A Curtain Falls (31 page)

We talked briefly about Frohman’s stars, especially his brightest, Maude Adams, who would play Peter Pan tonight. Isabella had seen them all onstage over the years, whereas I had seen them for the first time tonight— in the lobby, where their large portraits filled virtually every inch of wall space.

It was only when the curtain rose that I whispered to her a few words of warning that I would be stepping out briefly during the first act. She looked at me in surprise, but said nothing, turning her attention to the stage— for the show had begun.

I watched. And I waited, biding my time until the Darling children’s adventures with the Lost Boys were well under way, and— pressing Isabella’s hand gently as a sign— I slipped out of the auditorium using the side exit I had already canvassed.

I reminded myself that in my borrowed suit— which was of a finer cut and far more luxuriant material than I’d ever worn
before— I looked the part of a wealthy gentleman with the leisure to enjoy a Tuesday-evening performance. I was unlikely to be questioned as I made my way to the fifth floor.

I made it to the third floor before I was noticed.

“Sir.”

The voice came again, more insistently when my steps did not slow. “Excuse me, sir.”

Steeling myself, I turned around slowly and came face-to-face with a young man wearing the garb of an usher. I forced a pleasant expression, but said nothing.

“Can I direct you somewhere, sir? These are administrative offices here only. All closed to the public.”

“Yes,” I said agreeably, “but they told me I would find another gentlemen’s lounge up here.”

“There’s one on four.” He frowned in disapproval. “But it’s for staff. I’ll have to have a word with the boys downstairs if they’re directing you there. The main lounge is much nicer for gentlemen like yourself.”

I offered up the excuse I’d prepared in advance, making sure I gave feeling to the lie. “Some poor fellow in the lounge downstairs is ill, and I wanted to give him some privacy.”

The young man was taken aback. “Oh, of course, sir. My apologies. Go right on up. You’ll find it just to the left once you reach the fourth floor.”

“Thank you.” I forced myself to walk up the stairs with confident steps, hoping fervently that he wouldn’t decide to follow me— or, worse yet, check on the sick patron I had invented downstairs. I watched him carefully from the corner of my eye as I rounded the next landing, and saw that he had retreated to a red velvet chair, where he sat and picked up a magazine. I
made sure he would not see— or hear— that I in fact continued all the way up to the fifth floor.

It was pitch dark. But no office door on the floor was closed, much less locked. So, at least I could say I was not breaking and entering— and the last I’d checked, illegal trespass was still only a misdemeanor.

Charles Frohman’s office was the third one on the right. It was easy to identify, for it was the largest and most opulently furnished, decorated with extensive theater memorabilia. I closed the door behind me, turned on his desk lamp, and threw my suit jacket over it to dim its light.

I had never done anything quite like this before— and for a split second, when my right hand began to shake, I thought I would lose my nerve. Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined three women, once-vibrant actresses, now dead. That would be the fate of yet another if I failed. And while I could not envisage her— this unknown, faceless woman— I still knew what I needed to do to save her.

I wasn’t quite sure what I hoped to find. I knew that I wanted more of Frohman’s handwriting as well as that of Leon Iseman and any important associates; before I left, I would take a few papers that would not be missed. I suppose I also hoped I might uncover something— anything—that would connect the three murdered actresses and even point to the next target.

I discovered nothing of importance. I found receipts. I found notes assessing each syndicate actor or actress in terms of performance, potential, and professionalism. The three
P
s, he called it. And, just as he’d told us last Sunday evening, each of the victims had a poor record marked by lateness and lack of preparation. Leon Iseman as well as other theater managers
had issued a number of reports; unfortunately, all were type-written.

Suddenly, from the room next door, I heard a crash. A large and heavy object had fallen.

I froze in panic. Someone was there.

I dived for the wall where the lamp was plugged in, yanking the cord from its socket. Then I grabbed my jacket— which had served me well in dimming the light— and retreated under Frohman’s desk.

I waited, hearing the rush of footsteps in the hallway, seeing the blaze of light as the hallway became fully illuminated.

Two men were talking.

“Which room did it come from?” I recognized the voice of the third-floor usher.

“I dunno.”

I caught my breath. Was that Leon Iseman’s voice?

The door to Frohman’s office opened and I froze, afraid to breathe.

“Come look at this!” The usher’s voice came from next door, and I heard footsteps retreating.

More lights went on, coupled with the sounds of furniture being moved.

“What in the devil! Look at this mess.”

“Looks like someone shoved a whole pile of papers off that bookcase up there.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

The first voice definitely belonged to Leon Iseman. I hoped fervently that they’d stay next door. But more worrisome: papers didn’t fall by themselves. Had whoever pushed them seen me? It was hard to imagine otherwise.

I was so focused upon their every word and movement that I started violently— knocking my head hard into the under-side of Frohman’s desk— when the answer came and brushed up against me. It was a gray cat, furry and soft, purring loudly.

My relief was short-lived when I heard footsteps headed this way again. The room’s overhead light flipped on.

“Say, what’s Frohman been doing in here?”

They obviously had noticed the huge pile of receipts and papers I had been viewing, all of which covered Frohman’s desk.

A pause. “Charlie? You around here?” Iseman’s voice rang out loudly.

I petted the cat reassuringly for a split second before I pushed it out from under the desk. It dashed across the room.

“I think I see the culprit who caused all the racket,” the usher said.

I held my breath.

The cat meowed loudly in protest as large hands reached down and summarily hoisted it into the air.

“Disgusting animal,” Iseman said. He began to walk away.

The usher laughed heartily as he stroked the furry animal. “Where’s all your fellow mousers tonight, little minx? Usually there’s a passel of you around, on the hunt. Can’t believe you made all that racket and mess in Mr. Landry’s office by yourself.” He paused for a minute, then called out after Iseman, “You want me to clean up the mess next door?”

Iseman’s response was automatic. “Nah. We can leave it for the night janitor. After all, it was the cat’s fault. Troublesome creatures. If we didn’t need mousers . . .”

I held my breath for several minutes after they were gone, listening for all sound and light to disappear. It had been a close
call. I replugged the light, restoring my jacket on top, and went back to work.

Knowing I had little time remaining until intermission, I worked even more quickly— file after file, cabinet after cabinet. The last cabinet I reached appeared to be devoted to old scripts, and as I read through them, I determined that Frohman kept hold of even the manuscripts he rejected. According to notes I found, it appeared that he kept them to check his own judgment: the small handful that had gone on to find homes with other producer-directors and found success were very clearly marked. Frohman was not easy on himself when he missed out on the opportunity to produce a hit.

I had almost given up by the time I opened the last folder, which I assumed would contain only more of the same. In fact, flipping through six— no, seven— scripts that Frohman had considered producing, I almost missed the name attached to them: Leon Iseman. Scanning through them, I saw Frohman’s notes and it became clear: due to his close relationship with Iseman, he had felt compelled to read them. But reading between the lines of his comments, it was clear that he had not considered them worthy of producing— a decision that must have affected their working relationship.

Could Iseman be the killer we sought? He had submitted his most recent play a year ago. A year was a long time to plot revenge: enough time to breathe it, live it, and plan it very carefully. Of all people, Iseman knew how passionately Frohman loved the theater— and that he could destroy Frohman by striking what he cherished most.

I was so caught up in these thoughts about Iseman that I nearly missed the note attached to the front of the next script.
Its content was unremarkable, mentioning only a name, date, and address. But the writing itself— now eerily familiar— sent chills down my spine.

In fact, my body reacted first, recoiling from pure instinct. My right hand shook, and I dropped the entire folder as surely as though it had burned my flesh. And in another moment, my mind understood, for there was no mistaking the distinctive, spidery, slanting handwriting. I had seen this writing before— on the blue letters that had accompanied the first two brutal murders.

The note contained scant information: “Revisions submitted February 1905. Robert Coby, Bay Avenue, Shelter Island.”

Beneath the note were several scripts that Robert Coby had submitted— and subsequently revised— for Charles Frohman. From the tenor of Frohman’s commentary, it was clear that Frohman had disliked the revisions. He had rejected this script at the same time as Iseman’s: exactly one year ago. And ironically— within that same pile of scripts— I saw that Leon Iseman himself had signed one of the typewritten rejection letters sent to Robert Coby.

The name wasn’t familiar to me. In fact, I was confident that I had never run across it in the course of our investigation.

I sat for what seemed a long time, staring at the file cabinet before me. I’d thumbed through at least seventy-five rejected scripts . . . only to discover one note in the handwriting of a murderer, sandwiched between two rejected playwrights: Leon Iseman and Robert Coby. One of them must have written the note: but which one? The playwright Robert Coby himself— or Frohman’s disappointed associate, Leon Iseman.

I examined Leon Iseman’s signature on the typewritten
letter. It was like the one we had shown Dr. Vollman, only to be told it was “inconclusive.” And while to my eye it looked dissimilar to the handwriting on the note, I was no expert.

I knew enough about Leon Iseman to know I disliked him. But was he a murderer?

Robert Coby was as yet a name only. I wanted to figure out who he was.

Alistair was right: the killer’s identity was irrelevant if we could look to his predicted behavior to stop him. But there was no room for error in that kind of approach. Wasn’t it better to know the adversary we faced?

I knew Shelter Island to be a summer retreat, sandwiched between the two forks at the east end of Long Island. It was our first substantial lead— though of course I knew it wouldn’t be as simple as finding an address, showing up, and possibly identifying a violent killer.

Or would it? I supposed stranger things had happened.

From the noises below, I determined that tonight’s intermission had started. I’d barely escaped discovery once, and I’d no desire to risk it again. Fearing someone would come, I returned everything to its original state. But I took with me the note and the first pages of both Leon Iseman’s and Robert Coby’s scripts.

I put my suit jacket back on, turned out the light, and— folding my contraband materials into my pocket— I slipped back into the hallway, sped down the stairs, and blended once more into the crowds that swarmed throughout the lobby.

Isabella was still in her seat.

“Where were you, Simon?” she asked, indignant now. “You said you had to step out briefly. But you missed the entire first act.”

“I promise to tell you everything when we return to
Alistair’s.” I tried to smile reassuringly. “I can get your coat now, if you’d like.”

She stood her ground, regarding me in amazement. “You paid five dollars to secure these seats, among the best in the house. Why would you leave before we’ve seen the second act— especially when you missed the first one?”

After apologizing again, I settled into my seat and determined to enjoy the remaining hour of
Peter Pan
and Isabella’s company. Everything I had learned could wait until the end of the show. However curious I was about Robert Coby, I would not be going to Shelter Island at this time of night anyway.

And so I enjoyed watching Maude Adams sing and dance— in one case, literally flying up into the air and across the length of the stage, to the audience’s openmouthed delight. Sinking deep into my plush velvet seat, in the darkness of the auditorium with Isabella beside me, I could— just almost— forget everything that troubled me.

With the killer we sought still at large, it was not a time for distractions. And yet, when the lights came up, and I lightly touched Isabella’s arm to guide her through the crowds and into a waiting hansom cab, I realized how easy it would be to become accustomed to this sort of life.