Free A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff Page B

impossible to investigate this case.
    So, after repeated mutual assurances of cooperation and confidentiality, we left the
Times
offices and returned to precinct headquarters— where Mulvaney’s grim-faced secretarygreeted him with the unwelcome news that the commissioner needed to see him downtown.
    The commissioner, Theodore Bingham, had been in office only since January and was still a relative unknown among the ranks. But if he wanted to see Mulvaney near five o’clock on a Friday, it meant he was displeased. I suspected that Leon Iseman, the stage manager who worked for Charles Frohman, had made good on his threat to cash in his political connections and complain about Mulvaney’s handling of this morning’s investigation at the Garrick.
    Mulvaney did not even take off his coat. On his way back out the door, he shuffled through the papers in his leather satchel.
    “No need for the commissioner to see this tonight.” He passed me the envelope containing the letter sent to
The Times.
“You lads may want to take a closer look. Let me know what you think.”
    Mulvaney was out the door even before I could agree.
    Alistair started to follow him. “I’ve got to make a couple telephone calls before we commence our next plan of attack.”
    “Where are you going?” I asked, somewhat irritated. I was eager to review the
Times
’s letter with Alistair, now that Ira Salzburg no longer hovered over our shoulders.
    “The question is, where
are
we going?” Alistair flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Lighten up, old boy. It’s Friday night. We’re about to enjoy dinner and an evening at the theater. I think we ought to see what’s playing over at the Garrick.”
    I turned away before Alistair could see the smile I could not suppress. Even murder could not diminish Alistair’s enjoyment of New York’s finest entertainment and dining opportunities.
    “What did you have in mind for dinner? One of the new places along Broadway?” I eventually asked. As more theaters were being built along Broadway’s north end, restaurants were cropping up, too, displacing most of the clubs, brothels, and tenements that had previously anchored the neighborhood.
    “Not tonight,” Alistair said, in high spirits now. “Dinner at Sherry’s is what I had in mind. It’s a longer walk from here, but we have time. And the headwaiter knows me; he’ll find us a table, even if they’re busy.”
    More casually, he went on to say, “But I do want to make a brief telephone call. There’s a colleague of mine I hope will join us.”
    “Who?” I raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
    “A longtime acquaintance who is also an expert in handwriting analysis.”
    “Alistair.” I sounded a note of warning. “I asked for
your
help on this case— not the help of some charlatan. I don’t want to hear that a criminal’s character can be determined from the size of his head or the style of his handwriting.”
    Alistair smiled indulgently. “You mean phrenology and graphology. It’s true: those disciplines look to the circumference of a person’s head or a sample of someone’s penmanship and infer specific character traits.” He shook his head. “Not to worry, Ziele. My colleague is well regarded as an expert in forensic analysis. He has testified numerous times in London trials on the subject of handwriting and forgery. You’ll find his logic to be solid, grounded in science.”
    “Are you sure?” Given this morning’s turn of events in the courtroom, I had no interest in pursuing evidence that would not stand up to the law.
    “Yes,” Alistair said emphatically. “I know you all too well, Ziele. I won’t give you information you cannot present at trial.”
    As I reluctantly agreed, Alistair made his call, and we set off crosstown toward Sherry’s and a discussion that— despite my doubts about its scientific basis— would fundamentally alter our approach to the case.

CHAPTER 7
    Sherry’s, Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth