A Curtain Falls (25 page)

Had I missed seeing the truth about Poe? And were my instincts wrong— when they had always served me so well in the past?

I did not sleep that night, but in my tossing and turning, I decided I was right about Poe. What ever his failings, he was not the man I sought— the one whose monstrous words and deeds tormented me mercilessly, deep into the night.

Monday
March 19, 1906

The Nineteenth Precinct House

Timothy Poe was not at 101 MacDougal Street, but a vast array of drug paraphernalia was. Unfortunately for him, it was more than enough to raise the eyebrows of even the most jaded of Mulvaney’s men: a stash of opium, a bottle of Bayer’s heroin, some cocaine toothache drops, and a dozen hypodermic needles of the type that had pricked Detective Marwin. Though it was not illegal to possess any of these items, it was frowned upon by polite society— and their discovery would do Poe little good.

The presence of similar hypodermic needles was purely circumstantial, of course. But taken together with the fingerprints that damned him— not to mention the jury of his peers who would no doubt take a dim view of his lifestyle— the case against Poe appeared strong. The prosecution would have little trouble painting Poe as an unsympathetic, amoral man. So it was
unlikely that his personal testimony would trump the circumstantial evidence stacked against him, as I had witnessed first-hand in the poisoning trial where Mrs. Snyder had been acquit ted. It seemed a lifetime ago, but it had been only a week.

Mulvaney’s men had eventually located Poe— and by Monday morning, when I met with Mulvaney at the precinct house, Poe was under arrest. I reviewed the evidence against him myself. It was solid— and should have satisfied me on an intellectual level.

But the nagging sensation in my gut was another matter. I was convinced of Poe’s innocence, despite the persuasive evidence now presented to me. I simply didn’t believe him capable of committing these particular murders.

“Even the best of us make mistakes.” Mulvaney clapped a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I’ve certainly made my share over the years. Luckily, your mistake didn’t cost us too much time in finding our man.”

I looked at him sharply. “Where was Poe hiding?”

“I sent my men down into the Bowery to talk with some of the drug suppliers we use as informants. And they got lucky: they found Poe, semiconscious, in the back hall of an opium den on Mott.” He looked up, distracted by a sudden commotion outside. “Speak of the devil.”

We both looked through Mulvaney’s doorway just in time to observe Timothy Poe being brought out, sullen and catatonic, as two policemen dragged him from the holding room, down the hall, to the waiting police cart outside.

He caught sight of me and lunged in my direction. “I didn’t do it.” Wild with panic, he beseeched me, saying, “I swear it. You’ve got to believe me.” He looked me in the eye as he reached
a long, thin arm toward me, grabbing on to my leather bag as though for dear life. I noticed his once-white sleeve was now dirty and mottled with yellow and green stains, and I detected the stench of vomit.

“Sorry, sir,” the policeman apologized to me before he shoved Poe away. “Tell it to the judge.” He pushed Poe forward. But Poe continued to protest all the way down the hallway, as if seeing me had awakened a sudden desire to talk.

“We held him here overnight ’til he sobered up; now that we’ve interviewed him, we’ll book him at the Tombs,” Mulvaney said. “We hope to get a confession now that he knows how much we’ve got on him. We even found his prints in the elevator leading to the Aerial Gardens theater.”

“You’re certain?”

“The thumbprint was a perfect match.”

I was silent for a few moments. “But he’s said nothing so far?”

“Nothing important. He claims he’s innocent. But during the past twenty-four hours he’s been missing, he can’t remember a thing. According to our Mott Street informant, he’d been at the opium den since yesterday morning. In other words, since shortly after Miss Billings’ murder,” he added significantly.

“Did you bring in Walter as well?” I asked, remembering the tall African man with whom Timothy Poe shared his quarters on MacDougal Street.

Mulvaney made a noise of frustration. “We’ve heard about Willie from the neighbors, but there’s been no sign of him— and I daresay there won’t be, as long as he knows we’re looking. Apparently someone tipped him off we were coming.”

I knew that any reply I made would sound hollow. I shoved
my hands deep into my pockets and leaned against Mulvaney’s desk. “What do you need help with now?”

“Nothing.”

Mulvaney’s sharp tone caught me off guard, and I regarded him quizzically. “Not even a report summarizing my work for you? Doesn’t the liaison department usually want that for accounting purposes?”

He shook his head. “Even if I wanted your help . . . even if the case wasn’t all wrapped up . . . well.” He paused, then finally said, “Charles Frohman was displeased with your visit yesterday. He telephoned Mayor McClellan, who telephoned Commissioner Bingham, and . . .”

“Ah,” I said with a rueful smile. “So that’s how it is.”

“It is.” His face was grim, and I knew from the expression in his eyes that his new responsibilities and their political pressures had begun to take their toll. “We’re set here.”

I would say that we left each other on good terms, but that wasn’t quite the case. Or that I returned to Dobson with some mea sure of relief, but that wasn’t true, either. This case troubled me deeply.

If Poe was truly guilty, then I was wrong— something I would accept. But if he was innocent, then not only was the wrong man sitting in the Tombs, but the cost of our mistake would be exacted by the blood of the next victim.

That afternoon, I stopped by Alistair’s offices at Columbia University, in Morningside Heights, to let him know that our services were no longer needed. He was not alone: the two
Times
reporters, Frank Riley and Jack Bogarty, were huddled around his desk.

“Ziele, come join us.” He got up with alacrity and pulled another chair closer to his desk. “You remember our friends from
The Times.
”

I returned their greeting reluctantly, not moving from the door. Then I declined Alistair’s offer as politely as I could. “I’ll wait outside until you’re finished,” I said. “My own business is a private matter.”

Riley stood. “We were just leaving anyhow, right, Jack?” He pumped Alistair’s hand vigorously. “Thank you for all your help today. And we’re looking forward to dinner tomorrow night.”

“And we promise we’ll give you a good mention in the article,” Jack said. “You too, Detective,” he added as he passed me on the way out.

“Dinner?” I asked Alistair as I took the seat Riley had just vacated. “I didn’t even know you were in contact with them.”

“Of course. It’s an arrangement that works well, Ziele. I share a little information with them, they share a little with me.” He shrugged. “Jack has given me tickets to a couple of Broadway shows, and Frank plans to take me to a baseball game to see Christy Mathewson play for the Giants. But don’t worry— I would never say anything to compromise your investigation.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said flatly. And I told him how all evidence pointed to Timothy Poe as the man responsible for these three horrific murders.

“I know science doesn’t lie,” he had said, shaking his head in disbelief, “but it goes against everything I had thought we understood about these killings. What do they believe to be his motive?”

They didn’t have an exact motive, of course. But given all
that had been discovered about Poe’s lifestyle, they didn’t require anything specific. “General depravity” would suffice.

We talked for some time, both of us uncomfortable with the way this had wrapped up. Alistair seemed even more unsettled than I was. The evidence against Poe was solid. And yet we were in agreement: Poe as the murderer went against what both my experience and Alistair’s learning had taught us. Unfortunately, we were now observers looking in at the case that had once been ours. And even if I’d been armed with more than the conviction of my beliefs, my efforts would have been unsanctioned, nothing more than those of a Good Samaritan. But I had nothing else.

Before I returned to Dobson, I made my way to a small coffee-house two blocks south of Grand Central. Sitting there, enjoying the strong aroma of the coffee and its reassuring warmth, I was not in the mood for company— especially not that of my father.

I was aware of his presence moments before he took a seat in the chair opposite me.

“You’ve been following me again.”

He flexed his thin fingers, then said, “Got to keep the skills sharp, old boy. And I’ve good enough reason for it lately. My creditors have resurfaced to cause me trouble.”

A ten-year absence, and absolutely nothing had changed.

He continued to talk, saying, “I’ve actually found some information that may help you with your theater case. I brought someone . . .”

Before I could interrupt him to say it didn’t matter anymore, a woman entered as if on cue. And I found myself staring
yet again into a face marked by green eyes and surrounded by red curly ringlets: that of Molly Hansen.

“You know my father?” I looked at her in consternation.

They exchanged a guilty look that told me more than I wanted to know, even before my father colorfully described her as his “boon companion of late.”

He stepped away, succumbing to a coughing fit. Molly cast a worried glance after him, but didn’t follow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when we talked earlier, Simon,” she said sheepishly. “I was afraid if you knew, you wouldn’t help me.”

“Actually,” I said delicately, “I didn’t help you.”

She flashed a brilliant smile. “Oh yes, you did— though you didn’t know it. All you had to do was walk with me into that bar, and those watching me, wanting their money, knew I’d made your acquaintance. So when I told them a small white lie or two the next day, they were inclined to believe me. Besides,” she added, rather too gaily, “you wouldn’t want a sick man like your father to suffer at the hands of his creditors.”

So my good name had been bandied about in backdoor dealings to secure my father more time to repay the debts he’d incurred as naturally and inevitably as other men breathed. Any other day, I would have been furious. But today, I had far worse things on my mind.

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “I asked your father to bring me to you because I have some information that may help with your case.”

I am not quite sure why I responded as I did. No doubt it was the dark mood I was in at the time— coupled with my anger
over how my father and Molly had conspired against me. Some people simply couldn’t be trusted. Most people, in fact.

“There is no case,” I said, pushing my coffee cup aside. “They’ve found enough evidence to apprehend someone. The case is solved.”

Her eyes widened. “Truly? That’s wonderful. I’m just surprised.” She thought for a moment. “Who did you arrest?”

My father rejoined us, sucking vigorously on one of the candies that offered him temporary relief.

“I can take no credit for the arrest,” I said, avoiding her question. She could read all about Poe herself in the papers soon enough; I had no desire to discuss it. “But Captain Mulvaney has solid evidence linking the man he arrested to the murders.”

“So you don’t believe they have the right man?” My father’s eyes lit up with interest.

“I’ve no reason to disagree,” I replied.

“Ah,” he said, touching a finger to his lips. “But not disagreeing— and actually agreeing— are two entirely different matters, are they not?”

“Not where irrefutable evidence is involved.” I was in no mood to discuss my own doubts right now.

“Pshaw,” he said with a jovial look. “I say, show me the evidence, and I’ll show you evidence a skillful chap like me can manipulate. Even fingerprints. I’ve been known to fake them myself in my time.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like that.” I turned to Molly. “What was it you wanted to tell me anyhow?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

It was with little regret that I thanked her for thinking of me and I assured her that the case was resolved. It was unlike
me. Normally I’d have wanted her answer nonetheless— simply to complete the process and ensure I’d left no lead unexplored, no stone unturned. But tonight, I’d had enough.

After some further talk in which I reluctantly agreed to meet my father for dinner that Friday, I took my train to the small, dingy flat in Dobson, not far from the railroad tracks, that I called home.

I tiptoed up the stairs so as not to wake my landlady on the first floor, opened the door soundlessly, and collapsed onto the threadbare gold sofa that the prior tenant had not bothered to remove— and I had not bothered to replace.

This night, it looked particularly worn and shabby. A depressing place, I thought. The walls were a faded yellow rose wallpaper. A rickety rocking chair with a broken wooden slat was beside me. But the carpet— provided by my landlady herself so that downstairs she would not hear footsteps— was a nice, thick blue wool.