CHAPTER 3

The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street

A second murder. So that was what he had kept from Wilcox. And it was also, I was certain, the reason he had asked me here.

“You mean there has been another death similar to hers?” I asked, watching Mulvaney carefully.

He nodded but did not look at me, focusing instead on the woman whose lifeless eyes now gazed down at us. Then, as we heard noises— the footsteps of two officers who emerged from backstage, carry ing boxes of evidence— Mulvaney turned to me and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Three weeks ago at the Empire, down the block, another actress died the same way. The cleaning girls who came the next morning found her just like this one,” Mulvaney said, gesturing toward the stage. “Her name was Eliza Downs. She was all dressed up, posed center stage, and there was no sign of foul play. In fact, everyone assumed she was a suicide, so there was no investigation. We weren’t even called.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“Mr. Iseman,” he said, admitting it frankly. “You see, the Empire is another Frohman theater and Broadway’s a small community. Word of Miss Downs’s death spread fast and put a damper on morale.” He drew himself up straight, stretching an arm that appeared cramped. “But Mr. Iseman had no reason to think her death was anything other than a tragic suicide until early this morning, when Miss Germaine’s body was found in similar circumstances.”

“They were both actresses. Do we know if they were acquainted? If so, they might have talked of suicide. Or if Miss Downs’s death reverberated so soundly throughout the community, Miss Germaine may have chosen to copy Miss Downs when she decided to end her own life.” I knew how unlikely it was, but it was my habit of mind to consider all possibilities, even if I came to discount them later.

“No,” Mulvaney said, shaking his head soberly. “I wanted to think that, too. There’s more.” Mulvaney looked around as though worried someone might overhear our conversation, but the auditorium was empty except for us. Satisfied, he motioned for me to walk with him to the seat in the last row where he had put his personal effects.

“We found some notes. Letters. I don’t know what to call them.” He fumbled for words to explain. “One was found by the body of Miss Downs at the Empire, though they disregarded it at the time. It was full of poetic nonsense about dying— and Mr. Iseman assumed it was a suicide note. But when he found this note just like it, next to Miss Germaine’s body, he became suspicious.”

He reached into his worn leather bag, which had anchored some papers. Using the edge of his handkerchief, he passed me a single sheet of eggshell-blue paper; I took it gingerly, being careful to touch only the cloth. The writing was in a slanted, spidery hand.

Once again, I have chosen a young girl lacking in natural attractions, and given her what Nature did not. Call me Pygmalion; call her Galatea, my greatest creation. Like one of the greatest poets of our English language, I say:

Yet I’ll not shed her blood,

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Mulvaney looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sensation that had taken hold of me.

“What does it mean?” I asked. “ ‘Call me Pygmalion.’ And this business about not shedding her blood makes no sense. Is he actually trying to say he didn’t kill her?”

“Thought you’d know,” he said with a knowing smile. “You at least have a couple years’ college under your belt.” He threw up his hands in mock defeat. “I couldn’t make sense of it, either. Mr. Iseman explained what I know of it, which is basically that the killer wanted her to look good in death. Annie was a plain girl, a strong dancer and able chorus member. But he claims she’d never have been a leading lady. Didn’t have the looks for it.”

“According to Mr. Iseman only, I presume.” I shook my head as I once again surveyed the figure onstage. The dress and makeup must have radically changed her usual appearance, because what ever the woman in front of me may have lacked in talent or ability, she was certainly pleasing to the eye. Besides, plenty of actresses without conventional good looks were successful on stage. Sarah Bernhardt, for one.

“Good point,” Mulvaney agreed. “She made up pretty well, once someone put the effort into her. We’re going to see what the other actors and actresses have to say when they come in for rehearsal in a couple hours. But it’s clear she didn’t normally dress this way.”

“Did you find anything in her dressing room that relates to the letter?”

“She was a chorus girl, Ziele. She didn’t have a dressing room. I gather she used a common area in back. We’re searching it and all the rooms backstage, of course.” Mulvaney sighed in exasperation. “But so far, nothing out of the ordinary has turned up.”

“Did anyone keep the note Mr. Iseman found near Eliza Downs?” I asked. Right now the letters seemed the only promising connection between the two deaths.

Mulvaney cleared his throat. “Iseman kept the note himself— though why he would keep a suicide note, I don’t know. He turned it over to us early this morning when he came in to report Miss Germaine’s death. It’s in the evidence file at the precinct house, so I’ll show you when we get back. The content is similar, right down to the wording about Pygmalion. But the poetry’s different.”

“If there are matching fingerprints on both letters, we’d have a solid connection,” I mused aloud.

“We had it dusted— but you know that won’t necessarily do us any good,” he said, muttering the words under his breath.

He was right that it would do no good officially. Fingerprinting was still a new technology that had yet to be accepted by the courts, or even by many policemen. But unofficially, many of us were beginning to rely on it.

“And these letters,” I said, “are presumably why you wanted to involve me?”

“In part.” He furrowed his brow as another troubling thought occurred to him. He seemed distracted as he continued. “I’d like you to talk with someone I’ve got in custody at the precinct house. His name is Timothy Poe. He’s an actor.”

“From what I’ve seen this morning,” I said, “it seems as though you’ve got precious little evidence to warrant taking anyone into custody.”

Mulvaney jabbed his finger at the eggshell-blue paper. “You see all these references to someone called Pygmalion. According to Mr. Iseman, Pygmalion is a show that was revived last fall. And guess who played the starring role?”

“Had to be Poe,” I deadpanned.

“Literally, he played Pygmalion to her Galatea.” Mulvaney was quite pleased with himself. “Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“Too perfect sense,” I said. “If he’s going to incriminate himself by leaving a message, why bother with all the fuss and poetry? He might just as well have signed his name.”

Mulvaney cocked his head. “He also knew Annie Germaine. She even substituted in Pygmalion for a few weeks when another actress was laid up sick.”

“As Galatea?” I asked. “That would fit nicely into your perfect theory.”

“I didn’t ask,” Mulvaney said, somewhat annoyed that I disagreed with him. “And there’s more. Mr. Iseman is under the impression that Poe was sweet on Miss Germaine, but the lady rebuffed him.”

“There must be additional evidence,” I countered. “Don’t tell me you’re relying only on Mr. Iseman.”

Mulvaney was taking our conversation in a direction I disliked. It smacked of an unwarranted rush to judgment.

Mulvaney gave me a tired look. “It’s all we’ve got to start with. Do me a favor and talk to Timothy Poe. Just see if you can turn up some useful information, one way or the other.”

Of course I agreed, though I was increasingly troubled by Mulvaney’s assumptions. I could only suppose that unknown stresses weighed heavily upon him. I reached for my hat and was about to leave— when he stopped me once again.

“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.