A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “You never told me that you actively practiced graphology,” Alistair said, looking at his colleague in a new light.

  Dr. Vollman hooked his cane on the back of his chair. “I don’t advertise the skills I prefer not to use. But see here. You want to know what kind of man you’re dealing with? Let me help you find out.”

  I well remembered what he had said during our first meeting— that the field of graphology was filled with charlatans. Presumably he didn’t count himself as one, but— interested as I was in his input— I remained highly skeptical.

  He smiled as though he understood my skepticism when he picked up a piece of chalk. “Graphology is controversial, yes, but it has its experts and adherents, just like any other field of study. It’s actually one of our oldest fields: the Chinese invented it, thousands of years ago. And the better practitioners today uphold fixed standards, particularly the ‘rule of three’ developed by French graphologists. That means,” he explained, “that a valid interpretation of someone’s writing requires three separate elements that each point to a similar meaning. One alone will not do.”

  “So you trust the information it yields?” I was still suspicious.

  “When it’s done well— then yes. Let me explain. When we were children, each one of us went to school and learned a standard method of handwriting. Here in America, certainly in New York, that is typically the Palmer method, which relies on repetitive drills. But despite the fact that we all begin with Palmer, learning the same drills, consider how we each end up with unique penmanship. Not one of us has the same writing as an adult as we were taught as a child.”

  We all nodded in agreement. Certainly my writing little resembled what I had learned in grade school.

  He cleared his throat. “Graphology maintains that the writer’s personality begins to manifest itself in the writing as he or she matures, because writing is inherently expressive. That means we can read it as surely as we can read human expressions. It functions as a symbol, just as a woman’s tears signify sadness or a child’s smile shows pure happiness.”

  “So, if I understand you,” Alistair said, clarifying, “graphology assumes that our emotions of the moment— in addition to our personality traits— are manifest in our writing.”

  “Yes,” the expert replied firmly. “To do so, graphology examines the same relevant markers that I examine in my forgery cases— the elements of size and spacing, pressure and lifts, and of course slant— but with an explanation that goes beyond simple consistency.”

  Dr. Vollman drew a leftward slant on the board, followed by a rightward slant. “The killer’s letters always began leftward, an attempt to disguise his natural tendencies. By letter’s end, he cannot help but revert to his natural tendency and slant rightward with heavier pressure. I find three indications in his writing— using the ‘rule of three’ that I mentioned before— that inform me that you seek a person who is unusually excitable or energetic.”

  He encouraged us to look at the eggshell-blue letter before us. “Generally, he has a light script. I like Detective Ziele’s description of it as ‘spidery.’ But despite his feathery penmanship, I see characteristics indicative of aggression. Look at the way he forms his g, p, and y. There’s greater pressure in these down-strokes. We also see closed ovals, which indicate that he is a private person, quite adept at keeping his own secrets.” He looked at me specifically. “We also see aggression in that same characteristic.”

  “He has killed three victims that we know of, and a fourth may yet die as a result,” I said, thinking again of the intensely private Charles Frohman. “I don’t think we need a heavy down-stroke to tell us this killer is aggressive.”

  “No? But maybe what I tell you next will help slightly more,” Dr. Vollman added, unperturbed by my skepticism. “Notice how he doesn’t connect his letters in quite the same way from sentence to sentence, word to word. That suggests he’s a man with different, conflicting aspects to his personality. To one person, he may be a loyal friend. To another, he may be a backstabbing competitor.”

  “So, to put it another way,” Alistair said, “the fractures in his writing suggest a splintered life.”

  “Yes.” The handwriting expert nodded excitedly. “But he’s practical-minded; I see that evidenced in the short upper reach of his l and b. Not like you, Alistair.” Dr. Vollman chuckled, but the sound was another hoarse cackle. “Your long ls and bs signify your desire to reach intellectual heights.” The professor sat again in the nearest chair, exhausted by his efforts. “One more thing. The man is cautious, evidenced by the wide spacing between words as well as the generally small size of his words. He knows how to keep his distance. You’ll not catch him easily. Not without a fight, I’d guess.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve really learned anything that will help us to identify the killer— specifically, that is,” I said, still skeptical. “The character traits you’ve mentioned can’t even help us narrow down our list of suspects . . .” I broke off in frustration, got up, and began pacing the length of the room.

  After a few moments I returned to the table and addressed the three of them. “We need to refocus on one important question. It’s safe to say that if the killer is not Timothy Poe, then our killer set him up to take the fall. But why? And more importantly, who would have the means to do so?”

  “Well, other than Poe, whom were you getting close to?” Alistair asked, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Charles Frohman.” I went on to explain all that Isabella and I had learned from our interview with him the other night, including what was most troubling: the fact that all the victims worked for his syndicate, that he had held each of them to high standards, and each— by his own admission— had fallen short. “My only concern with Frohman is that he may not have had the means to frame Poe,” I acknowledged.

  “You’ve mentioned his associates before. He seems to have minions and political allies everywhere,” Alistair responded, one eyebrow raised.

  “True. And I’ve told you that I’ve come to believe that Leon Iseman merits a close look. He has as much knowledge of the theater as Frohman— and I’ve seen firsthand an example of his temper. But would he have had the skill to forge fingerprints, as the person who framed Poe seems to have successfully done?” I went on to tell them what I had learned from my father about the application of candle wax in copying a print— and the considerable skill it required. If Poe had been out cold for a period of time, then it would have been easy enough to get his real prints on the hypodermic needles. But transferring his thumb-print to the elevator at the Aerial Gardens would involve the kind of talent only men like my father possessed.

  “If Frohman is as well connected to the political elite of this city as you say,” Alistair said, his face grim, “then he— and his associates— would know how to find what ever help they might need.”

  He didn’t have to say it. Such people always knew how to find a man with skills like my father’s— and employ them, if necessary.

  “Then there is our wild-card suspect,” I said, “the man who seems to have courted each of these actresses before killing them. He has been described differently— and we still know next to nothing about him, despite all interviews and best efforts.”

  “Could Frohman or Iseman have pulled that off, without being recognized?” Alistair asked.

  “If a man like Frohman courted an actress,” I said, thinking aloud, “then he would have been discreet. He might have engaged help— meaning different men— which would explain why there is no consistent description of the man who brought flowers and messages to each victim.”

  “The same could be said of Leon Iseman,” Isabella offered.

  “Or, the stage-door hanger-on others have mentioned could be our killer,” I said.

  “The more perplexing question is, why?” Alistair continued to follow my train of thought. “Whether it is Frohman, Iseman, or a separate hanger-on who wooed each actress, there was a motivation at play. And that is what
we can use to draw him out.”

  “Well,” I replied soberly, “then we need to focus more on his motive.”

  “Go on,” Alistair urged.

  “It’s possible the killer has now completed his goal— whatever that was— and simply plans to scapegoat Poe and be done.”

  “It’s certainly possible.” Alistair gave me a dubious look.

  “But you’re not convinced,” I said, “and I agree with you. The problem as I see it is this: if he’s done, he has accomplished nothing. Yes, he has killed three actresses in increasingly theatrical fashion. But what does that do for him?”

  “Perhaps only one of the women was a specific target and the others were killed to confuse us,” Isabella said.

  Alistair’s eyes twinkled. “Now that’s a capital idea. And it makes sense, except we’ve no indication any one was targeted other than for reasons of opportunity.”

  “And the three of them are so alike, they seem virtually interchangeable,” I added.

  To keep our ideas straight, I began writing the various possibilities on the chalkboard as the others watched. “Charles Frohman” was front and center— but annotated with the troublesome question: “what would killing three of his own actresses accomplish?”

  “In fact, their deaths have brought about just the opposite of what Frohman desires. Now at least one of his theaters is temporarily shut,” Isabella said.

  “True. But Frohman owns many theaters, and his pockets are deep enough to withstand the closure of just one,” Alistair replied.

  “He gains press coverage in all the papers,” Isabella suggested again.

  Dr. Vollman made a noise of agreement. “Especially now that Poe is safely imprisoned at the Tombs, there will be even more interest in Frohman’s shows. But it hardly seems the sort of publicity worth killing for.”

  Alistair shook his head. “No. From what you’ve told me, Ziele, Frohman can get publicity through other, legitimate means. I just can’t see it.”

  “Leon Iseman is temperamental, plus he possesses the right kind of knowledge,” Isabella added. “We simply don’t know enough about him yet.”

  “And if it’s the backstage admirer,” I said, “then that person had to have access to Poe.”

  I stepped back and surveyed the board. That left the case wide open. In fact, virtually any man working in Mulvaney’s precinct— or anyone connected with the theater— would have known about Poe. Something was missing.

  “There is one other possibility,” Alastair said, appearing pleased. “It’s an idea I call distraction.” He leaned back in his chair, hands flexed behind his head. “He wants to misdirect us, and in the process, gain additional time for himself.”

  I stared at him, and felt a flash of annoyance that he looked so pleased with himself at the moment. “Distraction,” I said flatly.

  Isabella simply laughed. “Stop being so mysterious, Alistair, and tell us what you mean.”

  “If the killer is— as I strongly believe— not yet done with murder, then I have to ask myself: why frame Poe? With the next death that follows, it will be obvious to all that Poe is innocent. He’ll have the perfect alibi, in fact, by virtue of being incarcerated in the Tombs. So what would be the point?” He looked at each of us.

  We waited for him to explain more.

  “A killer,” he said, “who has consistently raised the stakes with each murder is building up to something, not walking away quietly. I believe he has something big in mind planned next. His own ‘gala night.’ The question remains, what?”

  “It has to be a show,” I said, my excitement rising as we finally seemed to make progress in our thinking. “Every killing has happened at a theater. We’d stand a chance of stopping him just by adding protection at every theater in the city.”

  “Yes,” Alistair said indulgently, “but I think our man would be smart enough to work around that somehow. I also think he’s someone who fits in at these theaters. He doesn’t attract attention.”

  “Yet it’s of critical importance for us to identify him— and stop him before he kills again.”

  “Of course,” Alistair agreed. “But— especially given how adept I believe his social functioning to be— to look among Frohman’s employees or Poe’s neighbors or even Mulvaney’s men would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Whereas if we look to this killer’s predicted behavior, we force him to show himself to us. We have no idea who he is. But we know exactly how he behaves when he kills.” Alistair paused to catch his breath. “First, we have to try to hypothesize some ideas for his next move. We should find out if any new shows are opening in the next couple weeks—”

  Isabella bolted straight up in her chair and interrupted him. “Romeo and Juliet. It’s going to be Romeo and Juliet.”

  It took a moment for me to understand what she was saying, but the moment I did, it made perfect sense.

  “Of course. When Isabella and I met with Frohman night before last,” I said excitedly, “he was rehearsing the role of Juliet with one of his actresses. I’m willing to bet it opens in the next few weeks.”

  Alistair leaned over to his briefcase and pulled out his newspaper. It took him little time to scan the arts section and find the answer. “Several shows premiere in the next two or three weeks: It’s All Your Fault at the Savoy opens April second, a Shubert musical called The Social Whirl opens the ninth at the Casino, Arms and the Man opens the sixteenth at the Lyric, The American Lord opens at the Hudson on the sixteenth, and Romeo and Juliet premieres this Thursday night at the Lyceum.”

  “And how many of those are Frohman productions?”

  “Only two. The American Lord and Romeo and Juliet.”

  “We don’t want to ignore the other productions, but based on the three prior murders, I say we focus on the two Frohman premieres.”

  Alistair was silent for a long moment. Then he finally agreed.

  I turned to Isabella. “We have complete transcripts for each letter written by this murderer. Would you take a look at each and try to figure out if we may have missed something?”

  “What exactly am I to look for?” she asked, her brown eyes pools of worry.

  “I’ve no idea, honestly,” I said. “But I’m confident that if something is there, you’ll recognize it when you find it.”

  I stared at the board for another long moment.

  “Alistair, would you be able to find out more detail about each of these Frohman premieres? It would be helpful to learn the names of those involved, particularly the actresses. And ask around to see if anyone unusual has been observing the dress rehearsals.”

  “Of course,” Alistair replied. “But as I’ve repeatedly said, I believe our killer fits in at the theater.” He caught my look and hastily added, “But yes— I’ll ask around.”

  “And I need to chase down a lead that I ignored yesterday.”

  We had formed a plan of action— a good one, I thought. And after thanking Dr. Vollman and agreeing to meet up at Alistair’s apartment that evening, we split up in the interest of efficiency.

  Isabella immediately caught a cab back uptown, but Alistair and I walked through the park, headed toward the southwest corner.

  “We’ve much to do to prepare for Thursday night’s show,” Alistair was saying, “and I think we ought to start by . . .”

  But even as I listened to Alistair’s ideas, I wanted to enjoy this moment while it lasted. We still had no idea whom we were searching for. But we had accomplished something important: we had quite possibly identified the killer’s next venue.

  Alistair and I soon parted ways, for his plans took him to the West Side, where he would catch the subway back uptown to the theater district.

  I continued walking south, passing a saxophone player who had attracted a lunchtime crowd, playing a tune I recognized but couldn’t name from a recent George M. Cohan musical. For once, I felt we were a step ahead of the killer we sought, and not the other way around. That was a feeling worth savor
ing, and I did so— with every step as I made my way toward Molly Hansen’s boarding house and the information I had so stupidly chosen to ignore the night before.

  CHAPTER 24

  Madame Pinoche’s Boarding house

  My hunger got the better of me before I left Washington Square Park, so I decided a five-minute lunch break was in order. I bought a sausage and roll from a pushcart, as well as an apple from a nearby fruit wagon and a copy of The Times from the corner newsboy. Crossing the walking path, I found a vacant park bench and opened my Times in search of the article that Frank Riley and Jack Bogarty had certainly written by now on the theater murders. I scanned coverage on the front page, seeing stories about the fire at Benedict’s Undertaking, another fire at the Columbus Circle subway station, and a father who had killed his daughter just before her wedding day. Then I found it: PREDATORY MURDERER STALKS ACTRESSES OF GREAT WHITE WAY; APPREHENDED IN OPIUM DEN.

  The article, penned in language more sensational than was typical for The Times, praised Alistair lavishly. Apparently, his criminological theories had been invaluable to the investigation and were almost single-handedly responsible for the killer’s timely capture. Mulvaney would be incensed to read that one, all right. However Alistair had managed it, he’d certainly made friends of those reporters. I realized with some surprise that he must have grown far closer to them than I’d first imagined.

  But how would they rewrite the news when Poe was proven innocent— as I believed would happen in the coming days? Their effusive praise could not help but make me concerned that Alistair was beholden to them. I would have to be careful of where his loyalties stood, should any conflict of interest arise.

  I made short work of my lunch and left the park, crossing Washington Square South to enter a neighborhood of boardinghouses and hotels that catered to actors, artists, and musicians. My father had said I’d find Molly at the three-and-a-half-story redbrick building several blocks south run by Madame Pinoche. Actors and actresses, writers and artists— most were still at home at this hour of the afternoon, socializing throughout first-floor common rooms— but I was ushered into a private parlor and assured that Miss Hansen would be down shortly.