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some time,” Mulvaney said, his voice filled with bitterness.
    Frank only shrugged. “I didn’t have the letter with me.”
    “But a girl was murdered—”
    I cut Mulvaney off before his fury quashed their already halfhearted cooperation. “Let’s take a closer look at the letter itself.”
    Mulvaney reined in his temper, and we turned our attention to the letter, addressed to the head of
The Times
.

Dear Mr. Ochs,

Here’s your chance to cover the biggest story of the day. Your job? Well, you’ve got to recognize the opportunity I’m giving you.

I’ve readied a new production for the stage. I auditioned the leading lady last week, and she’s perfect for the part.

H
er debut will be Friday at the Garrick.

E
ver gentle in my methods, she’ll suffer no stage fright.

L
ike God, I create life in death.

L
ike sculptors, I forge beauty

A
nd exquisite loveliness

W
here there is none.

A
t last, you will behold my work of art!

I
n honor and

T
ribute to

S
ublime form.

    It was signed “Yours truly.” The letter was not what I had expected, and I had dozens of questions— though of course I could mention none of them in front of Ira Salzburg. I would have to wait until we were clear of him.
    “You noticed the acrostic—‘hell awaits’?” Alistair seemed unaware that he had spoken aloud.
    “I’d say it’s an allusion to Jack the Ripper, who also wrote to the papers. A couple of his letters were signed ‘From Hell.’ ” I answered him automatically, to my immediate regret.
    Ira’s eyes glinted and his mouth turned up into a satisfied smirk. “So you may well be dealing with a series murderer, gentlemen.”
    Alistair’s reproof was icy. “That’s a leap of logic I wouldn’t care to make— especially since there is not a single other similarity between Miss Germaine’s murder this morning and that of the prostitutes in Whitechapel who were butchered almost twenty years ago.”
    I marveled at how well Alistair discouraged that line of thought as Ira began to hem and haw in embarrassment.
    “Why would this writer— assuming he is the murderer— give advance notice of his plans to
The Times
?” Mulvaney asked.
    “And specifically to Mr. Ochs,” said Ira. “The writer obviously knew the name of the man in charge.”
    Alistair frowned. “That information is printed in the paper every day; easy enough to discover if you don’t already know it. Still, the fact that he began with a personalized greeting may mean something. . . .”
    “Was it delivered directly to Mr. Ochs?” I asked.
    “Only to Mr. Ochs’s secretary,” Frank said. “When he receives mail that’s not appropriate for Mr. Ochs, he passes it on. He gave it to me because he thought it was a good joke.”
    “And did you show it to anyone?” I was having trouble determining the chain of custody this letter had followed.
    Frank eyed us with unworried detachment. “Yeah. Most of the boys on the floor and I had a good laugh. Why not? Who’d take seriously a crazy guy who thinks he’s some great artist with the power of God?”
    I understood his point, but still asked him to clarify it. “So at the time, you weren’t troubled by the letter? You didn’t think to call the police? As we now know, this letter gave you advance warning of a murder.”
    “Naw,” Frank said with a grin. “We thought it was written by some stage-struck sap who wanted to write something highfalutin but didn’t quite succeed. But when I heard today about a murder at the Garrick, I remembered it. I wasn’t sure it was related.” He shrugged again. “But that’s your job, right?”
    So they were guilty of ignoring what had turned out to be relevant evidence. But
The Times
did not— at least not yet— know about the other two letters or even the first murder. Mulvaney,for one, was eager to keep it that way, so he began to thank Ira Salzburg and Frank for their time.
    “We appreciate your finally calling us. Let us know if you receive