A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  CHAPTER 29

  The Vandergriff Mansion, 969 Fifth Avenue

  We managed to catch a couple of hours’ sleep at Alistair’s apartment before daybreak, waking to discover that Frank Riley had come through for us overnight. He had discovered that a beautiful young socialite named Francine Vandergriff had disappeared five years ago while summering with her family on Shelter Island. Aware that time was short, I was satisfied with the probable victim’s name. But Alistair knew the Vandergriffs well— and so he prevailed upon me to visit them that morning.

  “Mulvaney thinks the case is wrapped up,” he reminded me. “You won’t find him in his office before nine o’clock. Besides, the Vandergriffs may know of Robert Coby’s current whereabouts.”

  That chance was reason enough to meet with Mrs. Vandergriff briefly, I decided. My friend down at the Fifth Precinct had turned up nothing on Robert Coby. “It’s strange,” he had said. “It’s as though the man doesn’t even exist.”

  “Will Mrs. Vandergriff even receive us at this hour?” It was not yet eight o’clock, and so early a visit seemed the height of impropriety.

  Yet Alistair was no doubt right when he replied, “It concerns her only daughter. She’ll see us.”

  And so the hansom cab whisked us through Central Park that morning to the Vandergriff residence on Millionaires’ Row, as the string of mansions along Fifth Avenue was called. The Vandergriff home, a white marble masterpiece surrounded by an iron fence with an elaborate filigree pattern, was among the largest and most imposing. Yet it struck me immediately as a house in mourning.

  I knew that the Vandergriffs, like Alistair, counted themselves among Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred— considered a marker of New York’s social elite. I’d not often had occasion to enter the home of a society matron like Mrs. Vandergriff, and I was certain that the stiff restraint exercised by the young house maid who admitted us was not atypical. Nor were the dour, heavy furnishings that adorned the dark-paneled room in which we sat; they were in keeping with the prevailing taste of many wealthy New York families. But the sadness that was so palpable had nothing to do with furnishings or attitudes. It permeated the very air around us.

  We did not wait for long before Mrs. Vandergriff entered the room majestically. She was an imposing grande dame with high cheekbones, gray hair with silver highlights, and a haughty attitude. In one sweeping gesture, she placed her pince-nez onto her nose; it had formerly been suspended from the ivory brooch pinned to her dark purple satin dress. She then peered at Alistair with fixed attention.

  “Your wife has not called upon me in months,” she said, her lips curling into a disapproving frown. “Yet you disturb me at this ungodly hour of the morning.”

  I groaned inwardly, for this was not a promising start to our conversation.

  But Alistair merely smiled, saying, “My wife has not exactly called upon me in months, either. She more or less resides abroad permanently now.”

  His words earned him a severe look and a tart response. “Then you might have called upon me yourself and inquired into my health. Or that of Henry— that is, Mr. Vandergriff.”

  Alistair’s sarcastic reply was no doubt affected by his lack of sleep. “Perhaps we ought to comment on the weather. We can say it’s been a particularly cold and snowy March— and then move on to more serious discussion.”

  I thought she would rebuke him for his rudeness, but instead I watched as her face relaxed into a half smile. “Very well, Alistair. I will concur with you on the weather— and agree to move on.” She made a sound that was almost a chortle.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us at this early hour,” Alistair said, introducing me and doing his best to move the conversation along. “It’s been a while,” he said gently, “but we are here about your daughter.”

  “Francine?” she said. Her voice cracked as she looked at us hopefully.

  “I’m sorry. We haven’t found her,” Alistair said. “But in the course of investigating another young woman’s disappearance, the name Robert Coby has come up. Are you acquainted with him?”

  She looked at Alistair, readjusting the paisley shawl that covered her shoulders. But she said nothing.

  “We have reason to believe your daughter’s disappearance was connected with Robert Coby.” Alistair paused for only a beat before he added, “Anything you can tell us about Robert Coby or your daughter’s relationship with him may help us.”

  Her angry gaze fixed on him. “You slander my daughter’s reputation by implying a connection where there is none. And you insult me by broaching a topic of conversation that you know to be painful.”

  “I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Vandergriff. And I am sorry to bring up a subject that must be difficult for you. But the connection that your family—” he paused for a split second, “particularly that your daughter— formed with Robert Coby is the best hope we have to find him quickly. And I assure you, it is urgent that we do so.”

  They stared at each other for several moments, a contest of wills.

  Her resolve broke first. She bit her lip, and when her words came, for the first time she spoke without pretense. “Do you think finding Robert would lead us to my Francine?”

  “I believe it may.”

  She stared ahead, her jaw working silently.

  “I do not come here lightly, Mrs. Vandergriff. Don’t forget— I also know what it is to lose a child.” Alistair’s voice was thick with emotion.

  “So did Robert,” she finally said. She removed her pincenez, letting it hang once more from the ivory brooch pinned to her chest. “At least he seemed to.”

  “Robert?” I barely breathed the name.

  She sighed. “I’ll be honest. I disliked Robert Coby at first. I resented the attention he paid to my daughter. I worried for her reputation, you see: he was a most unsuitable attachment for her. And I felt my husband gave him false encouragement by taking an interest in his career. As a philanthropic gesture, my Henry— Mr. Vandergriff, that is— tried to help Robert gain a foothold in the theater business.”

  She was then silent for some moments, and we simply waited for her to continue speaking.

  “Robert fancied himself a writer— a playwright, specifically. Mr. Vandergriff had read some of his work and felt it was quite good; as a result, he made some introductions for Robert, helping him to meet some of our city’s more influential theater types.” Her emphasis fell upon “theater types”— an exaggerated sniff underscoring her disapproval of them. “I don’t think anything ever came of it.”

  “You mentioned that you eventually changed your mind about Robert. Why?” I asked.

  “Because I saw that I had been wrong. I had judged him too harshly.” She pursed her lips. “When Francine disappeared, that last summer on Shelter Island, Robert was absolutely marvelous,” she said, her hands breaking apart in an expansive gesture. “No one could have been more supportive. He organized a search of the island. He wrote news articles about her for all the local Long Island papers, in the hopes that someone would recognize her photograph or description. He checked on us every day.” She took a deep breath. “And when we had no choice but to give up and return to the city, he gave the most beautiful gift. He called it A Prayer for Francine and it was a collection of poems, each one an homage to our daughter in beautiful verse. Somehow, he managed to find words for those emotions that were locked deep in my heart.” She placed a hand upon her chest.

  “But you don’t see him regularly now? You don’t know where he lives?” I asked, puzzled.

  “No. He’s a young man with his own interests,” she said with a wan smile. Then with a flash of defiance she added, “After everything I’ve told you about Robert, you see now why he could not have been involved in Francine’s disappearance. Not after everything he did for us. Not,” she emphasized the word, “in light of the beautiful poems he wrote about her.”

  Alistair’s voice was gentle when he asked, “Might we see the book of poetry that he wrote?”

 
“Of course; but a few poems won’t lead you to a missing man,” she said, her spirit returning as she excused herself.

  I glanced at my watch. We were pressed for time, I reminded Alistair.

  “We’ve still got to show her the ring,” he said. “Patience.”

  She returned moments later with an inlaid-ivory book caressed between her hands. She passed it to Alistair somewhat reluctantly.

  “As I said, the verses are beautiful—” She broke off awkwardly.

  Alistair handed the book to me, and I saw that each poem was carefully typewritten and surrounded by elaborate illustrations, mainly floral. Mrs. Vandergriff was right: their emotional tenor was one of tender remembrance of something precious and lost, as a parent might feel for a child. Not one of them smacked of passion or romance.

  She placed her hand over her heart. “He managed to put into words every feeling I had for her. My enduring affection. My grief and loss.”

  I looked away as she pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes— for I felt I was intruding on something deeply personal.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vandergriff. Just one more thing.” Alistair placed the sapphire-and-diamond ring on the coffee table that separated us from the society matron. “Is there any chance this was Francine’s ring?”

  She stiffened. “Where did you find it?” Her words were hoarse and broken as they came from her throat. She reached out as if to touch the ring— pulled her hand back as though afraid— and then recovered her nerve and tried again. This time she succeeded and gingerly picked up the ring, tracing her fore-finger lightly over its filigree band.

  “Someone on Shelter Island found it and gave it to us, knowing we planned to see you,” Alistair said, twisting the facts into a half-truth.

  “But where?” Her eyes were searching as she looked from me to Alistair.

  “Outside the hotel.” Another half-lie.

  Her face collapsed in relief. “Of course. She walked on the path past the hotel all the time.”

  Now she clasped the ring tightly in her fingers, and brought it against her heart. “Her father and I . . . we gave it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Only a year before we lost her.”

  “One more question that may sound odd— but did your daughter ever break her thumb?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, and looked at us in amazement. “She’d just turned ten. We’d taken a sailboat out on the bay, and she wrenched her thumb playing with the mast.”

  Alistair and I exchanged sad glances. Of course we could tell her nothing yet— so Alistair mumbled a half-excuse that appeared to placate her for the moment, especially since she was so distracted by the finding of her daughter’s ring.

  I didn’t feel too guilty. When bad news had waited this long, a few more days would make little difference.

  I reached out for the ring. “We need to keep your daughter’s ring just a little while longer, Mrs. Vandergriff. Then I promise we will return it to you.”

  Reluctantly, she gave it up.

  Alistair picked up the ivory-inlaid book of verse, glanced at a couple of the poems once more, then handed it back to Mrs. Vandergriff. As he did, an envelope that had been tucked into the back lining fell out. As he passed that to her as well, she opened it, asking us, “Would you like to see a couple of pictures of Francine? These were taken the last Christmas we spent with her.”

  It was all I could do not to refuse. I was impatient to talk with Mulvaney and move on with this case. I nearly didn’t look when she passed me the photographs, each featuring a smiling young lady with high cheekbones and curly dark hair. She clearly had her mother’s confidence and determination: it was evident in both her posture and expression. I glanced at the last photograph quickly— it was of a group of young people clustered around a piano at a Christmas party, with a decorated evergreen visible in the background.

  I pulled out my pocket watch again. It was now nearly nine o’clock in the morning. We needed to leave.

  Something, however, made me give the last picture a second look.

  I focused on the man in the back row who was smiling broadly. Even in black-and-white sepia, I could see that his handsome face was framed by perfectly coiffed hair and a smile that revealed even, perfect teeth. He stared at me almost as though taunting me— mocking my inability to recognize him. For it slowly registered that this was a face I already knew.

  “How is this man connected with Francine and Robert?” I asked, my voice rising in excitement.

  In a world-weary voice, Mrs. Vandergriff responded, “Whomever are you talking about?”

  I pointed again. “Here in the back row, just behind Francine.”

  But Mrs. Vandergriff was distracted by her own thoughts, so she dismissed me with a look of mild frustration. “My dear,” she said, “you’re impossibly mixed up. How could Robert know whom well? You’re pointing to Robert himself.”

  She repeated it again when we continued to stare at her blankly.

  Now thoroughly flustered by our reaction, she added, “The photograph was taken right here in our ballroom, by the piano.”

  We glanced again at the man with the charming smile, whose book of poetry and careful attentions had so captivated this grande dame of society.

  The same man who had murdered her daughter.

  A man who went by a different name than Robert Coby.

  He’d known our every step, for covering our investigation had been his job.

  Alistair had worked with him closely. Too closely, it would seem.

  It all suddenly made sense.

  A frustrated playwright.

  A respected theater critic for The New York Times.

  Robert Coby.

  Jack Bogarty.

  One and the same.

  CHAPTER 30

  Central Park, Fifth Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street

  There’s a singular moment I wait for in every investigation when disjointed fragments of evidence magically come together and present the solution whole. Sometimes it happens because of hard work or astute thinking. But more often, it’s the result of a lucky break, like the one we had just gotten from Mrs. Vandergriff.

  We crossed Fifth Avenue and walked south along the edge of Central Park.

  “It makes perfect sense now that we know,” Alistair said, shaking his head in disbelief, “but I swear to you he gave no sign in any of my dealings with him.”

  “Or mine,” I said dryly. “Yet you’ve told me before that the most diabolical killers are those who best deceive their closest friends and associates.”

  “His public persona utterly masks his psychotic tendencies. Unlike many killers I’ve interviewed, he has no social maladjustment,” Alistair said. He tapped his fingers together. “Do you prefer to see Mulvaney on your own, or would you like me to accompany you downtown?”

  “I’m not going to Mulvaney— not yet.”

  “Why in heaven’s name not? A moment ago, you couldn’t wait to see him.” Alistair’s voice filled with exasperation. “Everything we did last night and this morning was designed to help you provide Mulvaney with sufficient evidence to exonerate Poe and secure Robert Coby’s— I mean Jack’s— arrest.” He patted the briefcase he carried, which contained the picture we had borrowed from Mrs. Vandergriff.

  “With a man like Jack Bogarty, it’s not enough. I see that now.” I quickened my pace. “Jack is too smooth and polished. If you put him on the witness stand with insufficient evidence, he’ll charm the jury into granting him an acquittal.”

  Alistair spread his hands wide in amazement. “How can you say that before he’s even been tried? We have a lot connecting him to these crimes. It’s as though you don’t trust our legal system to handle the evidence you would provide them.”

  But my conviction only grew as I spoke. “He will argue that we’ve made a terrible mistake and charged the wrong man based on circumstantial evidence. I’ve seen it happen before, in fact— just over a week ago.”

  I explained
to him about Lydia Snyder, who had been on trial for poisoning her husband. Despite evidence pointing undeniably in her direction, she had used her charm and personality to persuade the jury to ignore all circumstantial evidence that damned her.

  “And since it was a murder case, all they needed was reasonable doubt to acquit her.” Alistair understood, taking me seriously now.

  “Jack Bogarty would be just like her,” I said. “He’s a successful theater critic who is well liked and respected. Plenty of people will believe he could never do such a thing. We won’t succeed in putting this man behind bars if we can’t secure the evidence that will pin him to these killings. He has sufficient personal charisma to sway any jury. And if they acquit him, he will do as he’s done before: disappear into a new life with a new name. And the killings will continue.”

  “You’re right about his behavioral pattern,” Alistair said at last. “And if you truly don’t trust the prosecution to build an airtight case against him based on the circumstances—”

  “It’s not a matter of trust. I’m saying that for some people— those like Jack Bogarty— you need something tighter than mere circumstance to bind them to their crimes. We’ve got to catch him in the act.”

  We were silent for a moment. Then Alistair said, “It sounds like you have something already in mind.”

  “I do. But I need a few hours to pull it together. I need you to approach Mulvaney tonight and convince him to come to Romeo and Juliet.”

  “But why don’t you—”

  Ignoring the apprehension that filled his face, I said, “I’ll meet you there. Romeo and Juliet. Bring Mulvaney half an hour after the show ends.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The Fortune Club, 30 Pell Street

  “Not as a favor,” I said, pulling an envelope from my coat pocket. “What I want is a straight business arrangement.”