A Curtain Falls (22 page)

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 instructed 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.”

“And if I refuse?” He raised an eyebrow.

I should no longer have been shocked. In the last ten years, I’d seen every reaction to murder I thought possible. But such callousness and indifference in the wake of three lives cut short never ceased to upset me. Even when, as here, I understood that it was pure self-interest that caused it.

“Does it mean nothing to you that three young women— actresses you knew and employed— have been murdered?” My voice cracked with emotion.

Embarrassed, he looked down toward the heavy gold ring on his right hand.

And I decided: if he was truly so self-absorbed, then perhaps I would have more success by appealing to his self-interest. I bluffed with every ounce of confidence I could muster.

“You put your entire organization at risk of being shut down by being uncooperative. And I don’t care what reassurances Mayor McClellan or Police Commissioner Bingham gave you
earlier. They spoke to you at a time when only one victim was positively known. Now there are three . . . and these killings aren’t stopping. Finding this murderer is far more important,” I took a deep breath, “than your personal need for privacy or your misguided desire to keep your theater organization out of the public spotlight. The victims worked for you. They were murdered in your theaters. That involves you— whether you like it or not.”

Fuming, he got up, walked toward me, and simply stared. At less than three feet away, it was obvious he was a much larger man. I held my ground, even as I heard Isabella’s quick noise of surprise.

Finally, he sputtered, “No one talks to me like this.”

“Mr. Frohman,” Isabella said sweetly, “we didn’t come to fight with you. We need your help.”

He turned to her and I noticed that his face somewhat softened as his anger defused.

“Come, sit again.” Isabella indicated the empty chair beside her. “We know how devoted you are to your work, and how frustrating our interference in it must be. But Detective Ziele is right. We need your help,” she repeated, “if we’re to catch the person responsible for these killings. No one knows how your Theater Syndicate operates better than you do.”

“Hmmph.” He sat. “The syndicate succeeds because no one knows my
actors
better than I do. They’re what make me a success.”

“We know you have been rehearsing a scene with one of your actresses, even tonight. Is that typical? It strikes me as a huge investment of your personal time,” I said.

“Of course.” He looked at us in amazement, not quite understanding what we were asking.

“And how do you choose them?” Isabella asked. “You obviously can’t give your undivided attention to all of them.”

He shook his head. “No, I choose the men and women who have talent— in addition to great ambition and love for the theater. It takes no less to reach the greatest heights in this profession. But if they have what it takes, then I find the roles that will allow them to shine.” He looked at us curiously. “Both of you mention ‘actresses’ only. It’s true that my latest find was Maude Adams— and I have great hopes for the young lady working on ‘Juliet’ in my living room. But have you never heard of John Drew? Or William Gillette? They are major stars I created.” He beamed with pride.

Their names were familiar to me, though I knew nothing of their career trajectories or how long they’d been with Frohman. That was easy enough to check, however.