Dear Mr. Innes
Fletcher Innes, once the preeminent theater critic in New York, sat at a table at Delmonico's opposite Carlton Abernathy, the son of a wealthy railroad tycoon, who had recently purchased the failing New York Observer and hoped to make a newspaper equal to Pulitzer's New York World.
"Well, have you come to any decisions about my offer?" Carlton asked after the waiter went off to the kitchen with their dinner order.
Although both men knew Fletcher was out of work and in serious debt and thus would be crazy not to accept the job, the theater critic pretended to be undecided.
"You do know I was fired from my last position?"
"Of course, I do. That's because you're a lush who can't hold his liquor."
Fletcher was taken aback by the fledgling newspaperman's brutal honesty.
"You don't have to be so blunt about it."
"I'm not here to blow smoke up your ass. Do you want the job or not?"
"It depends. How much are you offering?"
"A hell of a lot more than you're making now, which is nothing."
"I don't see the need for ...."
Tired of the pointless quibbling, Abernathy announced, "I'll give you whatever Hearst paid you plus ten percent."
Fletcher was astounded by the generous sum. He thought, going into the meeting, that he would be offered a good deal less.
"Why are you willing to pay me so much?" he could not help asking.
"I'm a rich man's son," he answered with his usual candor. "Some people—most of them, in fact—consider my father a robber baron. Those people snickered when I purchased the Observer. They expect me—no, they want me—to fail. I intend to prove them all wrong, including my father. In order to make the paper a success, I need talented reporters. Frankly, I don't give a damn how much you drink or how many aspiring Broadway actresses you snuggle up to. That's between you and your wife."
"My ex-wife," Fletcher corrected him. "You're forgetting about the messy divorce that eventually led to my getting fired."
"I wouldn't care if you slept with the divine Sarah Bernhardt herself."
"Please! She's a little old for me," the critic laughed.
"My point is you know your craft, and you've got a name people recognize. I want you on my staff, and I'm prepared to pay handsomely for your services."
"What more can I say? I accept."
"No need to say anything else. Keep all your clever words for your reviews and your daily column."
* * *
Despite hiring some of the best journalists in New York, Boston and Philadelphia, Carlton Abernathy—serving as managing editor—was having difficulty increasing the Observer's circulation. As much as he hated to admit it, it was hard competing with men such as Hearst and Pulitzer.
Late one evening, after attending the opening of Ethel Barrymore's new show, Fletcher Innes went to his office at the paper to write his review. He passed by the editor's large corner office and found Carlton sitting in the semidarkness, with an open bottle on his desk.
"Want a drink?" Abernathy asked, his voice slurred by too much alcohol.
"Not right now, thanks. I've got work to do."
"Don't let me keep you from it."
He punctuated his sentence with another drink, directly from the bottle.
Fletcher continued on to his own office where his typewriter awaited his genius. When he turned on the overhead light, he saw an envelope addressed to him on the center of his desk. Since he did not normally receive mail at the paper, he decided to open it before writing his review.
"Dear Mr. Innes," he read. "I'm writing to let you know I just killed someone."
What the hell is this? he wondered, putting aside the letter and examining the envelope for a return address; there was none.
"Please do not throw this letter away," he continued reading. "It is no joke. If you do not believe me, take it to the police and show it to them. They will recognize my signature. I will write to you again—soon."
There was no closing or name at the bottom of the letter. It was "signed" only with a symbol: a five-pointed star inscribed in a circle.
Very funny! Fletcher thought, believing that despite the writer's disclaimer the letter was most definitely a joke.
He tossed it aside, turned toward his Remington typewriter and began critiquing Miss Barrymore's performance. Forty-five minutes later he was proofreading his completed review when Abernathy appeared in the doorway to his office.
"You're still here," the critic said.
"So are you."
"I had to write my review, but I just finished."
"You want that drink now?" the editor offered, his words becoming more indistinguishable.
"After you already drank from the bottle?"
"That was the last one. I haven't even opened this one yet."
The owner placed two glasses on the critic's desk and then tried, unsuccessfully, to open the bottle.
"Here, let me do that," Fletcher said.
"What's this?" Carlton asked, picking up the correspondence from the anonymous sender. "A love letter from some starry-eyed kid who wants to someday make it big on Broadway?"
"Nothing like that at all. It's a joke, is what it is."
The editor quickly read the missive.
"A murderer? Why is he writing to you? This should have been sent to a real reporter."
Ignoring what he believed was an unintentional slight to his position on the paper, Fletcher repeated, "It's a joke—that's all."
"How do you know that?"
"It's a question of common sense. Why would a killer confess his crime in a letter to a stranger?"
"Jack the Ripper did."
"Well, London police aren't sure any of those letters were authentic."
"It says here he's going to write to you again. I say you take this letter to the police and show it to them."
"I don't think ...."
"Who owns this paper: you or me?"
"You do," Fletcher replied, sighing in defeat.
"Take the letter to the police. Tomorrow."
* * *
Detective Pete Showalter looked from the sheet of paper to Fletcher Innes and back again several times as he read and then reread the letter.
"I'm sorry to waste your time with this nonsense," the critic apologized. "I know it's nothing but a joke; however, my employer insisted I show it to the police."
"We found the body of a young girl—a prostitute—outside a bar on Bleecker Street last night. Her throat was cut. Someone had also mutilated her body. This symbol, the star inside a circle, was carved into her stomach."
"And you think this letter is from the man who did that to her?"
"Don't you?" the detective asked.
"It would appear so."
"What I don't get is why he chose to write to you. You're a theater critic, right?"
"Yeah. Maybe he's hoping for a good review," Fletcher replied, in a lame attempt at humor.
"You find that poor girl's murder funny?"
"No, not at all," Innes said defensively.
"I'm going to hold on to this letter. It might be needed as evidence when we catch this guy," Showalter announced. "I'm also gonna keep you under surveillance, night and day."
"I assure you I had nothing to do with this girl's death."
"I'm not suggesting you did. This killer has contacted you once already and says he's going to again. Should he attempt to meet with you in person, we stand a good chance of catching him."
The thought of coming face-to-face with a cold-blooded murderer silenced Fletcher's objections. Should that precarious situation arise, he would welcome the assistance of the entire New York City Police Department.
* * *
The morning after his meeting with Detective Showalter, Fletcher woke at half past ten—late in the day for most people but not for a theater critic who often did not get to bed until four in the morning. Not quite fully awake, he stumbled out of the bedroom, sat at the kitchen table and stared at the glass of orange juice his housekeeper had poured for him to drink while the coffee was brewing.
If only there were vodka in it, he thought, longing for the alcohol that was forbidden to him.
Not since his wife announced her plans to divorce him, had he felt such an urgent need to drink.
I mustn't, he warned himself. I have to keep my wits about me. It's more than my job at stake now. With that madman out there, it might very well be my life.
"Here's your paper, Mr. Innes," the housekeeper announced.
"Thank you."
Although no newspaper had reported the young woman's murder the previous day—the death of a prostitute was not a major story, after all—because of their employee's involvement, the Observer chose to make it the day's lead story. Fletcher blanched when he read the headline: OBSERVER RECEIVES LETTER FROM KILLER. Not only did the article mention the theater critic by name, but the paper also ran his photograph on page one.
Who the devil wrote this?
He found the answer in the byline: Sherwin Fremantle.
After eating his breakfast and getting dressed—both accomplished in record time—Fletcher paid a visit to the Observer's office. Apparently, word spread over the paper's grapevine that a killer had written to the theater critic, for from the moment he entered the front door, people stopped whatever they had been doing and stared. Ignoring the faces that gawked at him, he walked past his own office and headed toward Sherwin Fremantle's desk.
"What are you doing here at this time of the day?" the reporter asked.
"I came to see you."
"Have you received another letter from the killer?" Fremantle inquired, his face aglow with eager anticipation of a good scoop.
"No. I want to know why you ran a page-one story about my involvement in this case. And why the photograph?"
"Hey, I work for a living, the same as you. Mr. Abernathy told me to write it, and I did."
Without another word to his colleague, Fletcher headed to the editor's corner office.
"By this unexpected visit, I assume you've seen today's paper," Abernathy said when the critic appeared in his doorway.
"We might be dealing with a homicidal maniac, and you put my name and picture on the first page. Damn it, man, why not just give him my address while you're at it?"
"The man's no danger to you."
"How do you know that?"
"I don't. I'm going on gut instinct here, what you newspaper people call a 'hunch.'"
"Cops get hunches, not reporters. Journalists deal in facts, not assumptions."
"True, but in addition to being the owner, I'm the managing editor of this paper, and editors are allowed to express their opinions."
"Only on the editorial pages."
Ignoring his employee's arguments, Carlton continued, "It's my opinion that his killer is only interested in murdering prostitutes. He's another Jack the Ripper. Hell, for all we know, he might be the same man."
"Come on, Abernathy! One prostitute is murdered, and you want to chalk her death up to Jack the Ripper?"
"Those murders in London were less than twenty years ago, and he was never caught. Who's to say he isn't wielding his knife on this side of the Atlantic now? And don't forget: he also wrote letters taking credit for his deeds."
Fletcher did not bother bringing up the matter of the Ripper letters' authenticity again since it was doubtful Carlton was any more willing to listen now than before.
"Look, I don't want anything more to do with this business. I'm a theater critic. I just want to do the job I was hired to do."
"By all means, go right ahead. I wouldn't dream of asking you to write about the murder. That's Fremantle's job. But I have no control over who the killer writes to, have I?"
"Just keep my name out of any future articles, will you? And my picture?"
"I'll have a word with Sherwin," Abernathy replied, and then changed the subject. "You're attending the opening of a new musical tonight, aren't you? I suppose it will be another late night for both of us."
* * *
In the early morning hours, the critic walked through the dimly lit office building, quiet except for a few typewriters whose operators were hurrying to meet the paper's deadline. Fletcher did not bother to acknowledge his late-working colleagues because he was too busy imagining witty remarks for his review. When he crossed the threshold of his office, he was trying to come up with a clever analogy to compare the lead female vocalist's performance to a pregnant woman's caterwauling during the final stages of delivery.
The small white envelope in the center of his desk brought both his physical movement and mental process to an abrupt stop.
Not another one! he thought, once the initial shock was over and he could form a coherent idea.
With trembling hands, he tore open the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside.
"Dear Mr. Innes," he read. "I've been at it again. Please try not to blame me, for I could not help myself."
That was all, except for the killer's signature: the five-pointed star inscribed in a circle.
Since Fletcher had composed nearly the entire review on his way from the theater, all he basically had to do was type it. There were no last-minute embellishments. He could not add them even if he had wanted to, for he could not take his mind off the likelihood that another poor woman had been gruesomely murdered. For the first time in his career, he did not even bother to read the review after he typed it.
Let the copy editors check for errors. That's what they're paid to do.
After handing in his review, he went to Carlton Abernathy's office. The editor was at his desk and appeared to be working. There was no bottle in sight, but Fletcher could smell the distinctive scent of expensive whiskey.
"I don't want this," the critic announced and tossed the letter onto the mahogany desk. "You can give it to the police or to Sherwin Fremantle. I don't care what you do with it."
"I'll give it to Fremantle and have him take it to that detective. What was his name?"
"Pete Showalter."
"That's right. If there was another killing ...."
"I don't want to know about it."
"As you wish."
Fletcher remained adamant about not wanting to be involved with either the letters or the murder investigation. In fact, for the next several days he deliberately avoided reading the Observer—or any of the other New York papers, for that matter. In the early years of the twentieth century before radio, television and the Internet became ubiquitous, it was fairly easy to bury your head in the sand like an ostrich. That is precisely what the theater critic attempted to do.
What they did have in those pre-World War I days, however, was newsies: newsboys standing on street corners, hawking their wares by calling out "Extra! Extra!" to entice passersby to purchase their papers. One such enterprising young lad stood on the corner of Broadway and West 42nd Street with the latest edition of the Observer.
"Read all about it," he shouted. "The Ripper strikes again. Third victim found on Mott Street."
Third? But I only received two letters.
Contrary to his avowals that he did not want to know about the murders, he took money out of his vest pocket and purchased a copy of the Observer from the boy. After reading the article by Sherwin Fremantle, he promptly forgot about his luncheon appointment with George M. Cohan and went to see Carlton Abernathy.
"Innes? What a pleasant surprise," the editor said when the critic walked, unannounced, into a staff meeting. "You usually don't attend our little weekly get-togethers."
"There has been a third murder," Fletcher announced, holding up his recently purchased copy of the Observer.
"I know."
"There wasn't a letter this time."
Carlton turned to the journalists seated at the conference table and suggested the meeting be postponed until later in the day. When he was alone in the room with his theater critic, he was able to speak freely.
"There was another letter. It arrived in yesterday's mail."
"Who was it addressed to?"
"You, but I didn't think you would want to see it, so I opened it and then passed it on to Fremantle."
"It was my mail!"
"As I recall, you were quite insistent that you wanted nothing to do with the killer."
"I know, but ...."
"You want to be kept in the loop, is that right?"
"I suppose I do. Can I see the last letter?"
"Detective Showalter has it. But if any more come to the paper, I'll be sure you see them before Sherwin does."
Fletcher felt foolish. First, he had complained about receiving the letters, and then he reversed his position.
What I really wish is that the police would catch the killer. Then everything around here can return to normal.
* * *
Given the rising body count and the increasingly critical coverage of the investigation in the press—led by the Observer—pressure was put on the police department to find the murderer. With few clues and no leads to pursue, Detective Showalter pressed Fletcher for answers.
"So why is this lunatic continuing to write to you?" he demanded to know.
"Haven't we been through this already?" the critic argued.
"Yes, but you have yet to give me a satisfactory answer."
"Because I haven't the slightest idea why he chose me."
"You're divorced, aren't you?"
"Not that my marital status is relevant to your investigation, but yes, I am."
"Was it amicable?"
"No, but then few divorces are."
"I would imagine the failure of your marriage would cause you to have hostile feelings toward your wife and possibly toward other women, as well."
Fletcher bristled with anger at the detective's line of questioning.
"Hold it right there! I'm not the killer, and I don't hate women."
"Don't you?"
"No. In fact, the reason my marriage failed is because I like women a little too much."
Too late, Fletcher saw that his poor choice of words presented a problem. He had admitted to the detective that he was a womanizer. No doubt he had given Pete Showalter an even stronger reason to suspect him of the killings. Perhaps it was time he became more cooperative.
"Look, Detective, I would love to help you catch this guy, but I don't know anything."
It was clear from the look of suspicion in Showalter's eyes that he still had qualms about Fletcher's honesty.
* * *
It was the first opening of a comedy Fletcher had attended since he began receiving letters from the killer. He was grateful that it was a good one; he needed to laugh. In writing his review he would attempt to match the playwright's skillful use of humor. Regardless of what he wrote, the play was sure to be a hit. Fletcher was still in a jovial mood when he returned to the paper to type his review. His good spirits faded the instant he saw another envelope on his desk.
Like the previous missives, it began "Dear Mr. Innes."
Detective Showalter was not the only one who wondered why the killer would write to a theater critic. Fletcher wondered the same thing himself.
"By now, you must know the significance of a letter from me. I've killed again."
That was it. The sender gave no reason for his actions and did not express any regret.
I need a drink. It'll help take my mind off these murders so that I can concentrate on critiquing the play and the actors' performances tonight.
There was no need for him to walk to the nearest neighborhood bar since Abernathy always kept a bottle or two in his office. Since he had to turn the letter over to the editor anyway, he might just as well get a free drink for his trouble.
The light was on in the corner office, but Carlton was not there. Fletcher walked around the mahogany desk and opened the drawer, hoping to find a bottle of Scotch. What he had never expected to discover was a blood-stained knife.
"What the hell?"
He gingerly picked up the weapon with the tips of his thumb and index finger and stared at it in horror. So intently was he examining the knife that he did not see Carlton Abernathy return to his office.
"Well, well," the editor said with a smile of amusement on his handsome face. "My dear Mr. Innes, don't you know that it's impolite to go through someone's desk drawers without his permission?"
"What's this?"
"What does it look like?"
"It looks like a knife smeared with human blood. Is this the murder weapon?"
"Excellent! You go to the head of the class."
"What are you doing with it? Did the killer send it to you?"
Carlton laughed at the critic's question. For a moment, he considered saying "yes," but then decided to stick to his original plan. It was too late to improvise.
"Don't you recognize your own knife?" he asked.
"This isn't mine. Why would ...?"
As in the denouement of a murder mystery, the pieces finally fell into place. Fletcher was stunned by the picture they created.
"You wrote those letters. You set me up."
"I'm afraid so."
"Why?"
"I needed to increase the paper's circulation. It worked."
"You risked your freedom—your life—for the Observer?"
"My freedom and life are not at stake."
Knowing Fletcher would try to defend himself against a possible assault, Carlton lunged forward. The theater critic instinctively tightened his grip on the handle of the knife, leaving his fingerprints on the weapon. However, he was no match for the newspaper owner in either speed or dexterity. While the knife was still in Fletcher's hand, Carlton twisted the man's arm and stabbed him in the stomach.
"Why ... me?" Innes asked as the blood gushed from his mortal wound. "Why not ... a reporter ... like Sherwin?"
"Reporters are paid to investigate. Fremantle may have uncovered my plan before it reached fruition. A theater critic, on the other hand ...."
There was no need for Abernathy to continue with his explanation. Fletcher Innes was already beyond hearing him.
* * *
On Thanksgiving Day, the entire Abernathy family assembled in the formal dining room of their parents' Fifth Avenue mansion. Fletcher's elder brothers, both successful businessmen, attended with their wives. His three older sisters were there with their husbands, likewise wealthy, powerful men. As the youngest child, Carlton had always been treated with condescension by his siblings and their spouses. This year, however, things were different.
"I must confess," his brother Bernard said when he took his seat at the oversized table. "When I learned you purchased the Observer, I thought you had lost your mind."
"As did I," his sister Loretta added. "After all, what did you know about running a newspaper?"
"Apparently, he knew quite a bit," the patriarch of the family declared. "I'm proud of you son. It isn't every man who can take a failing enterprise, turn it around and make it profitable."
"Everything I know about business, I learned from you," Carlton said.
What proved to be the most useful advice his father ever gave him was that where money was concerned, the ends justified the means. Murdering four women and framing an innocent man for their deaths was a relatively small price to pay for making the Observer the most widely read newspaper in New York.
If you receive a letter on this stationery, watch out! No, it's not from a killer. It's from Salem.
