Theater of the Crime (Alan Stewart and Vera Deward Murder Mysteries Book 6)

by Неизвестный

  “Somebody shoved my box against the wall so I couldn’t get out!” she cried while continuing to inhale deeply. “I could have died in there!”

  Vera took off her coat and covered LaPierre, escorting the magician’s assistant across the alley to where the other women gathered. Down the alley a second fire engine arrived, red lights flashing. It dowsed its siren when it reached the alley, where several of the musicians stood with their instruments, and cranked the large wheels in their direction. The stage hands stood up wearily, shoved away from the wall, and signaled for the truck to come their way.

  “Did everyone inside get out?” Vera asked. “St. Laurent? All his assistants? The stage crew and performers?”

  “I don’t know!” LaPierre said, the tears now starting to flow. “So much smoke and fire...I couldn’t tell—but no one came for me. So...you haven’t seen Frederic? Did he make it out?”

  “We’re only sure of the eunuch we saw running ahead of us,” said Vera, “but we have no idea who else might have gotten out before him. And we need to clear this area so that we’re not in the way of the firemen.”

  They passed the stage hands and headed down the brick alley toward where they guessed the others might gather and moved to the side to allow the fire engine to pass, but then Alan stopped abruptly.

  “You’re right about the injured, Vera. The ambulances and emergency rooms will be flooded with crushed and burned bodies, probably the dead and dying, too. I say we load everyone into the Packard and find help on our own.”

  “Sure,” said Vera, pausing for a moment to think. “The fire doors were locked on the inside. Someone expected Madam Zarenko to perish in the fire–possibly with LaPierre and several others.”

  Alan nodded, following Vera’s thought.

  “And in my humble, street surgeon opinion,” Vera went on, “Madam Zarenko’s breathing and color are fine—at least what I can see that’s not masked by stage makeup. So maybe these ladies should hide out for a while with us. With Jenny at school, I’ve got room at my place.”

  “And just who are you?” asked the ginger in an Eastern European accent.

  “We’re private detectives,” said Vera. “Alan Stewart and Vera Deward at your service. You can trust us.”

  “You’re a detective?” asked the ginger. “Like a Pinkerton?”

  “Definitely not like a Pinkerton,” said Vera. “Around here they’re known as strike-breakers and thick-headed brutes—starting in Tacoma and going all the way back to Chicago. We work for George Brinkman, the president at the Washington Federated Union, doing fraud investigations, but he hires us out for special jobs—and on occasion we do pro bono work for the police department.”

  “You do what?”

  “We assist the police with cases they can’t work—for any number of reasons—without charging a fee for our services. We do it for the greater good—and reward money, when it’s there...”

  The ginger glanced at the blonde and brunette performers, who checked with each other. The blonde arched her brows, shrugged, and tossed her hair to the side.

  “Okay,” said the ginger, “but what about a doctor?”

  “My place is minutes away, on Capitol Hill, and I’ve had lots of practice patching people up, usually from bullet holes, but I’ve dealt with concussions before. The Champ just might show you the stitches I’ve sewn into his noggin. But if you want a hospital to check out Madam Zarenko properly, we can stop by Columbus on Madison Street and probably beat the rush. The good sisters there will keep their mouths shut and keep any nosey reporters at bay.”

  “You’ve been shot?” asked the blonde, eyes wide, staring up at Alan.

  He tried to suppress a grin, but it didn’t work. “A time or two...”

  The group continued up the alley, across the street, and stopped next to the Union’s limo, a 1940 Packard Super 180, parked in a pay lot.

  “The police and fire departments will need to do a head count when the smoke clears and the ashes settle,” Alan said to Vera. “They’ll want to know how many bodies are buried in the rubble.”

  “I suppose they will at that. I’ll give Ben Kearney or Mike Ketchum a call. See who they recommend. I’m sure they’ll know someone at SFD who’ll play ball with us, if that becomes important.”

  2

  Madam Zarenko stirred in Alan’s arms as he laid her down in the backseat of the Packard, her head resting on the ginger’s lap. Her eyes fluttered and then opened. She stared unfocussed into the distance, and then she jerked spasmodically, trying to sit up.

  Joined by the blonde, the ginger gently held her back, while stroking her forehead soothingly, cooing, “Golubushka, golubushka. It’s alright, golubushka, we made it outside. We’re all safe now.”

  Zarenko relaxed backward and sighed lazily, staring at Alan as he relaxed his grip on her. “Spa-see-ba, golubushka.”

  “Looks like we made it to heaven after all, girls,” she said, switching to English, in a voice not as accented as her helpers. “Who’s this dreamboat in the fedora? I know he’s not St. Peter.”

  “I’m Alan Stewart, private detective.”

  “Private detective you say? So there’s no halo under your bonnet? Where are we then, and how did I get here?”

  “Detective Alan is the one who found you,” said the ginger. “Sophie, Star, and I told him where we last saw you on the stage, and he waltzed right up the stairs and into the fire—just as brave as you please—and carried you outside.”

  “Then you are a living, breathing angel!” said Zarenko.

  “Just thought I could help out is all,” said Alan, “We should get you up to the hospital and beat the rush.”

  “Why a hospital?” asked Zarenko, her brow drawn low.

  Vera leaned over the front seat. “You’ve had a concussion,” she said. “Someone or something hit you hard enough to knock you out. I didn’t feel a fracture or find anything to think you might have one, but it would still be wise to check it out. Are you feeling nauseous?”

  “My head has an ache for certain, like a Sloe Gin hangover gives you, but I’m not sick to my stomach, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Vera nodded contemplatively. “You’ll probably be fine, and we can take you to my place. I know a doctor friend who can make a house call, if necessary.”

  Zarenko reached back and touched the base of her skull lightly, patting it softly with her fingers and grimacing. “I don’t remember how I got this. We’d changed out of our Cancan outfits and heard people screaming ‘Fire’ and hurried to the stage door, but it had a chain wrapped around it—with a padlock. So we ran back up to the stage. People were running about everywhere, slamming into us and not apologizing. Smoke everywhere. Somebody grabbed my arm like he knew me, I thought he’d be nice and show me the way out. He said something...and then BAM! Lights out, Tasha!”

  Vera stared intently in Zarenko’s dark eyes. “Do you remember what he said?”

  Tasha shook her head slowly and touched her hair, pressing it into place. “Something familiar, like I should know him, but I don’t remember exactly. Something close to: ‘They’re waiting for you...’”

  “And who would that be?” asked Vera.

  “I assumed he meant the girls, who had been right next to me mere seconds before that.”

  “So, you don’t know who grabbed you then?” asked Vera.

  “Too much smoke,” said Zarenko. “I’m sure a man, because of the voice. His grip, too. My girls are strong , but I think the size of the hand would make it a man.”

  “What about you, Miss LaPierre?” asked Vera. “Are you alright going to my place for patching up, until we can straighten this mess out?”

  “I have a room in the Paramount’s apartments. Shouldn’t I go there first? In case others show up there?”

  “
Would that be a room of your own or one you share?” asked Vera.

  LaPierre thought for a moment. “Share...”

  Vera nodded. “Since we don’t know what happened inside the theater, it might be better for you to come with us for a little while at least.”

  LaPierre nodded. “Do you and I know each other?” she asked.

  “Maybe a few years back,” said Vera, “at The Palace Hippodrome on Second Avenue at Spring Street, if you did stage time there.”

  LaPierre eyebrows arched as she smiled. “Your place will be fine.”

  “Alan will drive us,” Vera said, “unless any of you want to go to the hospital first.”

  “If you have plenty of aspirin and a bar that’s well stocked,” said Zarenko, “I say it’s your place, lady.”

  While Alan climbed in the front seat and started up the car, Vera sat directly behind him on the jump seat. She reached across her seat and squeezed Zarenko’s hands, resting on top of her abdomen. “I’m Vera Deward. You can call me Vera.”

  “I’m Tasha,” said Zarenko, “and these lovely ladies are Rose Red, Sophie’s our blonde, and Star’s our brunette. A hair color for every taste.” Tasha sighed wearily. “Since going to the hospital might require us to produce papers documenting who we are and where we’re from, we would rather avoid that inconvenience. I hope you understand. It’s not like we’re hiding from the law or dodging bail bondsmen, we just don’t want to draw close attention to us personally.”

  Alan eased out of the parking lot and headed east on Pine Street.

  “Are you white émigrés from Russia?” asked Vera.

  Rose, Sophie, and Star nodded, while Tasha inhaled deeply. “Mostly,” she said. “As Soon as word of the Romanovs’ demise reached my family, I fled from Gatchina, near St. Petersburg, to Turkey with many other monarchists. I lost track of the years in Ankara and then Istanbul, and then I eventually met up with these three. They’re young and have no recollection of Russia, the Romanovs, or even their own families. They were destined to a life in the brothels when I met them.”

  “You rescued us!” said Sophie, patting Tasha’s shoulder, “not found us!”

  “Are you wanted by the police or J. Edgar Hoover?” asked Vera.

  “Nyet,” said Tasha. “But Immigration and Naturalization doesn’t have any use for ‘our kind.’ They’re worried we might be filthy communists trying to infiltrate your shipyards with lunch buckets full of propaganda to organize your labor force. We’re better off pretending to be gypsies.”

  “Our boss wouldn’t want the competition,” said Alan.

  “Why’s that?” asked Tasha.

  “Seattle’s had a history of labor unrest,” said Alan, “particularly on the waterfront with the Wobblies and the Longshoremen. The Pinkertons hired unemployed thugs as deputies who squared off against the Wobblies, killing a few here and more up in Everett. We had much of the same with the dockworkers a few years back when they unionized. Mr. Brinkman didn’t like the violence so, like the Teamsters, he’d rather bribe his way to labor dominance than break heads and knee caps.”

  “Is that how you got shot?” asked Rose.

  Alan missed a gear while shifting, letting the clutch up too fast, the Packard cruising north on Broadway. “Not exactly,” he said. “A damsel in distress needed our assistance.”

  “And did you rescue her?” asked Rose, leaning forward in her seat.

  Alan nodded. “That we did,” he said, glancing at Vera, “but in our business we respect the privacy of our clients, so I can’t really talk about it.”

  “I thought about waiting until we got settled, but timing can be very important,” said Vera. “I want to know what you know about the fire tonight, so we should probably start at the beginning.”

  “Where would that be?” asked Tasha. “When our train arrived in Seattle this morning, or when the show started?”

  “Unless you can think of anything important before when the show started, let’s start there.”

  3

  Two Nights Before at the Orpheum Theater

  A man stood center stage on a small Oriental rug, directly in front of the drawn curtain. His white shirt and tie were covered by a silk robe and he wore matching slippers and had a brightly colored silk pajh wrapped around his head, adorned with a large jeweled pin. To either side of him were large vases of cut flowers, in which lilies were prominent. The man held a white envelope to his head, closed his eyes, and waved at the organist to stop playing for a moment.

  “I need complete silence,” said Alexander Conlin, billed as a seer, as The Man Who Knows All. He lowered the envelope and smiled at the packed house. “These past few days in Seattle, I’ve noticed an increase in psychic energy. Yours is a raw city which blends cultures with those who were here before your arrival. The psychic disturbances all started on a walk through your Pioneer Square, where I discovered a new totem pole honoring Seattle’s link to Northwest Indians and Alaska. I touched the carved cedar and instantly felt a disquieting sensation, as if the wood were talking to me. I learned that this new totem pole had been purchased to replace the original—which had been chopped down and stolen from a native tribe only to be destroyed by an arsonist two years ago. I don’t think you are aware of the horrible karma such a theft brings, and then to destroy a sacred icon with fire is only asking for the wrath of the gods—but I digress.

  “My point is that when there are disturbances in the psychic field, I am often flooded with multiple messages, much like a young boy who can’t sit still in school. My job is to sort through the voices shouting for attention inside my head and find those here in my audience tonight, who crave an answer to a question that is dear to them.”

  “Nice intro!” whispered an unseen woman’s voice through earphones hidden inside the swami’s headgear. The speaker had a hint of an Irish accent. The electric wires to the headgear ran down the back of Alexander’s neck into his silk slippers, which had copper plated soles. When the seer stood on his magic carpet, the soles made contact with slightly protruding electric contacts, connected by wires that ran across the stage, down through a trap door to the orchestra pit, where the speaker had a view of the audience, from behind the organist.

  “If you’re ready,” the woman’s voice continued, “a Mrs. Pierpont is in the audience. She lost her son Andrew two weeks ago. Drowning. Lake Washington.”

  Alexander spread his arms as if he were a conductor getting ready to lead an orchestra. He nodded, touched the envelope to his head again, and closed his eyes. He held the envelope between his fingers while he rubbed his temples with this thumbs. He drew in a large breath of air and exhaled.

  He opened his mascara-traced eyes wide and stared across the audience, brooding and unfocused. “I’m afraid the author of this note has lost someone very dear to them recently,” he said. “I’m feeling sadness and the suddenness of the event. The death came as a shock on an otherwise happy day for others.”

  Alexander rubbed his chest and rotated his head around his neck, as if he were having trouble breathing. “I’m hearing a name that starts with an A,” he said. “A young man’s name.”

  A woman’s voice cried out in the audience.

  “She’s six rows up and on the left side,” whispered the voice in Alexander’s ear.

  Alexander gazed to his right and up into the balconies, avoiding the row his assistant had pointed out. “Is there a mother here who lost her son, Andy?” As he finished asking the name, he turned to the seating area six rows up and to his left.

  A woman in her forties, holding a hanky to her eyes stood up, gazed around her, and sat down on the edge of her seat.

  “You are Andy—Andrew’s mother?” asked Alexander.

  The woman stood again and shouted loudly, “Yes, I am!”

  “Please join me on the stage, if yo
u will?”

  The heavyset woman excused herself as she passed in front of others, working her way to the side aisle, and then she all but ran to the stairs leading up the right apron to the stage. Alexander stepped off his magic carpet and met the woman a few feet away. He held up his left hand as if cautioning her not to get too close while he channeled psychic energy.

  “Have we ever met before?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head vigorously. “No!”

  “Does your last name start with P?”

  The woman nodded assuredly.

  “Pied—”

  The woman shook her head. “NO!”

  “Now don’t help me,” said Alexander. “It might take me a minute.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Not Piedmont but Pierpont!” said Alexander.

  “Yes!” said the woman eagerly.

  “And you’re worried about your Andy. Please tell the audience how old.”

  “Sixteen!”

  Alexander shook his head. “So young. So tragic. A Lake Washington drowning?”

  “Yes!”

  “Picnic?”

  “Yes.”

  The audience applauded along with the question and answers, and the organist started an accompaniment of background music, a clever interpretation of eastern music.

  Alexander held up a finger signaling to the audience that he needed a moment, while the organist continued, adding to the mood. “Your son wants you to know that he is in a happy place,” said Alexander, “surrounded by relatives who’ve gone before and were waiting for him.”

  The audience clapped enthusiastically as the woman wiped tears from her eyes with the already soaking handkerchief. Alexander bowed slightly at the waist and stepped back toward the carpet. Mrs. Pierpont lurched forward and grabbed Alexander with open arms, trying to wrap him in a hug, and catching him mid-stride while he was partially turned, knocking him against one of the cut flower vases. “Thank you!” she blurted out.