A Curtain Falls (37 page)

Helen’s face turned a ghastly pale. “Is this necessary?” she whispered.

“I’m afraid it is,” I replied.

“It’s just a bit of greasepaint and a good wig,” my father said with plenty of bravado.

“But Charlie will notice she’s not me.” Helen bit her lip.

“Hopefully not until it’s too late,” I said, adding wryly, “My father has always said that’s the art of the con: people see only what they
expect
to see.”

I exchanged glances with my father. It was time.

“Let’s get you home, Miss Bell,” he said.

“Can I take my things?” she asked, casting a lingering glance toward the flower bouquets that lined the room.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “They’ll be here, waiting. But we don’t want to draw extra attention to you tonight.”

After she had left, I looked down and read the note that was still on her dressing table: “Late dinner after the show? Let’s celebrate.— Charlie”

The note had come, just as we had expected. I resisted the urge to take it into evidence. Everything needed to appear normal to Jack if we were to foil his plans.

“You’re all set?” I asked Molly.

“Absolutely.” And with a toss of her head, she took the
dressing-room chair Helen had just vacated. “And you’d best get into position. You wouldn’t want him to see you here,” she warned.

If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Maybe it was because of her many years of training as an actress. Still, it was brave of her to assume this role tonight— as I knew she’d done for the sake of my father. She must have loved him even more than I’d suspected. Still, I felt a pang of guilt: was it fair of me to put her in harm’s way?

A flicker of doubt crossed her expression. “Are you sure he’s going to come tonight?”

I tried to give her a reassuring smile. “As certain as I can be. We’ve looked to his past crime-scene behavior and found nothing but a consistent pattern.”

“But how do you know it will be Helen Bell?”

“Because once we realized
Romeo and Juliet
was the targeted performance, we interviewed all the women cast in the play. Only Helen has been courted by a very charming suitor who has bombarded her with love poems, flowers, and dinners.”

I wished her luck, then returned to the main stage. Everyone else had now left.

I emerged onstage intending to hide myself on the left side of the auditorium. But the moment I was there, I retreated into the shadows of the curtains.

Something was different.

Center front stage, I saw a blue envelope and a sapphire-blue satin sash. It swirled around a letter as if it were a serpent poised to strike.

My heart raced.

He was early.

In the theater somewhere— but where? I looked around, saw no movement. Had he seen me— or any of the others?

I glanced up, searching for Louie on the catwalk where he had been positioned. All was dark, quiet. Was he still there? I didn’t dare light a match and risk betraying my whereabouts to Jack.

I checked my watch. Still nearly twenty minutes before Alistair planned to bring Mulvaney. If Jack was here already, then our timing had been wrong. They would be too late, and I’d have to hope that Mulvaney would accept the word of multiple witnesses to Jack’s actions.

I moved to the left, making my way toward the curtained space where Isador was keeping watch. I had to warn him that Jack was here— assuming he didn’t already know.

I stayed close to the black curtains, coming closer and closer to the backstage-door area.

Not a sound around me anywhere. Only my own accelerated breathing.

But something wasn’t right.

“Isador,” I whispered— first softly, then again more loudly.

“Izzy.” My voice was urgent now. “Are you still there?”

I pulled back the curtain that obscured Isador’s station. He was not there, I thought. I stepped to the left and nearly fell over an obstruction on the floor.

A leg.

Isador.

This hulking brute of a man was sprawled out on the floor, incapacitated.

I shook him.

No response.

I felt his neck.

No pulse.

Was he truly dead? I had no time to find out.

Now panicked, I automatically retraced my steps toward Helen’s dressing room, around to the side and back through the crossover. I remembered Alistair’s words: “Jack is enjoying every aspect of his handiwork. And a man who enjoys something this much will not stop— at least, not of his own accord.”

He was here, and somehow he’d managed to incapacitate Isador both quickly and noiselessly. He had bested our toughest henchman, a veteran of far more dangerous fights than this should have been.

But how? Without a sound or scuffle—and when Isador had at least a two-hundred-pound advantage over Jack. It made no sense.

We’d underestimated him. If he succeeded, all would be lost.

The moment I touched the doorknob to Helen’s dressing room, I heard a scuttling noise inside.

Molly!

I reached for my Smith & Wesson with my stronger, left hand while I used my right to push the door open.

Beyond the bouquets of flowers, I saw him sitting in the chair.

Not Jack Bogarty, but my father— arms and legs tied with rope, a red bandanna as a gag.

He was alone.

“Here.” I rushed to untie him, placing my gun on the floor.

He thrashed wildly, grunting, eyes wide with alarm.

Confused, I paused for a moment too long.

The blow to my head came without warning.

I recoiled, for the pain was intense— and I had barely enough presence of mind to look around for my assailant.

Where is Jack?

The pain seared through my head, and I dropped to my knees from the dizziness.

Mulvaney will never make it in time. We’ve failed, and now our own lives are in jeopardy.

Another blow came from nowhere.

Reeling from more pain than I’d thought possible, I collapsed to the floor as the room spun wildly.

I forced my eyes to stay open. I saw the ceiling and a bouquet of red roses above me as I fought the blackness that threatened to envelop me.

Then I saw a face, one with determined eyes and a resolute expression.

She had come to help— or so I thought.

I didn’t realize the danger until it was too late, and I saw the rope . . . followed by the bloodstained blade of a knife as both inched toward my neck.

A cruel laugh burst forth from the face in front of me— an image that spun around in dizzying circles. Was it my imagination?

For it was a person I’d not expected to see— no, not in this way.

Never like this.

I wanted to understand, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I knew only that I had been wrong about her— else she wouldn’t be grabbing my arms, binding them together.

I could think of no reason why she would help Jack Bogarty— and certainly no reason for her to betray us as cruelly as she had.

I closed my eyes as all conscious thought disappeared.

And all pain.

Only the image of Molly Hansen wielding a knife continued to linger, until the final moment when all went dark.

The Lyceum Theater, 149 West Forty-fifth Street

I woke in a state of sheer panic. It was pitch black. I couldn’t move— and I couldn’t get enough air.

Intense claustrophobia took hold. And pain, for my head throbbed and my right arm was in agony.

I closed my eyes again, willing myself to breathe slowly and focus. There would be sufficient air, if only I relaxed.

The air around me was dank and close, stinking of paint.

Without opening my eyes again, I took stock of my position.

Hands? Immobile, wedged behind me, tied with rope.

Legs? There was a heavy, stiff pressure on top of them. But I wriggled them— first left, then right— ascertaining that they were not tied together. Still, I couldn’t move them.

What else did I smell— besides paint? Freshly sawed wood. And the unmistakable musty smell of a damp place.

I was still in the theater . . . in the only space where there would be paint . . . and wood . . . and water sometimes seeping in.
The basement . . .
where theatrical sets were designed and painted.

I tried to gain a perspective on the room. The lighting was dim, but once my eyes adjusted, I could tell that I was wedged under what appeared to be stacks of lumber. A heavy pile weighed down my legs. And another mound almost blocked my face, with some boards jutting out mere inches from my nose.

I summoned every ounce of strength in my legs to push. I had to get myself out of this predicament. But what ever weighed them down was far too heavy.

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?”