Read Online A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stefanie Pintoff
Ads: Link
forced a pleasant smile onto his face and managed to sound easygoing. “We’d like to see the letter now, Mr. Salzburg.”
“You can call me Ira,” he said indifferently as he swung his legs around. “Like all my men do.”
The comment struck a false note. We had seen every employee on the floor treat Ira Salzburg with great deference, and it was hard to imagine even one of them addressing him as “Ira.”
He swung his weight out of his chair and flung open his office door. He didn’t say a word, but at his nod, the wiry man who had spoken earlier about the poisoning trial got up from his desk and came in to join us.
We learned his name was Frank Riley and he was
The Times’
s senior crime reporter. He spread before us a letter written on now-familiar blue paper in the spidery hand that arched its words in an unnatural slant. As we read the letter in haste, he lounged easily against the corner of his editor’s desk.
It was Alistair’s keen eye that noticed the first anomaly.
“The writer’s dateline here indicates Tuesday.” He pointed to the top right-hand corner. “And your own receipt stamp suggests that you received it on Tuesday.” He pointed to a haphazard red-ink stamp that bore Tuesday’s date, March 13. “But today is Friday the sixteenth. We were under the impression you received this letter only this morning.”
“Actually,” Ira admitted sheepishly, “we did receive the letteron Tuesday. But we thought it was a joke. We get lots of letters from crazy types who’ve got nothing better to do.”
“So why bother saving this one?” Alistair asked.
Ira shrugged. “Truthfully? By accident. Frank’s the one who ended up with it, and he’s a saver. Never throws a thing out unless someone makes him— right, Frank?” He exchanged conspiratorial glances with his reporter.
At that moment, I trusted neither of them. They were making a show of cooperation— but in fact, they weren’t helping much at all. And it was all I could do to suppress my anger when I realized that Annie Germaine’s life might have been saved, had they only taken the letter more seriously.
“When a little bird told us about what you found at the Garrick this morning, Frank remembered and showed it to me,” Ira was saying.
“What sort of little bird?” My eyes continued to race over the writing in front of me.
“The sort who works at the Garrick and gets a big reward for a good news tip. But I’m sure you know we always protect our sources,” Frank said, smiling congenially as he demurred.
I looked at Frank sharply, trying to detect any sign of sarcasm. Not all reporters were alike, of course. But most I had known were motivated by personal opportunity rather than journalistic principle. When it suited them, they protected their sources. When it didn’t, they betrayed them without hesitation.
The Times
was working hard to earn a reputation for printing serious, accurate news, but it was impossible to tell how closely Frank adhered to those ethics.
“There were no reporters at the Garrick,” Mulvaney said, his voice growing louder. “I was there.”
Frank inclined his head. “I might have stopped by for a moment to visit my source.”
Mulvaney and I looked at each other. It was certainly possible. In an effort to keep the news as quiet as possible, Mulvaney had posted no policemen at the theater door. Of course, a resourceful reporter like Frank would have known to use the backstage entrance.
Mulvaney rose out of his chair. “You . . . you’ve got to know it’s against the law to tamper with an active crime scene . . .” he stammered in anger.
“Simmer down, Captain.” Frank made a calming motion with his hands. “I only talked to a couple janitors backstage. I didn’t go anywhere near the stage where she was killed. Besides, I figured the best course of action was to contact my editor for some advice in light of that letter.”
“You were there. You might have let us know and saved us
“You can call me Ira,” he said indifferently as he swung his legs around. “Like all my men do.”
The comment struck a false note. We had seen every employee on the floor treat Ira Salzburg with great deference, and it was hard to imagine even one of them addressing him as “Ira.”
He swung his weight out of his chair and flung open his office door. He didn’t say a word, but at his nod, the wiry man who had spoken earlier about the poisoning trial got up from his desk and came in to join us.
We learned his name was Frank Riley and he was
The Times’
s senior crime reporter. He spread before us a letter written on now-familiar blue paper in the spidery hand that arched its words in an unnatural slant. As we read the letter in haste, he lounged easily against the corner of his editor’s desk.
It was Alistair’s keen eye that noticed the first anomaly.
“The writer’s dateline here indicates Tuesday.” He pointed to the top right-hand corner. “And your own receipt stamp suggests that you received it on Tuesday.” He pointed to a haphazard red-ink stamp that bore Tuesday’s date, March 13. “But today is Friday the sixteenth. We were under the impression you received this letter only this morning.”
“Actually,” Ira admitted sheepishly, “we did receive the letteron Tuesday. But we thought it was a joke. We get lots of letters from crazy types who’ve got nothing better to do.”
“So why bother saving this one?” Alistair asked.
Ira shrugged. “Truthfully? By accident. Frank’s the one who ended up with it, and he’s a saver. Never throws a thing out unless someone makes him— right, Frank?” He exchanged conspiratorial glances with his reporter.
At that moment, I trusted neither of them. They were making a show of cooperation— but in fact, they weren’t helping much at all. And it was all I could do to suppress my anger when I realized that Annie Germaine’s life might have been saved, had they only taken the letter more seriously.
“When a little bird told us about what you found at the Garrick this morning, Frank remembered and showed it to me,” Ira was saying.
“What sort of little bird?” My eyes continued to race over the writing in front of me.
“The sort who works at the Garrick and gets a big reward for a good news tip. But I’m sure you know we always protect our sources,” Frank said, smiling congenially as he demurred.
I looked at Frank sharply, trying to detect any sign of sarcasm. Not all reporters were alike, of course. But most I had known were motivated by personal opportunity rather than journalistic principle. When it suited them, they protected their sources. When it didn’t, they betrayed them without hesitation.
The Times
was working hard to earn a reputation for printing serious, accurate news, but it was impossible to tell how closely Frank adhered to those ethics.
“There were no reporters at the Garrick,” Mulvaney said, his voice growing louder. “I was there.”
Frank inclined his head. “I might have stopped by for a moment to visit my source.”
Mulvaney and I looked at each other. It was certainly possible. In an effort to keep the news as quiet as possible, Mulvaney had posted no policemen at the theater door. Of course, a resourceful reporter like Frank would have known to use the backstage entrance.
Mulvaney rose out of his chair. “You . . . you’ve got to know it’s against the law to tamper with an active crime scene . . .” he stammered in anger.
“Simmer down, Captain.” Frank made a calming motion with his hands. “I only talked to a couple janitors backstage. I didn’t go anywhere near the stage where she was killed. Besides, I figured the best course of action was to contact my editor for some advice in light of that letter.”
“You were there. You might have let us know and saved us
Similar Books
