A Curtain Falls (14 page)

“But I don’t understand. How could there be no bruising on her neck if she was in fact strangled?” Alistair asked.

“Ah.” Max raised a finger to his lips. “I’d say it was because her killer— whoever he or she was— formed a ligature from a very soft fabric. And when it is released at the very moment of death, it minimizes the chance of there being marks on the skin.”

I looked at him sharply. “That suggests her strangulation was caused by a person with considerable skill.”

“That would be your job to determine, not mine,” he said dryly.

He half leaned against a tall stool near the sink. “Everything else was unremarkable,” he said in conclusion. “Lungs, stomach, liver— all looked to be normal and healthy.”

I glanced at the large jar containing Miss Germaine’s stomach. A piece of paper underneath it indicated the organ’s weight.

Dr. Wilcox was continuing to talk. “Absolutely no trace of poison anywhere. My report will indicate death by asphyxiation, specifically strangulation.”

Alistair gave Wilcox a quizzical look. “You mean you have no more to tell us? You can tell us nothing about the killer himself?”

Wilcox shrugged. “Science has told us what there is to tell.” He looked Alistair square in the eye. “Science doesn’t elaborate or espouse hypotheses of the sort you seem to want.”

“With all due respect, Doctor, I think you mean
you
will not add further detail or venture a hypothesis,” Alistair said in response.

“I’m a coroner, not a criminologist, Professor. I deal in hard facts.”

Alistair flashed his most charming smile. “Come, Doctor. You and I are not so very different. We both deal with crime on
a regular basis, and we seek answers to the same questions: you from the secrets of the body, me from those of the mind.”

He pulled over another stool and sat easily, one arm across across his knee. “I’ll bet you could tell me something about the kind of person capable of strangling Miss Germaine— without conjecture, looking only to what your scientific examination has revealed.”

Wilcox got up and began gathering his steel utensils for sterilization in the sink; his hands moving fluidly across the table. The action reminded me of a pianist’s hands floating up and down over the keys.

I tried to reframe Alistair’s question in a more diplomatic manner. “For example, was Miss Germaine’s killer a man of great strength? Or could a weaker man have done it?”

Max let forth a soft guffaw. “That’s one of the biggest misconceptions people have— that it requires strength to strangle somebody. Not at all. In fact,” he said, as he placed the specimen jars containing Miss Germaine’s organs onto a shelf near the sink, “a very small force applied to the right anatomic area will accomplish the task. Thus, a smallish woman, such as yourself,” he gestured toward Isabella, who had drawn closer to us, “might actually strangle a large man such as Mulvaney.” His mouth formed a slight smile, as though he found the idea amusing.

“How much knowledge— or experience— would that take?” I asked.

“To get it right?” Wilcox considered for a moment, then said, “A good deal, unless the killer simply got lucky.”

I glanced at Isabella. Though she remained some distance away, she appeared unfazed by the coroner’s explanation.

“Is it likely, then, that the killer has done this before?” Isabella asked.

The coroner bristled. “Science doesn’t deal in
likely.
” He put a scornful emphasis on the word. Then he reconsidered. “But possible, yes. I’d say it’s quite possible.”

He began gathering a different set of tools, and I recognized that he was preparing to sew the body back together for burial. “If her killer did not have prior experience, at the least he had done extensive preparation to know exactly where to apply force— and exactly when to release it— to avoid the telltale bruising that otherwise would result.”

I briefly explained to Wilcox our suspicions regarding Eliza Downs.

“Would it strengthen our case to autopsy Miss Downs?” I frowned. “We would need to approach her family for permission to exhume her corpse.”

“I’d say that’s more a legal question than an investigative one.” Alistair stood. “It would allow the district attorney to pursue a double-murder charge, so it may prove necessary later on. But we have enough information now to establish the killer’s pattern of behavior— or modus operandi, as you would call it. I doubt a second autopsy would help us find the killer we seek any faster or more easily.”

We thanked Dr. Wilcox for taking the time to explain the postmortem results to us, even before he wrote up his official report.

“What’s next, Detective?” Alistair asked, in good humor again the moment we reached the street and could breathe the fresh air.

But I stopped short, frozen.

“Simon?” Isabella’s brow furrowed with concern.

I stared ahead at Frank Riley and Jack Bogarty, for the two
Times
reporters were lounging against the black iron street lamp in front of us.

“Good morning, Detective.” Frank took a long drag from his cigarette, then tossed it into the street, where a large puddle quickly extinguished it.

“Mr. Riley,” I said coldly. “I didn’t know your crime beat extended so far downtown.”

His face spread into an oily grin. “No place like the dead house for a crime reporter to get his scoop. In fact, I came here looking for you. Thought we might trade some information.”

“But not to print.” My response was guarded.

“Not yet.” He held his hand up as a pledge, the smile still in place. “You’ve got my word of honor.” Then he removed his brown derby for a moment and pushed slickened black hair off his forehead.

“What information do you have to offer us?” Isabella spoke with self-assurance.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the plea sure, Miss . . .” Frank Riley half bowed in greeting, giving a flourish with his hat.

“And I’m Jack Bogarty,” his partner intervened, not bothering to disguise his obvious interest as he flashed his most charming smile. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“My daughter-in-law, Mrs. Sinclair,” Alistair said, introducing her even as he took a protective step closer to her. “You said you had information.”

“Ah, yes. I understand that yesterday you interviewed a suspect named Timothy Poe.” Frank directed the question to me.

I said nothing.

“Come, now— I know you did. Jack here actually got the tip.”

Jack chuckled. “Even theater critics have their sources, you know.”

“I spoke with Timothy Poe. So what?” I waited.

Frank scratched his chin. “Well, I think you’d do well to chat with Mr. Poe again. You’ll find him at this address.” He passed me a scrap of paper with a Greenwich Village address scrawled in black ink.

It read “101 MacDougal Street #5C.” It was not the address Timothy Poe had given me last night as his residence.

My eyes narrowed. “What is this place?”

“Not the address he gave you, is it? You’re in for a surprise. In return, I need to know if you got confirmation of murder in there.” Frank nodded in the direction of the dead house.

I answered him brusquely. “We did.”

“And the official cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation,” I said, and hoped he would be satisfied for now. Luckily, he was.

I glanced again at the address he had given me.

“Why is Poe here?”

He gave me a knowing smile, though all he said was, “Let’s just say Mr. Poe was less than forthcoming in his interview with you.”

And before I could ask him any more, he and Jack disappeared into the throng of people in the street.

The Black and Tan District

After Frank Riley’s tip, it only made sense to split up. Alistair and Isabella would travel without me to West Twenty-eighth Street, where they would talk with Annie Germaine’s flatmates, as originally planned. Meanwhile, I would go to 101 MacDougal Street in search of Timothy Poe— and the secrets he had apparently kept from me.

I caught the first horse car going west on the Bleecker Street line and found myself crushed near the back of the car, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against a half dozen other men. It wasn’t until three stops later that the crowding eased and I could see through the window for the first time. Outside, pedestrians made their way along sidewalks all but blocked by pushcarts overflowing with fruits, vegetables, cheeses, breads, and sausages. People spilled from the narrow sidewalks onto the street
in such numbers, it was surprising that the horse car was able to make its way past them. It had been a long while since I was last on Bleecker Street, and I had almost forgotten how it felt to be amid its formidable crowds. It was a sensation at once strange and familiar.

A sensation not unlike seeing Isabella again this morning . . .

She had been once more as I remembered her, not the cold and distant woman I’d encountered yesterday at Alistair’s apartment. And if I’d thought my time away from her these past four months had dulled my feelings for her, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d grown accustomed to living with her memory, but reality was another matter. There was no denying the way she had taken hold of my mind and begun to monopolize my thoughts, now that I’d seen her once again. But she was Alistair’s daughter-in-law, just two years a widow. And she came from a class— in fact, an entire world— that was far above my own.

If I were tempted to forget that, my destination this afternoon was a reminder. Though I’d never been there myself, I’d heard enough talk in the police precinct— and read enough in the newspapers— to recognize that I was headed into the Black and Tan district. It was a poor area, just like the block I’d grown up on in the Lower East Side. But where my neighborhood attracted predominantly Irish and German immigrants, MacDougal Street had gained a reputation as a place where different races mixed freely.

From those officers who’d worked in that part of the Village, I’d heard tales good and bad: how sober, industrious families lived side by side with more licentious-minded individuals— plus the usual array of street toughs with colorful
names like Bloodthirsty or No-Toe Charley. The picture painted in the newspapers by journalists like Jacob Riis was even more scandalous, focused on those “degenerates” who frequented the Black and Tan saloons. His euphemism, of course, referred to those men who kept company with other men— and women who preferred the company of other women. And while I knew Riis focused only on those stories that would scandalize readers and sell papers, it did give me a moment’s pause to think what I’d find there.

Why was Poe in this neighborhood? And what had Bogarty learned about him? Riley might have simply told me, rather than force me to travel here myself. His editor had pledged to share information freely with us. But this wild goose chase hardly seemed in keeping with the spirit of that promise. Riley had described Poe as “less than forthcoming.” I’d discounted him as a suspect last night, but perhaps I’d been too hasty.

The horsecar stopped at the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal, and the moment I rounded the corner on foot, I saw a gang of six boys leaned over an iron railing at the third tenement on the right, looking intently into the sunken area beneath a large red concrete stoop. The moment I saw them, I knew they were playing a game. I knew it well— in fact, I’d played it myself at their age. The goal was to hit a particular crack in the cement with well-aimed spit. The best shot would get the penny that had been placed in the moat, which was usually traded in for candy after a couple of wins. All this assuming, of course, that the boys finished their game before a janitor or grumpy tenant interrupted them. In the tenement where I’d grown up, a widow named Mrs. Bauer on the first floor was the worst of the spoilsports; she had
disliked small boys’ spitting and making noise outside her window. But boys would always invent games when there was nothing to do— and Mrs. Bauer had only added an element of challenge to the game.

The smallest boy looked up, noticed me, and immediately seized a more lucrative opportunity.

“Need help finding someplace, mister?” He stopped in front of me, his left hand twisting one of the black suspenders that held up his brown knickerbocker pants. When I didn’t respond right away, he eyed me anxiously. “I could help you for a penny.”

He was thin and waiflike, probably about nine or ten years old, and I could see his pants were threadbare and had been patched numerous times. I had been exactly like him when I was nine: hungry.

I nodded in agreement and the boy flushed with relief.

“I’m looking for 101 MacDougal.” I glanced at the sheet of paper I’d been given. “It must be one of these tenements ahead.”

MacDougal Street was comprised almost entirely of tenements and saloons— and at this midday hour, the saloons were not yet open.

“It’s down here. I’ll show you.” The boy bounded eagerly ahead of me until he came to a brown brick building. It was a nondescript structure, only five stories high. Since it was Saturday around lunchtime, it seemed to be fully occupied; in fact, I could already smell a variety of different odors from the slightly opened windows in the kitchens above.

“Which apartment are you looking for?” The boy looked at me hopefully.