a Curtain Falls (2010) by Stefanie Pintoff

Author:Stefanie Pintoff [Pintoff, Stefanie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2011-01-14T19:09:24+00:00

CHAPTER 19

The Knickerbocker Hotel, 1466 Broadway

It took several hours and some investigative persistence— specifically numerous phone calls and Alistair’s discreet tip to a low-level Theater Syndicate employee— before we elicited any information about the reclusive Frohman. And when we finally found him, he was right next door— specifically, at the Knickerbocker Hotel. That was only a block from the New Amsterdam, where Detective Marwin continued to fight for his life.

Frohman’s primary residence was his well-appointed house in White Plains, north of the city, but whenever one of his plays demanded more of his time, he stayed at his regular home away from home, in the heart of the theater district— the pent house suite at the Knickerbocker. We timed our visit for dinnertime, when he was certain to make his usual room-service order, for he was apparently a creature of habit. A connoisseur of fine cuisine, Frohman also was something of a recluse; as a result, he seldom dined in public. And, Alistair’s source told us, we had little chance of being admitted unannounced.

At precisely a quarter past six, the elevator doors opened and a waiter dressed all in white wheeled out a tray of covered silver dishes and a bottle of French chardonnay.

“Is that for Mr. Frohman?” I asked, stepping in front of him.

He stammered in reply, “Afraid . . . I’m afraid I can’t really say, sir.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll take it from here.” I flashed my police badge, then quickly passed him a few coins. His eyes widened in surprise.

I put my fingers to my lips. “And not a word to anyone.”

His face tightened with concern, but he retreated all the same, pressing the button to call the ser vice elevator without a backward glance.

Once he had departed, I rapped on the knocker, calling out, “Room ser vice.” The young maid who answered didn’t give me a second look, but did a double take when she saw Isabella— who, by her gray silk dress and lace scarf, was obviously a lady, not a fellow servant.

“Should I announce . . . ?” she asked.

I interceded before Isabella could reply. “Yes, please. You may tell him Mrs. Sinclair is calling, accompanied by a Mr. Ziele.”

“And has he previously made your acquaintance, sir?”

I gave her my most charming smile. “I’ve never had the plea sure, but he is on good terms with Mrs. Sinclair’s extended family.”

It was true. No family in New York was a bigger patron of the arts than the Sinclairs.

The housemaid appeared dubious, but nonetheless ushered us into a small parlor and promised to announce us. “You won’t keep Mr. Frohman from his dinner, will you? He’s particular about his meals.”

“Not at all,” I said amiably. “We’re happy to speak with him while he eats, if he prefers.”

Her face took on a horrified expression. “Oh no, sir. He always eats in private.”

But as we continued to wait in the small parlor room with blue miniature sofas and rococo rose wallpaper, it became clear that Charles Frohman was not spending his Sunday evening alone.

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