A Curtain Falls by Stefanie Pintoff Page A

himself as having created something new and preserved it.”
    Mulvaney interrupted. “Wait just a minute. You’re saying the writer of these letters killed two women because he is
preserving
something about them? That makes no sense.”
    Isabella was quick to respond, saying, “He’s not preserving their
life
. He’s preserving his idea about them— about their potential, about what they might become, if he made things a bit different.”
    Alistair put it a different way. “I believe what Isabella is suggesting is that for this writer, life disappoints— but perhaps art does not.”
    And with that comment, Alistair overreached.
    “This is murder,” I said heatedly, “not art.”
    “But perhaps not from the killer’s point of view,” Alistair said, making his point with renewed urgency. “His view is what matters, you recall— not your own.” He held up both letters before us. “The man who writes this— and I do believe it is a man— is not governed by rational thought. But we shouldn’t assume he is unintelligent or uneducated. This writer knows Shakespeare. He knows Browning. And he proceeds absolutely according to his own logic. And that is what we must—” He immediately stopped himself. “Rather, that is what
you
must remember if you are to solve these murders.”
    Mulvaney chuckled. “Unless we get lucky and catch him in the act.”
    “Well then,” Alistair said pleasantly, “you will be very lucky indeed. The man you seek is a meticulous planner who is unlikely to make careless mistakes.”
    Isabella retreated to the corner of the room with a cup of tea. Was it my imagination, or did she seem changed? It was unlike her to take so little interest in a case that Alistair obviously found compelling.
    “Don’t discount luck. Sometimes it’s all we’ve got,” I said lightly.
    I glanced at my watch. We needed to get to
The Times
before five o’clock.
    But I had one more question for Alistair. “Why do you think he wrote these letters? I mean, why even bother? It would have been less work and less risk for him simply to kill and walk away.”
    Alistair shrugged. “He’s not the first, you know. And he certainly won’t be the last. But he is highly unusual. Most criminals do not enter into correspondence about their crimes. The fact he has done so implies we are dealing with a truly unique personality.”
    He picked up both letters and returned them to me.
    “I’ll also make a prediction: he will keep writing, and I expect you will see more of him— and less of other writers— in his future missives. He has used the work of others to demonstrate his intelligence and get our attention. Now that he has it . . .”
    Alistair paused for a moment, then leaned closer to us as he continued to talk. “He wants to communicate something specific. The question is, to whom? He may be taunting you toshow he’s smarter than you. And we can’t avoid thinking of Jack the Ripper, can we? He began by insulting the police, but when the papers published his letters— well, assuming at least some of the letters
were
his and not hoaxes— I think he fell in love with his own celebrity. I say this in order to warn you to be very careful in this case.”
    “Comparisons to other letters aside, Alistair, what do you really think of all this? Whom, exactly, are we looking for?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” he admitted frankly. “But I do know one thing. What you’ve seen so far is only the beginning if you cannot stop him. He put a great deal of effort into first creating a perfect crime scene and then penning a letter to make sure others would understand what he hoped to accomplish. I daresay you’ll find he put similar effort into his choice of victim. He is enjoying every aspect of his handiwork. And a man who enjoys something this much will not stop— at least, not of his own accord.”
    After a moment’s reflection, he added, “At least your man appears to be writing personally to whoever