“So you focus your efforts there, and I’ll talk with Frohman,” I said.
“Be careful.” His comment seemed a formality; he was already preoccupied with other thoughts. “You’d best do it sooner rather than later.”
“If you want to be discreet, there’s a theater gala this Saturday night, I know—” Alistair started to say.
“We can’t wait until Saturday— not with three murders to solve,” I said.
“His employees will know his home address,” Mulvaney said.
“Then take Isabella,” Alistair said curtly. “I trust you to look out for her. And from everything I know about Charles Frohman,” he added, “your meeting with him will go far more smoothly if you approach him with a pretty lady on your arm.”
It was good advice, but a pretty lady might not be enough— at least, not in this instance.
Because of Miss Billings’s murder and Detective Marwin’s continued treatment here at the New Amsterdam, performances of Beau Brummel and other repertory productions had been canceled by police order until further notice. From everything I’d heard about Charles Frohman and his ambitions for his theater syndicate, I could not imagine this news would sit well.
And for this intensely private man to be questioned, on top of so much catastrophe at his theater today?
No, even with Isabella beside me, this was not going to be an easy conversation.
CHAPTER 19
The Knickerbocker Hotel, 1466 Broadway
It took several hours and some investigative persistence— specifically numerous phone calls and Alistair’s discreet tip to a low-level Theater Syndicate employee— before we elicited any information about the reclusive Frohman. And when we finally found him, he was right next door— specifically, at the Knickerbocker Hotel. That was only a block from the New Amsterdam, where Detective Marwin continued to fight for his life.
Frohman’s primary residence was his well-appointed house in White Plains, north of the city, but whenever one of his plays demanded more of his time, he stayed at his regular home away from home, in the heart of the theater district— the pent house suite at the Knickerbocker. We timed our visit for dinnertime, when he was certain to make his usual room-service order, for he was apparently a creature of habit. A connoisseur of fine cuisine, Frohman also was something of a recluse; as a result, he seldom dined in public. And, Alistair’s source told us, we had little chance o
f being admitted unannounced.
At precisely a quarter past six, the elevator doors opened and a waiter dressed all in white wheeled out a tray of covered silver dishes and a bottle of French chardonnay.
“Is that for Mr. Frohman?” I asked, stepping in front of him.
He stammered in reply, “Afraid . . . I’m afraid I can’t really say, sir.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll take it from here.” I flashed my police badge, then quickly passed him a few coins. His eyes widened in surprise.
I put my fingers to my lips. “And not a word to anyone.”
His face tightened with concern, but he retreated all the same, pressing the button to call the ser vice elevator without a backward glance.
Once he had departed, I rapped on the knocker, calling out, “Room ser vice.” The young maid who answered didn’t give me a second look, but did a double take when she saw Isabella— who, by her gray silk dress and lace scarf, was obviously a lady, not a fellow servant.
“Should I announce . . . ?” she asked.
I interceded before Isabella could reply. “Yes, please. You may tell him Mrs. Sinclair is calling, accompanied by a Mr. Ziele.”
“And has he previously made your acquaintance, sir?”
I gave her my most charming smile. “I’ve never had the plea sure, but he is on good terms with Mrs. Sinclair’s extended family.”
It was true. No family in New York was a bigger patron of the arts than the Sinclairs.
The housemaid appeared dubious, but nonetheless ushered us into a small parlor and promised to announce us. “You won’t keep Mr. Frohman from his dinner, will you? He’s particular about his meals.”
“Not at all,” I said amiably. “We’re happy to speak with him while he eats, if he prefers.”
Her face took on a horrified expression. “Oh no, sir. He always eats in private.”
But as we continued to wait in the small parlor room with blue miniature sofas and rococo rose wallpaper, it became clear that Charles Frohman was not spending his Sunday evening alone. We heard a man’s voice: a rich tenor, with mellow under-tones. It had to be Frohman. I got up and slightly cracked the adjacent pocket door separating our parlor from a larger sitting-room area.
“Helen, my dear,” we heard him say. “There is no reason to be intimidated by the bard. The language is different, to be sure. But at heart, it’s just a story— a simple one, about a girl who loves a boy deeply, passionately, and with all her soul.”
Isabella and I stole a glance through the crack. We saw him sitting cross-legged in a chair, an odd position for a grown man. But Charles Frohman was obviously not a typical man. He was of medium build with a full, pleasant face and dark hair, and this evening he wore a blue pinstripe shirt and black trousers. He sat at an angle from us, but I still observed that his eyes crinkled when he broke into a jovial smile, meant to encourage his companion. She faced our door, so we saw her quite clearly. A young ingenue with dark hair that was nearly black, vivid blue eyes, and a shy smile, she held papers in her hand that, presumably, were part of her script.
“You make it sound so easy, Charles. But maybe not simple enough for me.” She rewarded him with a sad smile.
“Nonsense.” He brushed off her concern with a huge wave of his hand as he got up. He was a larger man than I’d first thought when he was sitting.
“I wouldn’t have cast you as Juliet if you couldn’t do it. Now come, let’s try again. And this time,” he paused dramatically, “I want you to think of it a different way. No more being intimidated because Shakespeare is the greatest playwright who ever lived. No more regarding Juliet as the greatest tragic role of your career. Got it?” He began to circle around her, and even I found myself almost hypnotized by his voice. “Now this play, see, was written by a man who loved the theater— just like you and me. He lived for the stage, and put the greatest emotions of the human heart into the plays he created for his beloved Globe Theatre.” His voice grew soft, like silk. “All you need to remember is that it’s just a play about a girl and a boy— and how they fall madly in love with each other. It’s really that simple.”
He folded his arms and regarded her. Gamely she drew herself up and tried her lines again.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title.
Her lips parted softly, and she looked rapturously toward an imagined suitor at the rear of the room.
“ ‘Romeo, doff they name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee . . . ’ ”
She paused, and her final words were spoken with breathless abandon:
“ ‘Take all myself.’ ”
Isabella drew back and I followed. We could hear Charles Frohman’s comments, which amounted to copious praise and further encouragement.
“I feel awful having eavesdropped,” Isabella said, blushing, “but I think we learned a bit more about how he transforms his actresses into sensational stars.”
I nodded my head in agreement, but all I could think of was Molly Hansen’s words about Annie Germaine. She’d said that Annie had met a new fellow—someone who was going to make her a star. And certainly Frohman had the literary chops to have written the letters that accompanied the first two murder victims.
Yet he spoke so pleasantly and gave every appearance of being especially good-humored. I didn’t know what I expected our killer to be like, but it wasn’t like this.
Still, time and again, I’d learned never to trust my preconceptions. Was it possible that Frohman was the man we sought?
We heard the house maid’s voice, low and soft, presumably announcing our visit— and perhaps also the arrival of his dinner.
After more mumbled discussion, we heard Frohman again. “Eat, eat. No reason you shouldn’t start without me. I’ll deal with them quickly, darling, and be right back.”
“Do you suppose he treats all his actresses this way?” Isabella asked in a stage whisper.
Another few moments passed, then the maid returned to announce that Frohman would see us now. She led us to still another sitting area, this one stocked with cigars, liquor, and wide, leather nail-studded chairs.
As we entered the room, he gave us the same jovial smile I’d witnessed earlier— and immediately focused his attention on Isabella.
“I’m told we’ve met before, Mrs. Sinclair.” He bowed slightly.
“It was two years ago, Mr. Frohman,” she said, holding out her hand. “I believe my cousin by marriage, Mrs. Henry Sinclair, hosted a gala benefit you attended.”
“Of course, of course.” His expression was unchanged, and if he had no memory of the occasion— as I suspected he did not— he refused to let on.
“Detective Simon Ziele,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m assisting the Nineteenth Precinct with a special investigation.”
His smile froze. “You mean you’re assisting with the investigation of the Germaine girl’s death at the Garrick. I believe my people have already spoken to you. Several times.”
“Yes.” I pulled out my small notebook from my pocket. “Your people have spoken with us about Miss Germaine, as well as about Miss Downs. You’ll recall she was found dead in markedly similar circumstances at the Empire. But now we need to talk with you.” I watched him carefully. “Just this morning, another actress— a Miss Billings— was found murdered at the Aerial Gardens theater.”
“Wh . . . ?” He didn’t even finish the word before he sank into one of the deep leather chairs. Isabella followed his example and sat directly across from him, but I remained standing for now.
“You didn’t know about her?”
“Of . . . of course not.” He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, which was gathering beads of sweat. “It’s Sunday,” he added, as though that ought to explain the fact his employees had not informed him of a new murder at another of his theaters.
The truth, I believed, was that those few who knew had been instruct
ed to keep quiet. But whether they’d followed those instructions, I didn’t know. Frohman certainly appeared surprised. He was growing agitated, but I could not tell whether it was the agitation of a guilty man— or whether he was worried about the murder of yet another syndicate actress and its potential impact on his business.
“So no one told you that the New Amsterdam is temporarily shut down by police order?”
He mumbled words that were incomprehensible.
“Emmaline Billings played smaller roles in several of the repertory productions at the New Amsterdam,” I said smoothly. “She was a syndicate actress—” I paused, “one of yours, just like the other two.”
He grew increasingly red in the face as he began to bluster. “I don’t like your tone or what you’re implying. I assure you the fact that three syndicate actresses have been murdered is a coincidence.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “Nothing but a coincidence.”
“And I’m sure you understand that, from my perspective, I see three women murdered— at their place of work— which, in each case, happens to be your theater.” I paused only for a second. “One victim is a coincidence. Three form a pattern.”
“We find patterns where we want to,” he said, and there was more than a hint of anger underneath the smooth tone he managed to maintain. “I assure you there’s nothing to find in any of my theaters. All you and your fellow officers will accomplish is to interfere with the important artistic work we do there. If your investigation becomes public, news of it will scare away theater-goers. So you can see, Detective, I do not welcome your interest in my theater. Especially when I can assure you that neither I— nor anyone who works for me— had anything to do with these actresses’ deaths.”
“Then you should welcome the opportunity to speak with me,” I said evenly. “At the moment, I find no connection among these three tragic deaths— except that each victim worked for you. If you and the others in the syndicate are truly not involved, then talk to me, and give me some information to work with to find their killer elsewhere.”
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