Read Online A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff - Free Book Online

their desks with renewed interest.
    “Johnny, next time you gotta work your sources on Wall Street better. Okay?”
    “Sure, boss.” Nervously, the reporter who answered ran both hands through his tousled mop of brown hair.
    But the front-desk editor moved on to other concerns. “Frank,” he said. “We got the story about the Snyder woman’s acquittal in that poisoning trial, right?” He neither looked up nor ceased flipping pages.
    “Yeah, we got it, boss.” The answer came from a lean, wiry man. His voice, low with a rich timbre, came from the fifth desk down.
    It was an unwelcome reminder of the verdict in my case, delivered only this morning. My stomach lurched and I felt my face burn with mortification— as though they were criticizing me, not merely discussing the jury’s verdict. Of course I should not have taken it personally, but I did. If only I had found better evidence against the woman . . . evidence that might have withstood her protestations of innocence.
    “What does
The Post
say about it?” This time it was the reporter asking the question.
    The editor grunted again. “Just their usual bombastic drivel. But they scored an interview with her estranged mother.”
    Both were silent for a moment.
    “Who marked up your story?” asked the editor.
    “Mr. Seiden,” the wiry man said, “before he left early. He does on Fridays, remember?”
    Though he had not once looked up from his papers, the editor sat up straighter and seemed to focus his attention even more sharply on the article he was reviewing. Down the line of desks, every man followed suit, attending closely to the task at hand.
    From the back of the room, a stout man wearing a crisp blue suit with a yellow-and-red tie strutted toward us. Ira Salzburg, the managing editor, was short and squat, but his expensive, colorful clothes enabled him to cut a distinctive figure. He knew it— and his swagger reflected it.
    Without acknowledging anyone on the floor, he ambled into his office, nodded, and shut the door with a sweeping dramatic flourish.
    “Gentlemen.” He greeted each of us with a straightforward handshake.
    After we finished our introductions, we sat in the stiff wooden chairs provided for guests while Mr. Salzburg sank into his large, cushioned chair and lit a cigar. “Welcome to Times Square.”
    It was Times Square, yes, but only in the mind of a
Times
employee. Nearly two years ago
The Times
had left newspaper row downtown for this new building— Manhattan’s second tallest, a lone skyscraper on the small island of land created by the triple intersection of Forty-second Street, Seventh Avenue, and Broadway. The area had been named Longacre Square and more often referred to as the Main Stem. Though now it was officially renamed in the paper’s honor, no one ever remembered to call it Times Square. Two years wasn’t enough time to change long-held habits.
    Mulvaney spoke first. “We need to talk to you about a letter you received this morning— one that may relate to police business.”
    Ira Salzburg regarded Mulvaney for a moment, then looked out the window to the swirling activity on the streets. The area below teemed with crowds of businessmen and tourists, chorus girls and restaurant-goers, all racing in multiple directions. Yet, up here, we sat awkwardly in silence.
    Without looking away from the window, he finally put down his cigar and spoke, his voice elongating his words into a drawl. “Which letter are you specifically talking about, gentlemen?”
    “The letter one of your employees contacted us about this morning,” Mulvaney snapped impatiently. He didn’t like it when others played games or wasted his time.
    Ira Salzburg turned and concentrated his gaze again onMulvaney. “Oh, yes. The letter describing the murder at the Garrick Theater.”
    Mulvaney blanched. Although obviously we were at
The Times
because of a letter relating to today’s murder, Mulvaney had hoped it contained few details.
    But he