A Curtain Falls (4 page)

“Wait, Ziele. There’s one more thing I should tell you before you go.” He took a deep breath. “
The Times
got a letter, too, just this morning. I haven’t told anyone— not even Mr. Iseman, though he brought the first letters to my attention. He fears public attention as it is; he won’t be happy to hear the press is involved.”

I whistled softly below my breath. Mulvaney was right: that changed everything.

“What did the letter say?”

“I don’t know yet. The message just arrived. I plan to go to the
Times
building shortly after I wrap up here,” he said. He stood up and faced me. “I want you in on the case, Ziele.”

I was silent.

He gave me a lopsided smile. “It’s a good one for you. A murder with no blood.”

For of course Mulvaney knew my secret. I had a weak stomach for blood— a decided liability in our chosen profession, though I liked to think I hid it well.

“So you’d like to make a formal request for my help?”

“More than that. I want you to help me lead the investigation. I daresay they can spare you in Dobson?”

“I’d say so.” It was an understatement, for work there had been quiet since winter— nothing the other officer of our two-man force could not handle. Sometimes I thought of coming back to work in the city permanently. But at other times, I felt it was too soon to return.

“And you’ll be all right handling this case?” He spoke casually, but his eyes were filled with a searching concern as he awaited my answer.

Mulvaney knew that the woman I had planned to marry had died aboard the
Slocum
steamship— together with more than a thousand others who were killed when it caught fire on June 15, 1904. And while my grief for Hannah and many neighbors from my former home on the Lower East Side no longer stung as sharply, I continued to find that certain areas of the city— and cases involving the violent deaths of young women— brought unwelcome reminders of all I had lost.

I set my jaw firmly but didn’t acknowledge his question. Instead, I lowered my voice as a precaution, though the policemen still gathering evidence continued to work some distance from us. “You have a number of detectives under your command, not one of whom will appreciate my help. Why do you need me?”

“In part because of loyalty,” he said, and he furrowed his brow with concern as he admitted it. He looked around the room, surveying those hard at work. “The men who report to me are fine officers. But they are not my own. Not yet.”

“And the other part?” I asked.

Mulvaney’s expression grew dark. “Because there’s something at work here that’s larger and more complex than the death of one— or rather, two— actresses.” He clutched at the blue letter. “I feel it in my gut. I hope I’m wrong, but I fear this is just the beginning.”

He took a moment to let his words sink in. Then our eyes met squarely, and he went on to say, “You’re not just the only person I trust. You’re the only one I know who has the skills and tenacity to help me solve this case.”

And with that compliment, I was in.

The Nineteenth Precinct, West Thirtieth Street

Mulvaney had called ahead to the precinct house, so they were expecting me when I arrived. It was a dilapidated and overcrowded building just a few blocks south of the theater, on West Thirtieth Street. While there were plans under way for a new, modern building across the street, they had been delayed for so long that it had become a running joke among the ranks. Any private space was scarce in the current building, so I did not complain about the cramped, windowless room where Timothy Poe waited for me. The air was stale with the odor of burnt coffee, but in the interest of privacy, I felt compelled to close the door behind me.

As I took the chair that was lodged behind a discolored wood and metal desk, I considered the man opposite me. He was probably about my age, thirty, but his delicate features made
him appear younger. He brushed back a thin strand of dirty blond hair to get a better look at me, and I noted the creased lines of worry on his forehead and his red, puffy eyes. He met my gaze with a half-vacant expression.

“You’re here to talk with me.” He stated it simply.

I nodded and introduced myself. “I’m Detective Simon Ziele. I understand your name is Timothy Poe.”

He nodded. “It’s a stage name, actually. My real name is Tim Krautcheim.”

I patronized the theater often enough to know it was common for actors and actresses to reinvent themselves with new names, especially when their given names could be considered too long or unwieldy.

“So you chose Poe,” I said.

“The director of my first show asked me to choose something short and easy to pronounce.” Timothy again brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Plus, I always liked his poetry.”

I groaned inwardly. Comments like that would only further convince Mulvaney that Poe was the man responsible for killing two actresses and leaving strange poems as a calling card.

“You’re in custody because of evidence linking you to Annie Germaine’s murder.” I was blunt as I drew a pencil and small notebook out of my leather bag and placed them on the table. “Where were you last night, from about ten o’clock on?”

My question was met with a blank stare.

“Start wherever you like,” I said.

His long, fine-boned fingers clutched at each other, then separated, several times in rapid succession.

“I was at the theater until eleven thirty, then home sleeping until the police came for me this morning, a little after nine.
Late nights are normal at the theater, you understand.” He looked at me for a moment before his gaze drifted down to the table. “They asked me questions about Annie Germaine,” he said, and his voice rose barely above a whisper. “Horrible questions. Questions one should never hear asked about a friend.”

“How long had you known her?”

“About eight years.” He managed a halfhearted smile at the memory. “We had starring roles in a play called
The Hobby Horse.
”

“And was Miss Germaine merely a colleague, or did you form a more personal attachment?” My voice lingered on the word
personal
as I observed his reaction, but he did not flinch.

“She was an acquaintance, nothing more. We’d been in several shows together, most recently last fall.” He swallowed hard, and interlocked his fingers tightly.

“How was she killed?” I did not expect a real answer; after all, I had as much idea as anybody other than Dr. Wilcox. What was important was Timothy’s reaction to the question.

While he seemed uncertain and confused, I detected no sign that he was deliberately hiding relevant information when he finally stammered an answer.

“I don’t know. The police have told me nothing.” He paused. “You don’t think they’ll send me to the Tombs, do you? I won’t survive it. I’m sure of it.” His hands began to tremble, and he shoved them into his lap.

“I’ll try to find out more from the precinct captain after we talk,” I said gently. “But first I need some more information, okay?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Did you know Eliza Downs?”

“I know her name because the policeman who first questioned me mentioned it,” he said.

“But you never knew her personally? Never worked with her?” I leaned across the table to look him in the eye as I pressed for specifics.

“No.” His answer was immediate; he required no time to consider.

He seemed so genuinely distressed by the suspicions directed against him that I determined to back up my line of questioning. It took less than five minutes to elicit the main facts of his life. It had always been his life’s ambition to work on the stage, and after beginning in vaudeville, he soon discovered that his forte lay in the dry, witty comedic parts offered on Broadway. He’d had some success, most recently in Shaw’s
You Never Can Tell.
But, most important to him, he had found steady work. As he told it, he had a few close friends, but apparently neither wife nor sweetheart. His life had revolved around his all-consuming desire to work— and work regularly— on the stage.

“So you are suspected of murdering two young women, only one of whom you knew personally,” I said, summing up what he had told me. “Did the police give you any indication as to why you are a suspect?”

“No.” His blue eyes widened and his fingers clutched at the cuff on his sleeve. “They asked me the same sort of questions you have. Did I know these women? Had I ever formed a romantic attachment with either one?” He looked at me wistfully. “I just don’t understand why they’re keeping me here. I’ve told them all I know. I want to go home.”

I looked at him with no small mea sure of concern. He appeared too weak in body and mind to withstand the pressures
that awaited him. And yet, he had withstood Broadway’s rigors so far, working in a profession that was by no means an easy one. Perhaps there was more strength in the man than I had suspected.

“Last fall, I believe you were in a revival of
Pygmalion,
” I began, but he cut me off.

“You mean
Pygmalion and Galatea
? The other policeman asked me about that, too.” He seemed thoroughly confused. “But the show was in October, almost six months ago. How can that have anything to do with Annie’s murder?”

“We still don’t know,” I said, forcing a pleasant smile, “but it would help me if you could tell me something about the play.” I needed Timothy’s cooperation, and I had no idea how much time I would be given to speak with him.

When he remained silent, I prodded him once more. “You might start by talking about your role. . . .”

“All right.” He shifted position in his chair, stretching out long legs that seemed to reach all the way across the tiny room. “I played the title role, my biggest role to date. Do you know the play?”

I indicated that I did not.

“Pygmalion is a creative man, a sculptor.” As Timothy’s voice grew louder and more confident, I could better imagine him onstage, transformed into the part of a vain, self-centered artist. “He is trapped in a loveless marriage and frustrated by the women around him, so he determines to create a woman. But not just any woman,” his hands began to move fluidly along the curves of an invisible model only he could see, “the
perfect
woman. And when he has finished, he falls in love with her.
How could he not? She is lovely— a statue of alabaster white, pure marble perfection.”

“So he creates the perfect woman . . .” I said, almost to myself.

“He prays to Venus to grant his statue life— and he is ecstatic when Venus grants his wish!” Timothy’s face flushed with excitement. “He names his statue Galatea and for a brief time— so fleeting— his life is wonderful. But Galatea proves ill suited for the human world, and when he ceases to love her, she becomes a statue once more. After all, that is how Pygmalion prefers her: in marble form, fixed and unchanging.”

Timothy sat in expectation of my reaction, but I could only stare at him as I tried to make sense of what he had said. Then he sank into his chair, deflated. He had apparently left behind the memory of his triumph onstage and remembered his current predicament.

I could see how Miss Germaine’s killer had drawn on this story in creating her death scene. The references to Pygmalion in the letter found by Annie Germaine’s body were now much clearer to me— and also more disturbing.

“And neither Annie Germaine nor Eliza Downs was involved in
Pygmalion
in any way?” It was a test, for I knew Miss Germaine had understudied a role.

He started to deny it before he remembered. “Oh— for about a week, when a handful of our small cast were ill, Annie stepped in to play a minor role— that of Myrine, Pygmalion’s sister.”

“How was her relationship with the regular cast members?”

He shrugged. “Congenial. Professional.”

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, which was notice that my time was up.

“One last thing.” I pushed my pencil and notebook across the table to him. “Could you write down your name and address for me?”

“I already gave it to the officers earlier,” he replied.

I repeated my request pleasantly. “All the same, would you write it down again? For me.”

As he handed the notebook back to me, his hand shook, and in a voice that was barely a whisper he asked, “So what happens to me now?”

I got up and straightened my jacket. “Let me talk with the arresting officers.” I pushed my chair back under the table. “I’ll see what more I can find out. Chin up.”

He met my efforts to reassure him with a wobbly smile.

The moment I closed the door behind me, I glanced at the lines he had written. The words were formed in a thin, tight hand. But, unlike the writing on the blue letter Mulvaney had shown me, each letter of his penmanship was tiny and rounded. There was no slanting whatsoever.

Mulvaney had returned to the station house to await further reports from his men, who would interview all employees of the Garrick as they came in for the evening’s show. The door to his office was wide open, and as I entered, he spun around in a wooden chair that barely contained his bulky frame and knocked his knees into his desk. Seeing this big man— with his even larger personality— confined within four walls and responsible for a desk filled with paperwork always struck me as absurd. Today, as he leaned back and stretched his arms behind his head, he almost filled the square box that was his office.