Instead, I wriggled my torso with greater success and got my face and upper body free of the lumber that towered above me.
I heard a muffled sound, causing me to wrench my head to find out its source.
My father.
He was bound and gagged in the far corner.
“Pop,” I called out. My childhood name for him— one I’d not used in years.
He made a half-coughing, half-gargling sound. I wanted to help him but I could not move.
Racked with frustration, I used my hands and arms to wrest myself into a sitting position. I moved out from under the tower of lumber far enough to send it toppling with a powerful shove from my left shoulder.
A mistake— for footsteps came running.
Whose footsteps?
And from where?
I froze, berating myself for not having been more careful.
The footsteps had stopped.
Molly’s face emerged from behind a forest— or, rather, the green-painted stage set that was meant to represent one. Satisfied that we were still incapacitated, she walked around the giant set and gazed down, first at me, then at my father.
She breathed in relief. “Still here, I see. But causing trouble.” She nodded toward the pile of lumber that I’d toppled.
“You know Captain Mulvaney is on his way. If you help us now, I can cut you a deal.”
She gave me a knowing look. “I don’t need a deal. And I’m afraid your captain won’t be coming, after all.”
Molly had known the whole plan. And that meant that Jack had known exactly how to foil each part of it.
My father made a gurgling sound. From the light of Molly’s lantern, I saw that his chin was streaked with blood. For a split second, I thought he had been hurt. But then, as he nearly choked trying to cough, I realized the blood was from his consumption.
“Good God!” I burst out. “He’s going to drown in his own blood if you don’t remove that gag.”
A harsh laugh. “He’s going to die anyway. What do I care?”
Another awful hacking noise.
At the sound, she relented, muttering, “But I’d rather not listen to it.
“Lean forward,” she said to him. And before she removed the gag, she checked the knots that secured his hands and feet. Satisfied, she reached for the knot that tied the blood-soaked bandanna behind his head.
“I’m taking this off,” she said, warning, “but if you so much as make a noise, I’ll replace it, even tighter.”
I watched my father carefully. She was close enough that he might be able to kick her.
Fight, I silently commanded.
But all he said was, “Please, it hurts. Can’t you let me straighten my arms out?”
“No. Because you’ll simply undo the knots that bind you.”
“Molly.” He paused for a moment, then simply asked, “Why?”
Ignoring him, she searched around the room until she found a crowbar.
I stared at it, wondering if she meant to use it on us— or to move some of the wood that had fallen all around the floor in a mess.
Who is she?
Then, in a flash, I realized it.
There was no resemblance, at least not in the face or build. No matter. Some families didn’t look alike, and I’d never been good at discerning the finer points of family likeness anyway.
Nonetheless—and I thought it was because of a movement she made as she leaned over to pick up a plank of wood— Mrs. Layton’s words sprang to mind: “Robert and my daughter were very close,” she had said, “as close as brother and sister.”
“Where’s your cousin?” I asked.
A churlish smile. “Good job, Detective. You figured that one out.”
She returned to stacking piles of lumber.
“He’s upstairs? And you’ve been helping him all this time?”
Not one member of this family is right in the head.
“I guess he couldn’t have done it without you.” I affected a look of sincerity— or so I hoped. “But I can’t figure out why. Why help him?”
She muttered something incomprehensible.
“How long has he been killing them, Molly? When did you first find out? Because it’s been going on far longer than just the past few weeks.”
She stared at me, saying nothing. She’d just righted the last of the planks on the table, seeming to forget that previously they had lain on top of me. I needed to keep her distracted.
“A man who can strangle a woman without leaving a single mark is practiced at this skill,” Alistair had said.
“He’s been doing it a long time,” I said quietly. “Have you been helping him all along?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Robby has a . . . a sickness. He loves certain women so much that he ends up hurting them.”
“You mean killing them,” I said coldly.
“He just doesn’t want them to change,” she said. “That’s what he always told me. It’s just that sometimes he goes too far.”
“So why help him?”
“I’m not helping him,” she said in a burst of anger. “I’m protecting him. I make sure he doesn’t get caught.”
“Which ensures that even more women will die.”
“They would put him in a mental hospital, if they didn’t kill him,” she said stubbornly, “and I won’t stand for it. It’s bad enough our whole family has been destroyed—” She choked on her words.
And in that moment, I thought I understood.
“You wanted to destroy Charles Frohman,” I said softly. “That’s why you’ve involved yourself to this extent.”
She looked up sharply in surprise.
“You blamed him for your aunt’s death,” I continued.
“More than that,” she said. “He owed us. All of us. And he never did right, not by any of us.”
“I know Robert had written some plays—”
“Good plays. Plays that should have been produced, not the least because Robby was Frohman’s own son.”
My father collapsed into a coughing fit that sent up more blood.
“Here.” She tossed a stained towel in his direction, shooting him a look of disgust as he maneuvered awkwardly, trying to reach it. Her laugh was brittle as she watched his helplessness, for his hands remained tied behind his back.
“Charles Frohman and Elaine Coby?” I’d not suspected that one, assuming it was true. Jack Bogarty’s— or rather, Robert Coby’s— image popped into my mind. There was no trace of resemblance I could detect.
“Absolutely. What do you think he does with all these actresses he makes into stars? It’s part of the deal— one reason why he never permits them to marry or step out with anyone else. But in Aunt Elaine’s case,” she took a breath, “instead of doing right by her, he blacklisted her and ruined her career. Her entire life, in fact.”
I wasn’t about to argue. Instead, I said only, “I can see how you believe he owed better to Robert and Elaine. But you said he owed all of you. . . .”
“And he did owe me.” Her voice was bitter. “I have Elaine’s gifts. I look like her. I act like her. And I’ve more than her share of talent. She even wrote to him, asking him to help me out. . . .”
“And he didn’t, so years later, when he rejected Robert’s work as well, the two of you conspired to hurt Frohman.”
“Robert was going to pursue his women no matter what.” She tossed her head. “It was my idea that he could turn his habits to a productive end. All it took was showing him a few pictures, making a suggestion or two—”
“But the women don’t even look alike,” I said.
“They didn’t have to.” She looked at me in amazement. “You don’t get it, do you? Their appeal didn’t lie in what they were. Robby was drawn to who they might become— with his help. All I had to do was plant the seed—”
“But they were innocent women, all of them. They deserved better.”
“Spare me, Detective. No one’s innocent. And no one ever gets what they dese
rve. . . .” Her words dripped with bitterness.
“By God, they were murdered! And where you had the power to stop it, you actually encouraged it.”
“They served my purposes,” she said coldly.
There was a noise— voices upstairs.
She turned and left us without saying another word. We listened to her footsteps thud up the wooden staircase; then a key turned in the lock at the top of the basement door.
“I’m so sorry, son,” my father said with another cough. “I really bungled this one up.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said. Or could he? Had there been some sign that he missed? I’d no way of knowing.
The shift in weight was something I’d sensed immediately— the collapse of the first lumber tower had seemed to knock several planks off the pile that anchored my legs. I’d been lucky that she had put the fallen wood on top of the table. Now . . . yes, it moved. I pushed with all my might, and felt . . . movement.
Inch by inch, I wriggled my legs until my feet appeared . . . first just the heel, then the toes of both feet.
Stiff, and still in painful agony, I began inching my way toward him.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to untie me.”
“I can’t,” he whimpered. “Not with my own hands tied.”
“You’ve no choice. And this is no time for false modesty. I know you’ve never met a knot you couldn’t manage to untangle.”
I wrested my body around until my wrists touched his own. Sitting back-to-back with him, I commanded, “Now. Try.”
Minutes later, I was able to wriggle my left hand free, then my right. I rubbed them vigorously, then turned to the task of undoing the knots that restrained him.
I tugged and pulled, trying to loosen them. “Tell me what happened. You and Helen Bell had left, I thought. . . .”
“Me too,” he said bitterly. “I took her out the stage door and through the alley. But he was waiting for me there, just like he knew I was coming. He had a gun, so he forced us back inside. He watched as Molly tied me up in her dressing room. I don’t know where he took Helen.”
“I’ve got a good guess,” I said grimly.
I shook the rope to the floor. “There. Your arms are free.”
He gingerly stretched first one, then the other, around to his front.
“Do you want me to do the one on your legs?”
“No. I’m faster.”
When he removed the rope, I took it from him and shoved it into my pocket— for the simple reason that it might come in handy.
We were up the stairs in a flash, grabbing a small crowbar and a hammer along the way. Molly had taken my Smith & Wesson from me earlier, when I was tied up, so she and Jack were armed with at least two guns and probably Isador’s knife. Luckily they hadn’t taken the small file that I kept in my pocket. I handed it to my father.
“I daresay you’re faster with a lock.”
He accepted it eagerly and made short work of the flimsy contraption that secured the basement door.
We opened it slowly, careful to make no sound.
I stopped— sniffing the air deeply.
“What’s that?” I whispered.
We both inhaled, deeper this time. It was the unmistakable, acrid smell of something burning. Fire.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” my father said.
I glanced at my watch.
Was there a chance Mulvaney would come, despite Molly’s claim to have thwarted our plans? It didn’t matter. Even if Mulvaney arrived as expected, he still wouldn’t be in time to save us. Or Helen . . .
“We’ve got to stop Jack ourselves,” I said.
He reached out and grabbed my arm. “If you go out there with no weapons and no help, you’ll never make it,” he whispered in a panic.
“And if I don’t, then Helen will die,” I said.
“They’re armed,” he hissed.
“I’ll think of something. Look,” I pointed to the backstage door, “your way is clear. I’ll watch to make sure you get out okay. There’s a hotel halfway down the block. Get them to call in the fire. And the police, too,” I added as he scampered toward the door.
There was a flash of light from the street when he first opened the door, then the night closed around him and he was gone.
The smoke was getting thicker, so I grabbed a handkerchief to put over my mouth as I made my way through the crossover to the opposite side of the stage.
Where is Louie? Have they found him, too?
Hurrying as fast as I could, I made my way to the stage-left wing— where I stopped short. Molly stood eight feet in front of me.
Any sound right now would be fatal. I grabbed the rope and tiptoed toward her— reaching out and taking her by surprise at the last moment. She cried out and slumped into me, but I caught her arms swiftly and had them tied behind her back in no time.
“Robby!” she half screamed before I was able to cover her mouth and mute her protest.
I counted on his being otherwise occupied. Had he heard her? Maybe, but would he have cared enough to interrupt his own plans? I hoped not.
I dragged her back to Helen Bell’s dressing room, where I made use of several scarves I found there. One knotted her feet tightly together, quieting her kicking. Two more formed a more permanent gag to stop her from calling out to her accomplice. And while I doubted she had my father’s skill for untying a knot, I used an additional scarf to secure her to the chair.
She thrashed about wildly, which only made the knots tighter.
“The police will be here shortly,” I said as I closed the door behind her— and prayed I was right.
I made my way back to the stage, knowing it was likely that I no longer had the advantage of surprise.
It was ablaze in light— a series of torches from some past production, each burning brightly, created a semicircular backdrop.
In the middle of the stage was a chaise longue covered with blankets to resemble a bed. Helen Bell sat on it, hands and feet bound with long scarves.
Stretched out at her feet lay a man. With a sharp intake of breath, I recognized Louie.
The last person who might have helped me tonight.
Helen wriggled violently to protest her restraints, but Louie lay still. Was he merely unconscious— or already dead?
Jack’s back was toward me as he worked over some kind of costume, but he sensed my presence and spoke.
“Detective, we’ve been expecting you.” He slowly turned to face me, holding a blazing torch in one hand, my own Smith & Wesson in the other.
A maniacal grin crossed his face and he made a mock bow in greeting.
“You’re just in time for the grand finale.”
CHAPTER 34
Onstage at the Lyceum Theater
“We’re picking up at the end of act five. Othello, of course.” He turned and kicked at Louie’s limp body. “Unfortunately, we had to make a slight change in the script. Normally the African moor is the last to die, after he murders Desdemona.” Jack gestured toward Helen, quaking on the makeshift bed. “But tonight, as you can see, he died first. Ah well,” he said, brandishing his torch, “I’ve always been flexible.”
He put the torch in a stand and marched across the stage toward me. “To night I’m the director. Who shall you play? Iago, perhaps? But I’m not sure you covet our leading lady sufficiently. Perhaps you ought to look at her to appreciate her better. She’s beautiful tonight, no?”
He drew close and threw his right arm around me. His left hand still carried the gun.
I convulsed at his touch— though from fear, repulsion, or both, I did not know.
He didn’t notice, but nudged me forward onstage. “I’m afraid I have you to blame for her lack of cooperation. Normally my leading ladies enjoy working with me. They are anxious to play their little roles. But tonight,” he made a mock frown, “you seem to have said something to put my star in a sour mood. Perhaps now you can cheer her on, encou
rage her to play.”
My mouth was dry when I responded. “Don’t worry, Miss Bell.”
Jack flopped into the chair opposite us, convulsed in laughter. “Yes, Miss Bell, no need to worry. The great detective here has it all under control.”
He began twirling my Smith & Wesson, spinning it on his right forefinger.
Helen Bell whimpered in fright.
“You put together quite a fine plan, Detective. I was impressed, let me tell you.”
“You’ve got to give this up, Jack. Or— should I call you Robert?” I cocked my head to the left. “Unless you prefer ‘Charlie’?”
“Jack, of course. Name I picked myself. Jack-Be-Nimble, Jack-Be-Quick. Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. Jack and Jill went up the hill. Jack Sprat could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean.” He leaned forward and spoke in a confidential whisper. “It’s a popular name, you see. All the children love it.”
It was all a game to him. Only another sign that he was raving mad. How was I supposed to talk with someone like this?
More important, how was I going to retrieve my gun from him? I would have fought him then, except for the gun.
I had to buy time until my father could bring help.
I went with the first thing that popped into my head. “If Jack is such a fine name, why did you tell Miss Bell that your name was Charlie?”
“Simple logic.” He sprang out of the chair and circled behind Helen Bell. “She might have told her friends all about me,” he waved his hands, then leaned down low, “even told them my name. They might have remembered that she was stepping out with a theater critic from The New York Times. And then,” he made a mock sigh, “policemen like you would have wanted to talk with me after she turned up dead.”
“She doesn’t have to die,” I said calmly.
“What?” He staggered back as if in shock. “Of course she has to die. Desdemona always has to die. It’s her fate. The great bard has decreed it.”
“Helen is not Desdemona,” I said, trying again. “You can end all this now. Just put down the gun and walk away.”
Helen Bell began to cry, which prompted Jack to move closer to her. His long fingers stretched out and caressed her head. “Don’t cry, my love. Desdemona never cries. She thinks only of her love for the man who must kill her. Who must preserve her honor . . .”
A Curtain Falls Page 28
