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

by Неизвестный

  “I’m fine with that,” said Jeffries.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” said Ben.

  “Be careful with the metal handles,” said Jeffries. “The coffin had been all ablaze and those are what Chief Grayson burned his fingers on.”

  Alan slowed in front of the coffin, and Jeffries picked up a long scrap of curtain fabric and doubled it over a couple of times like a kitchen towel. “Use this,” he said, handing the drapery to Alan.

  Alan shook his head and grinned more confidently than he felt. “St. Laurent might have ducked through here, but the last thing I know I saw had horns and looked like it wanted to get out.”

  The two fire commanders with Jeffries chuckled nervously. Alan wrapped the fabric around the still warm handle and lifted the top slowly, allowing trapped smoke to escape the coffin. But this smoke had a particularly foul smell to it, different from charred wood, melted fabric, charred paint, or lamp oil. It had the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh.

  Alan pushed the lid all the way up, as far as it would go, and stepped away from the smoke and fumes. He waved the handful of fabric he still held, fanning it back and forth over the open casket, chasing away the foul vapors. Slowly the shape of a humanoid-like figure emerged through the foul haze, charred black, eyes bulging wide, and mouth open in terror—with horns on its head.

  “Mother of Christ!” said one of the firemen standing near Jeffries. He followed the outburst by quickly making the sign of the cross.

  Ben stepped forward, stopped next to Alan, and glanced toward the firemen. “I think his goose is cooked, but do any of you want to check his vital signs before we go any further?”

  Jeffries exhaled and shook his head slowly. “I’ve got this one detective, but promise me one thing. If this thing, whatever it is, suddenly grabs me around the neck and tries to drag me in the coffin with him, you’ll shoot him in the fucking head!”

  “I’ll empty my gun,” said Ben.

  “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll empty mine, too,” said Alan.

  Jeffries stutter stepped, weighing what he’d just heard, and then he lifted one of the devil’s legs and slid off the remnants of a red slipper.

  “We’ve got a foot here, not a hoof.”

  “So we’re dealing with what’s left of a human, not the devil,” said Ben.

  “It would appear so,” said Jeffries.

  The deputy chief gently took hold of a deeply charred wrist, only to have the blackened flesh peel away as the hand dropped back into the coffin.

  Jeffries shook his head again. “Alright, I’m going to check his jugular for a pulse, and this is where I want you on your toes.”

  “You’ve got it,” said Ben.

  Jeffries leaned in and reached his hand up to the right side of the devil’s neck, finding a spot where the red hood had melted away.

  “The skin here is as crispy as a Christmas Goose’s, but I’m feeling nothing going on underneath. You guys want me to drive a stake through his heart while we’re here?”

  Nervous chuckles from the firemen.

  “That won’t be necessary, Chief,” said Ben.

  “I smell an accelerant,” said Jeffries, “like he’d been drenched in kerosene or white gas. With the lid closed on the coffin, it doesn’t seem there would have been enough oxygen to keep the fire going for long—like when you shut the lid on a cigarette lighter. So I’m surprised there’s been this much burning.”

  “How about if the escape hatch had been left open?” asked Alan.

  Jeffries nodded quietly as he thought a moment. “That would work and would also explain why all the fuel hadn’t been consumed either, but where’s this hatch you’re talking about?”

  Alan checked with Ben, “May I?”

  “Certainly, Champ. I don’t know the first thing about magic.”

  “I don’t know much either,” said Alan, “but I figure for Miss LaPierre to get out quickly and this guy to replace her so fast, the secret door has to be quite large. It also has to be on the side facing away from the audience.”

  Alan circled behind the prop and stared at the backside of the platform and the casket. He leaned over and closely examined a brass curtain rod with the remnants of a drawstring and curtain hooks. Then he knelt down and glanced underneath the platform. He stood up and nodded.

  “When St. Laurent circled the casket, we could see his feet as he passed behind here. You can see mine now if you look underneath, because the blackout curtains have burned away. He’d set it up so either he or his assistant could pull the curtains closed during the act so we couldn’t see what happened back here on the platform and the floor. So...somehow Miss LaPierre opened the side of the coffin, rolled out, and climbed into another box behind the back curtain...or house curtains that were right behind their set up, until the fire destroyed them.”

  Alan turned toward the back of the stage and gazed at the floor.

  “There’s the torch,” Alan said, pointing to the smoldering prop on the floor. “It flew out of St. Laurent’s hands when he fought with the devil—and that’s what caught the drapes on fire. And there’s the second coffin, back against the wall, like Miss LaPierre described. About half way in-between here and there is where I found Madam Zarenko on the floor.”

  Ben leaned into the coffin and canted his head in the direction of the devils feet. “I think I got something here. Much of the lining is gone and I see a treadle of some kind.”

  Ben reached past the devil and pushed firmly on what he’d been staring at. Following a soft metal click, the side of the coffin sprang open slightly at the top. Ben reached across the devil’s body and shoved the door down, creating an opening big enough for the devil to easily enter.

  “Very nice work,” said Ben. “Quality craftsmanship. This must have cost your magician plenty.”

  Alan nodded, while studying the features of the devil. “So who is this guy?”

  “It’s not your magician?” asked Ben.

  “I don’t know,” said Alan. “How about you, Chief? You saw him from much closer up than anyone else.”

  Jeffries arched his brow high and shook his head. “He’s the right size and all, but with his eyelids burned off, I can’t be sure. Is that a real mustache below what’s left of his nose, or one of those show biz kits?”

  Ben pinched a few of the whiskers to the side of the devil’s mouth and tugged gently, as he leaned over close and stared.

  “I’ll go with ‘real’ on these,” he said, “but then there’s the problem of identification. This mug’s fingers are so charred we’ll never get fingerprints.”

  “So how can we tell who this is?” asked Alan. “Dental records?”

  “Records from where?” asked Ben gently. “If this is your magician, he’s a world traveler. We would need to know who his dentist might have been and where he had his practice, if he had one. Performers are usually cash and carry sorts, the kind of people who don’t leave a paper trail.”

  Ben leaned in close to the devil’s face once again and sniffed the air. Then he picked up the charred hand and sniffed at the fabric. “I’ll bet this is lighter fluid.”

  The large detective reached under the devil’s shoulder and pulled the body upward, rolling the torso slightly, while feeling underneath it. Then he repeated the process, reaching across the devil, grabbing his other shoulder and tugging it toward him. Alan caught a glimpse of something yellow, red, and metallic. He slid his hand underneath the dead man’s shoulders and pulled out a 19 cent can of Red Devil Lighter Fluid.

  “That’s rather apropos,” said Ben. “It could be that someone wanted to destroy the face and fingers of this guy for sure, so there could never be a comparison made. This isn’t what we’d call dispositive proof of a homicide, but this is beginning to look more and more like a crime—with an unknown victim
. So to be on the safe side, don’t handle that lighter fluid can anymore than needs be, Champ. We might try for fingerprints.”

  Alan sucked in his cheeks and his mouth made a small O.

  Ben shook his head and gave Alan an easy grin. “Don’t worry about it. Given all the fire props in this act, it could have a number of donor prints on it, and they’ll all have a legitimate excuse why they’d be there...”

  Ben raised an eyebrow and faced Jeffries. “What do you think, Chief? Do you see anything that positively cannot be explained away as accidental?”

  “The lighter fluid can bothers me,” Jeffries said, “but given all the fire in this act, there are a lot of plausible excuses why spilled fuel would be on Satan’s hands. And then we had the two actors fighting with the torch in front of a packed house, whether real or pretend. If this guy had lighter fluid already saturating his clothing, the clumsiness with the torch could have easily set him on fire without it being deliberate. I’d like to hear from the other combatant to be sure, see what he’s got to say.”

  Alan set the empty lighter fluid can on the platform next to the casket. “I’d like to take a look inside that other box on the floor, if you don’t mind?”

  Ben came around the side of the coffin and joined Alan. “How does this match up with the prediction the newspaper had about there being a tragedy here tonight?”

  “It’s right on the mark,” said Alan. “St. Laurent even teased about it early on during his show. He suggested that Alexander, the seer who claims he knows all, might have hoped to eliminate him for some reason.”

  “Really? Jealousy’s always a motive. We’ll have to keep Alexander in mind if this turns out to be a murder.”

  Alan sat on his haunches next to the unadorned casket on the floor, wider at one end and tapered at the other. He grabbed the lid and tugged upward, but instead of opening, it slid across the floor closer to him, causing its sprung side to chatter on the stage decking as it moved.

  “I can see how this could get pushed against the wall during a fight,” said Alan.

  “Or it could easily be shoved deliberately,” added Ben.

  Alan tugged on the lip of the casket and rolled the black painted box on its side, allowing the hinged side to flop wider open, exposing the purple crushed velvet lining, expertly upholstered with tuck and roll padding.

  “I’m surprised the top doesn’t slide off,” said Alan.

  Ben knelt next to Alan and ran his fingers along the edge, stopped suddenly and examined something black and sticky on his thumb. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. He reached inside his pants pocket, took out a small folding knife and dug at a couple of spots on the lid.

  “Shoe polish,” he said. “Somebody screwed the lid down and covered the brass with polish. That implies a rush job, where a craftsman would’ve used putty and paint. Again, this isn’t proof positive, but it’s certainly curious.”

  “What do you make of this?” asked Alan, swinging the escape door up and checking its spring clamps, the kind common to kitchen cabinets. “Vampire fetish?”

  “Too early for me to say,” said Ben, shaking his large head. “I don’t see any dirt in it, so maybe it’s a leftover prop from another trick.”

  “I can ask Miss LaPierre what she knows about it,” said Alan.

  “Great a place to start as any,” said Ben as he stood up. “I want to go along with you for that, but let’s check the magician’s dressing room first.”

  Being closer to the back of the stage, Alan led the way down the steps and stopped at the dressing room closest to the stage. The door stood partially open.

  Alan shook his head. “Given what I’d heard about his need for secrecy, I thought we’d find a padlock bolted to a closed door.”

  “I’m sure the firemen probably opened it,” said Ben. “They would’ve had to use an axe and break it open if it were locked. They’d have to make sure no one had gotten trapped inside suffering from smoke inhalation.”

  Alan flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

  “This circuit must still be out,” said Ben, while pulling out a flashlight from his coat pocket.

  “And Vera calls me the Boy Scout,” said Alan.

  “You were out on the town with Vera, while I’m on the job,” said Ben. “In the police business you’ve got to carry one of these all the time, even when working the dayshift. You never know when you’re going to have to go in a building without lights.”

  Ben stepped past Alan, shining his EverReady into the dark, like a miniature spotlight sweeping over the small enclosure, before settling down to illuminate one area at a time. Two steamer trunks sat on the floor with their lids pulled open, while a metal bar with a permanent sag held changes of costumes and after show clothes, seemingly broken into sections for men and women, with the men’s side taking up the most room. Tubes of makeup, brushes, and eyebrow pencils took up the area in front of one mirror, while an assortment of theater make-up and spirit gum crowded the vanity’s counter top.

  “What’s on that mannequin?” Alan asked.

  Ben moved in closer and directed the flashlight beam at a bright blue robe with gold and red dragons, the hood pulled up over a white wig and beard on a dummy with carefully painted features.

  “Yeah, the robe!” said Alan. “It’s what the magician had on when fighting the devil.”

  Ben pulled the hood of the robe back to examine the mannequin more closely. “This is very well done,” he said. “I’m thinking it has more uses than serving only as a coat rack.”

  “That’s what St. Laurent had on when we last saw him,” said Alan.

  Ben nodded. “I’ll get my camera, and we’ll get some pictures of this and the coffin, but...could this be a spare or back up set?”

  “If so, why would it be out?” asked Alan. “Why wouldn’t they leave it in the trunk? That would be close enough for a quick change if they needed it. The mannequin takes up a lot of room.”

  Ben closed his eyes a moment and then handed Alan the flashlight. “Point well taken, Champ. Keep an eye on it, and I’ll be back in two shakes...”

  Alan’s thoughtful smile turned into a scowl and he pointed behind Ben to a pile on the floor. Ben stepped to the side and Alan directed the light closely at another bright blue robe with the same dragon pattern. Ben squatted down and picked up the robe delicately, and charred pieces of the lower sleeve flaked away. Ben shook his head slowly.

  “I think this one would be your magician’s robe, and the burn marks would suggest the coffin fight had been for real.”

  Ben’s gaze followed the robe to the floor and another wig and beard, this one pushed up against the wall like a forgotten dust mop. “I’ll bring some paper bags for the evidence. These things will be going with us.”

  “Why two identical robes?” asked Alan.

  “I’m going to have to give this some thought, Champ. Normally when on a case, we work with the premise that everything can be explained by the laws of physics, such as inertia and cause and effect, but with magicians the opposite is often where the truth is. Their whole livelihood is based on misdirection, sleight of hand, and smoke and mirrors. It’s going to be very difficult to determine what’s real versus what’s a deliberate deception, designed to deceive.”

  “Things aren’t always what they appear.”

  “Especially in magic, Champ. I’ll get the gear and be right back.”

  7

  While Alan turned off the engine on the Packard in front of Vera’s apartment building on Tenth Avenue East and set the handbrake, Ben climbed out the passenger side, strode up to the first step, and then spun around to wait for Alan.

  “Bit of a hurry, aren’t you Ben?” Alan teased.

  “After what you told me about the girls and their Cancan routine, yeah, I’m interested in me
eting them. They sound like a lot of fun.”

  Ben led the way, climbing the stairs to the top floor. Vera greeted Ben warmly, welcoming him inside her apartment. Alan made the introductions for Ben to everyone else. Ben nodded politely, but then stepped forward when Madam Zarenko offered her hand, clicking his heels together in a courtly manner, bending forward at the waist, and kissing her hand. Alan could have sworn she blushed.

  “Call me ‘Tasha,’ my dashing giant of a man, and what shall I call you?”

  “You can call me ‘your humble servant,’ madam—but ‘Ben’ will do nicely. We’re not sticklers on formality here.”

  “‘Ben’ it is then, and will you join us for a drink?”

  Ben shook his head and smiled. “Afraid not. I’m on duty at the moment.”

  “Such a pity,” said Tasha. “How long does duty last?”

  “Until I’m comfortable enough to call Chief Ketchum and advise him on whether we have a homicide or not.”

  “Someone died?” several of the women asked in unison.

  Ben nodded, while making eye contact with each of them. “Four were crushed in the crowd at the front door, and then we found a burnt body inside the casket.”

  Everyone sat silently a moment, lost in their own thoughts, and then Miss LaPierre spoke first. “Frederic?”

  “We’re not sure, ma’am,” said Ben. “Burnt beyond recognition, at least in my humble opinion, but we’d like you to take a look when the body’s been transferred to the coroner’s office, see if you can identify it.”

  LaPierre lowered her eyes and nodded her assent.

  “Now, can any of you tell me about seeing a policeman on the stage?” asked Ben. “Is that part of anyone’s act?”

  Zarenko and her assistants all shrugged their shoulders in unison, while checking with each other to make sure they were in agreement.

  “Nyet,” said Tasha, “but I did see one outside our dressing room before the fire. Almost everywhere we perform we have that happen. In some countries they check our papers, other countries the police discourage us from meeting privately with patrons after the show, and sometimes the police wait to watch us dress and undress. No matter where we go, men are men, and they like being around pretty girls, particularly when the girls are not wearing clothes. I figured him to be one of those.”